Sugar Rush (12 page)

“But he doesn't go to Vegas,” I say dumbly. At least I don't think he does. Not that I'm really privy to JT's plans, but I don't ever recall him taking any trips to Vegas.

“You don't have to go to Vegas to enjoy their high-dollar stakes.”

“What does he bet on?” I ask curiously.

“The question should be ‘what doesn't he bet on?' He's into everything. High-dollar online poker, horses, boxing, UFC fights, Rose Bowl winner, Super Bowl winner, the sex of Princess Kate and Prince William's next child. Whatever the fuck you can bet on, JT's laying down money on it.”

“So how is this pay dirt?” I ask hesitantly.

“Because he is leveraged to the hilt. He's got almost two million dollars out on unpaid bets he owes and Vegas wants to collect.”

“I don't understand,” I say stupidly. “JT's not poor. Two million isn't anything to sneeze at, but he should easily be able to come up with that.”

Dennis chuckles into the phone and I can hear the flat-out amusement within the guttural sound. “JT
is
poor Beck. He's got maybe a couple hundred grand in liquid assets, but everything else is either gone or tied up. Hell, he could legitimately file for bankruptcy.”

“Gone?” I'm just not putting this together. It's not adding up.

“How in the hell do you think a man who lives his lifestyle could afford a two-million-dollar mark owing to a bookie? You can't wear a new three-thousand-dollar suit every day of the week, drive a five-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car, and have a spare three-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car sitting in your garage. You can't buy toy submarines and take five-figure vacations several times a year. He hemorrhages money faster than it's replenished. You and Mr. Townsend take only a modest salary from The Sugar Bowl in comparison to the revenues, am I right?”

He's right about that. “Yeah…we each get roughly five hundred thousand per year. The rest is all in stock options, long-term, high-yield investments.”

“Stuff that can't be touched,” Dennis adds.

“But he had trust monies he put into The Sugar Bowl when we first started it. Our profits first year paid those back to him. He should be flush with at least a couple million.”

“That wasn't his money he put in,” Dennis says, almost with a cackle of glee to reveal that to me.

“Say what?” I ask, my jaw now hanging open.

“JT's trust was nominal. He had maybe a million in it. His start-up capital into the business was from a loan. And he paid that back to the lender with interest that first year.”

“Who was the lender?” I ask, almost believing I have it figured out, but I want to hear it all the same.

Dennis hesitates only a moment, but there's no fear in his voice when he lays it on me. “Your dad…Beckett W. North, Sr. made the loan.”

This surprises me. Doesn't piss me off, because my dad is an investment banker, and that's what he does. It's just…I never thought JT would go to my dad for something like that. Sure, we grew up together and our families did a lot of stuff together, but despite the fact they shared DNA, they just weren't that close, to be honest. I figured JT had to have some brass balls to approach my dad, as it was a risky venture.

Unless…JT does know he's really a North and not a Townsend. That would explain him going to my father for such a large amount of money.

Shaking my head, I put that aside. Doesn't really matter to me how he got that money to start The Sugar Bowl, what matters is the fact he's nearly broke right now.

“This is all fascinating,” I tell Dennis. “But how does this help me get him out of my company? It seems to me he'd hold on tighter than ever for the security.”

“Listen,” Dennis says, his voice dropping an octave lower. “JT could probably scrape up the two million he owes the bookies. He'd take some penalty and tax hits on some of the investments, but he could probably do it. The current predicament he's in isn't going to help you.”

“But I sense you know something else that can help me?” I prod.

“There's a UFC fight at Caesar's Palace in three weeks—”

“Mariota versus VanZant,” I say automatically, because it's a highly publicized matchup and I've heard plenty about it. Mariota is the reigning welterweight champion. He's undefeated in twelve matches and they say unstoppable. But VanZant wants a shot at him and has dropped almost twenty pounds to move down from light heavyweight to Mariota's weight class. VanZant is a serious underdog, but there are plenty who think he's the one. He's relatively new to the circuit, but the fact he made such a huge weight class move has Vegas all abuzz. Odds are still in favor of Mariota though.

“Apparently, JT is making a last-ditch effort to save his own ass,” Dennis explains. “He's gone in double or nothing on his debt to his bookie and laid it all on VanZant to win. If he does, his two million gets paid and he walks away with an equal amount.”

“And if he loses?” I ask, but I already sort of know the answer.

“He's probably going to get the shit beat of out him. I'm thinking busted kneecaps at the least, but they might carve out a spleen or something.”

Nice. I could totally be down with that.

“But, more than anything, if he loses, he's going to be scrambling for the money. And who do you think he's going to go to to avoid ending up in the hospital?”

“Me,” I say firmly. He'll absolutely come to me, and I now see where Dennis is going with this. “I give him the money in exchange for ownership of The Sugar Bowl.”

“Exactly,” Dennis says with satisfaction.

“How do we ensure JT loses?” I ask, because that's the part that's risky.

“Well,” Dennis says hesitantly. “That's going to cost you some money too, but I've got an idea. When are you due back?”

