Page 151 of Sugar

“Oh shit. Forget I said anything.”

“Done.”

Unless it’s a caffeine emergency.

I scanned the mostly empty kitchen. “Did you just move in?”

“Six months ago.”

That was surprising. With as barren as it was, I assumed it was recent, and the party was a housewarming one to celebrate.

“I’ve been busy withOld Flame,” he explained.

“I’m sure it’ll be amazing once you have time to decorate. It’s already beautiful,” I lied because I didn’t want to insult his home.

That was reserved for Easton and his white and beige mausoleum.

Though, with all the off-white stone and tile, Tripp’s house might’ve stolen the mausoleum title.

Tripp took another gulp of coffee before grimacing. “Thanks. It has a meticulously curated wine cellar.”

“Oh. Do you drink wine?”

“I do not. Which is fine because it didn’t include any.”

My brows lowered. “Then I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I, but my real estate agent said it so many times, it’s seared into my brain. That, and the sparkling pool backyard oasis. I don’t know what makes it a sparkling pool but?—”

His words were cut off when something heavy dropped upstairs.

“Any chance you have company stashed up there for later?” I asked with an eyebrow waggle.

“Nope,” he said as he hopped up. He took a detour into the other room to grab a stick from near the pool and foosball tables before heading up the stairs.

Uh oh.

It wasn’t a knife where he would stumble and stab himself, but it was still a weapon. I scanned around for Easton, but I was pretty sure he was still out back, clearing out the rest of the stragglers.

I gripped my phone and took off after Tripp to make sure he didn’t do anything dangerous.

Or headline-worthy.

Noise spilled out into the hallway as he threw open a door. “Party’s over.”

“Not up here, it isn’t. Hit?”

“Are you seriously doing lines off my dead mother’s coffee table right now?” Tripp yelled, his voice shaking with fury.

“Oh, bro. My bad.”

“What are you doing in here? I said no one upstairs.”

“I figured that applied to everyone else. You know I can’t party downstairs with people streaming every breath they take.”

The smell of skunky weed wafted out of what was clearly an at home theater—and the only cool room I’d seen. Four guys sat in the first row of leather recliners. One had a woman on him, and I was fairly certain they were having sex with no thought to theiraudience. Two were passing an impressively large bong back and forth.

And one was bent to snort white powder that was lined up near a pill bottle.

---