Dennis Flaherty is an interesting character. He's imposingly big, yet looks elegant in a light gray tailored suit with a pale blue hankie in the pocket. His face is boyish with Irish freckled skin, bright red hair, and crystal blue eyes, yet there's a wisdom there that tells me he's seen stuff in his life. Although Beck said he came highly recommended by a friend of his, I can also tell by just looking at him that he's trustworthy. It's a gut instinct, and I'm anxious to hear more of what he has to say about JT.

We flew into San Francisco last night via another layover in Zurich—this time easily making our connecting flight—but Beck and I are feeling the keen effects of jet lag as we all take seats in our living room. With his hand holding mine on the couch, we both watch as Dennis sits in one of the matching white suede armchairs and crosses one leg over the other in sophisticated fashion.

“Where do you want me to start?” Dennis asks as he reaches down beside the chair to a briefcase he deposited there a moment ago, pulling a manila folder from a side pocket. “The info I have on JT or the photos?”

Beck turns to look at me, his eyebrows raised in question for me to make the call.

“The photos,” I say with a hard swallow. That will be the hardest part, as evidenced by the thumping of my pulse.

Dennis stands from his chair and walks over to the coffee table. He opens the folder and pulls out a thick stack of photos and lays them out on the coffee table before me. “There are a lot to go through. I narrowed them down as best I could by the descriptions you gave me, the time period, and what Beck could recall of those fraternity brothers who were close friends with JT.”

I nod as my eyes start scanning the photos before me. They're all in black and white on glossy paper, with four pictures per page. Leaning forward on the couch, I hover over them while Beck's hand goes to my lower back, where it presses in softly for support.

My eyes scan left to right, first the top row, then the bottom. I flip through page after page of photos, noting dark hair, pale hair, light eyes, dark eyes. They all look nondescript to me and not one of the photos causes an internal reaction.

Shaking my head, I mutter, “I don't know…no one looks familiar.”

“It's okay,” Beck says softly, his hand rubbing in circles against my back. “Take another look.”

I do as he asks, flipping back through, a bit slower this time. All the men look back at me with innocent eyes.

“Nothing,” I say in frustration, pushing them across the table back at Dennis.

“Doesn't mean he's not in there,” Dennis says as he picks up the stack and straightens it before putting the photos back into the folder.

As he turns to sit in the armchair again, I look at Beck. “When I first saw JT on TV, there was a vague recognition. I wasn't sure how I knew him, but there was a familiarity. I don't know that the other men are in that stack Dennis has.”

Beck pulls me back onto the couch, wrapping his arms around me. Placing a kiss to my temple, he whispers, “Don't worry. We'll broaden the search. We can head over to Stanford one day and look through all the yearbooks. It will be tedious, but maybe you'll recognize someone that way.”

I nod, smiling uncertainly at him before turning my gaze to Dennis. His eyes are kind as he watches me.

“Putting my other attackers aside, how do we handle JT?” I ask him.

“Well,” Dennis says with a glint in his eye. “We could force JT to confess his accomplices. The information could be tortured out of him. Probably a personal confession too.”

A zing of pure pleasure courses through me and I sit up straighter over Dennis' words. They resonate with my own bloodlust that I've been trying hard to keep at bay.

“That's not a good option at this point,” Beck says, and I instantly deflate.

But he's right. We spent a great deal of time talking about this while in Vienna. Although I still sometimes dream of JT's death by my hand, I know deep in my gut I can't do that. Not because I don't think it's justified, but because it's not what's best for me and Beck as a couple. One thing I've managed to understand with great clarity is that Beck has now become the most important thing to me. While I still need to seek justice for myself, I need to balance it with keeping myself safe and ensuring that Beck comes out of this with no damage. Ideally, that means having The Sugar Bowl intact and untainted before JT is made to pay for what he did to me. In this respect, Beck and I have formed a partnership, so to speak, whereby we both can achieve our goals.

“I've decided to go to the police,” I tell Dennis as my hand goes to Beck's knee where I squeeze it reassuringly. This was also something we talked about in Vienna, but was a decision that I came to on my own.

“After we get JT out of The Sugar Bowl,” Beck amends quickly.

Dennis nods in understanding, but points out the problems with this plan. “Your memory of the tattoo may not be enough to force the district attorney to compel a DNA sample.”

“It's a risk,” Beck agrees. “But we also have Melissa Fraye. He tried to drug her. Hopefully that will be enough for the DA to investigate JT.”

“And he may not turn on his accomplices,” Dennis says, but this is also something we considered.

This was the part I was willing to sacrifice if need be. It was what I was willing to give up in order to make sure our two main objectives were reached. JT paid for what he did to me and Beck gets The Sugar Bowl free and clear.

“It's not important,” I tell Dennis brusquely.

“It
is
important,” Beck says as he turns to face me on the couch. He holds my eyes so he knows that this is troubling to him, but this I already know. We talked this issue to death while sitting on the bank of the Danube River a few days ago, trying to figure out how we could have it all.

I quickly decided that while Dennis has the best idea—beat the shit out of JT until he confesses everything—that is a crime we can't afford to risk. Anything we got out of that wouldn't be admissible.

No. Our best bet was to use my memory of the tattoo to identify my attacker, and leave it up to Lady Justice to force JT to give a DNA sample that would most definitely match the semen taken from my hair that night.

Taking Beck's hand, I squeeze it and say, “Identifying the other men will be the icing on our cake if we can do that, but let's keep our eyes on the prize, okay?”

“So brave,” Beck murmurs before giving me a sad smile. He then turns to Dennis and says, “We have our agenda. First is to get JT disconnected from me. That means out of The Sugar Bowl.”

“And he needs to be ruined,” I add. Dennis' eyes swing from Beck to me with a glow of appreciation, and in that moment, I understand that he's a man who personally understands retribution. I'm dying to know his backstory, but it would be totally in poor taste to ask, I think.

Leaning back in his chair, Dennis folds his hands over his stomach and turns to Beck. “Bottom line…JT is cash poor. Since The Sugar Bowl started three years ago and he paid your father back the start-up capital, his living expenses have exceeded his income. That means not only has he squandered every bit of his yearly income on a lavish lifestyle, gambling, and drugs, he's got no appreciable liquid assets he can use to bail himself out. There are some modest investments in mutual funds, but most of his money is tied up in his Sausalito home with little to no equity. His credit cards are maxed out. Again, he might be able to scrape a few million together, but he'd need some time to do it. Rather than try to pay off his debt, he's making the idiotic—and for us, very opportune—decision to double down to his bookie. If he loses, they will want immediate payment. And trust me when I say they will make him hurt to get the money. He'll be desperate for help.”

Beck had told me about JT betting double or nothing on the Mariota-VanZant fight that's going to be held on January 2nd. I don't know anything about this sort of stuff, but I didn't have a hard time figuring out that if JT loses, he'll owe four million dollars, and based on what Dennis is saying, he will not be able to come up with that sum.

“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask Dennis with a mixture of amazement and skepticism. “I mean…JT's personal finances, his gambling. I mean, how do you even know what he owes to a bookie and what he's betting?”

Gone is the charming look of an Irish boy in an expensive suit and his eyes chill somewhat. It's not enough to scare me, but enough to know that Dennis Flaherty is someone who walks a narrow line, not afraid to step off onto the dark side.

“Plausible deniability” he says coolly, but then tempers the rebuke with somewhat of an understanding smile. “You're safer and more shielded the less you know about my methods. Just know that my resources are not only accurate but infinite, and when the money is right, such as what your boyfriend is shelling out, there isn't much I can't accomplish.”

My head swivels to Beck. “Just how much money are you shelling out?”

“No clue,” Beck says with a sheepish smile. “I gave him a blank check.”

“What the hell, Beck?” I say in exasperation. “You can't just go handing someone a blank check without knowing what exactly you're getting.”

“He's getting a way to ruin JT,” Dennis says calmly, and my gaze slides back over to him. Gone is the ice in his eyes and instead he holds an amused smile. “But I haven't filled the check out yet, because that all depends on what you want to do from here on out with the information I just gave you.”

“So tell me exactly what it will cost,” Beck says, his tone now all businesslike as he sits forward on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees.

“How much do you know about the UFC?” he asks, to both of us I believe as his gaze travels back and forth between us.

“A little,” Beck says.

“Nothing,” I say at the same time.

Dennis leans forward in the chair, matching Beck's posture of elbows resting casually on his knees. “UFC stands for Ultimate Fighting Championship. It's a promotion organization that sponsors bouts between fighters who practice mixed martial arts. MMA has come a long way since its inception in the early nineties when it was a rarely watched sport of just two men in a cage brawling it out with very few rules by which to abide. Today it generates over five hundred million dollars a year in revenue, and its pay-per-view events are becoming as popular as some premium boxing matches.”

“That makes it a popular sport to bet on,” Beck surmises.

“Exactly,” Dennis says with a nod. “But here's why this is an opportunity for you. Most UFC fighters don't make a lot of money. The median pay for a fighter hovers around the twenty-thousand-dollar mark with some bonuses thrown on top for a win.”

“Not a lot of money to get your ass kicked,” I mutter.

“It's not,” Dennis agrees. “Sure, some of the top-billed fighters can earn hundreds of thousands for a match, but those are probably only the top one percent.”

“Where does VanZant fall?” Beck asks.

Dennis smiles, because Beck has caught on. “He's undefeated, so he commands a bit more, but he's only getting a hundred thousand for the fight, with a fifty-thousand bonus for the win.”

“So he can be bought?” I ask with skepticism.

“Maybe,” Dennis says as he pins me with a direct stare. “He'd have to weigh the risk. He could lose to Mariota, who is also undefeated and the reigning champion of his weight class. That would probably cause his earning potential to be crippled. The other risk is of serious injury. Fighters don't last long in this sport, as the risk of debilitating injury is high.”

“What are the pros?”

“If he wins, he's looking at potential lucrative endorsements. A higher salary for his next fights, probably with a cut of pay-per-view earnings. A win against Mariota could potentially send him up the ladder with the big boys who can earn half a million to a million on a fight.”