Sugar Rush (7 page)

The complete truth is out, and now it's time to destroy JT.

Sela has two classes at Golden Gate this afternoon. I suggested she skip them because both of us are emotionally wrung out, and figured maybe we could go for a drive up the coast to continue to talk things out. I still had to tell her the details about JT's relation to me, and I assume she wants to know more about Caroline.

But Sela nixed my idea, adamantly insisting that while we clearly had things to decide and even more things to discuss, that she needed to keep her life normal as well. This ended up being for the best, because it forced me to jump onto the problem of figuring out how to bring JT down. Ideally, I'd like to go to the police and let them handle it. They have DNA, and according to Sela, it's JT's. But I don't know if her word and faulty memory would be enough to make them force a DNA test. And I don't want JT to know we're coming after him. I want to hit him when he doesn't have a chance in hell to protect himself.

After Sela left, I unlocked my office door and didn't have any intention of locking it again. While we may not see eye to eye on how to handle the situation with JT, I'm going to show her that I don't intend on there being secrets between us ever again.

Within moments, I had the appropriate folder pulled from my filing cabinet and I was online, logging into the secure server at The Sugar Bowl. A few keystrokes and I was staring at a photo and personal profile of Melissa Fraye, the Sugar Baby JT tried to drug a little over two weeks ago at the mixer. One more tap on my keyboard and I was staring at her phone number and home address. I jotted them down on a yellow sticky pad sitting on my desk and pulled the note off after standing from my desk. Another fifteen minutes to take a quick shower and put on fresh clothes, and I was on my way to visit Melissa Fraye.

I knock on the apartment door and take a step back so if Melissa is inside, she can see my face clearly through her peephole. I immediately hear footsteps on the other side of the door before it opens a few inches, secured with a chain.

A woman who is not Melissa Fraye peeks around the edge at me.

“Is Melissa here?” I ask her.

“Yeah, just a minute,” she says before shutting the door on me, which doesn't bother me in the slightest. This isn't the best neighborhood, so it's not wise to open the door to strange men.

I wait patiently for a few minutes, then the door opens again, this time fully, and I'm looking at Melissa Fraye as she appraises me. Eyes sliding down, taking in my John Varvatos jeans, Tomas Maier T-shirt that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, and my Aquatalia suede boots, there's no doubt she knows I'm wearing a fortune in designer clothes, and I know this because by the time her eyes reach me again, I can almost see dollar signs in them.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

She nods, cocks a hip, and presses it against the edge of the door. “Beckett North.”

“I need to talk to you. Can I come in for a moment?”

“Of course,” she says with a brilliant smile and a nervous flutter of her fingers through her hair. She's a pretty girl and all, but she doesn't have shit on Sela.

Melissa opens the door and steps aside to give me entrance. I immediately take in the small but clean apartment, decorated in mismatched, used furniture and cheap prints on the walls framed in acrylic. The woman who opened the door stands in the tiny kitchen, hunched over a gossip magazine, chewing gum heavily.

“We need privacy,” I tell Melissa.

The dollar signs burn brighter and she says, “We can go in my room.”

I don't argue with her. I don't care if we talk here or in her room, and I'm not worried about my virtue. I can handle her, but I do not need prying ears for what I'm about to discuss.

Melissa's room is messy, with clothes littered all around the floor. She makes a show of kicking a few pieces under her unmade bed as I shut the door behind me.

“Sorry about all this,” she says as she bends to pick up a bra off the floor. She doesn't stuff this under the bed, but instead lays it on top where I guess she wants me to admire the large, pale blue lacy cups or something.

I don't give it another thought and get straight to the point. “I need to talk to you about the last Sugar Bowl Mixer you attended on the twenty-first.”

Her head tilts at me in curiosity. “I was there. Having a drink with your partner as a matter of fact, but he bailed.”

I nod. “Was that the first time you'd met JT?”

“Yeah,” she said with a fond smile. “Never thought I'd get a shot at him, but he zeroed in on me pretty fast. I really thought something would come out of that, but like I said…he bailed.”

I reach into my back pocket, pull out the copy of the agreement that JT said Melissa signed, and hand it to her. She opens it up, glances at it once, and then looks back up to me with confusion in her eyes.

“Is that your signature at the bottom?” I ask, nodding my head toward the paper in her hands.

She peers down at it, brows furrowed, and says, “It looks like it.”

“Did you sign it?”

Her eyes start flying across the words of the agreement, all the while her brow furrowing deeper and deeper. Finally her eyes raise to mine and the dollar signs are gone. I see a flash of anger as she hands it back to me. “I didn't sign that. Nor would I ever do something like that.”

I take the document from her, shove it back into my pocket. “I didn't think so.”

My stomach churns with the realization that JT was going to rape this woman. He was going to drug her, the way he did Sela, and he was going to do with her whatever he pleased. Fuck, for all I know he's got an entire gang of buddies that rape with him, and I know at least one of them is in our fraternity, because Sela saw his tattoo.

“What's this about?” she asks suspiciously, her arms now crossing over her chest.

I had suspected she didn't sign this agreement. On the way over here, I had debated whether or not to tell her the truth of what almost happened to her. On just a quick consideration, it could have been a good play. No doubt she's pissed and I bet she'd want to report this to the police. A criminal investigation would ensue, but then I know what would happen. JT would offer to pay her off and I figure she'd take it and drop the charges.

So I lie to her, feeling only a slight bit of guilt, which I quickly push away by telling myself I saved her from getting raped. That should be good enough for now.

“It's a sick-as-fuck prank someone's trying to play on me,” I tell her smoothly. “Nothing for you to worry about now that I confirmed you didn't sign this.”

I expect her to question me further. At the very least, after what she read in that document, she should have some concern for her safety. Instead, she just nods and asks, “Would you, um…like to go out and get a drink or something?”

It takes every effort for me to put an engaging smile on my face. “Thank you, Melissa, for that offer. But I actually have somewhere I need to be.”

“Well, maybe some other time,” she says desperately as I turn toward her bedroom door.

“Maybe,” I say, just to let her down easy. She's a cute girl. She'll find a real Sugar Daddy soon.

The minute I'm back in my car but before I turn the ignition, I flip through the contacts on my phone until I find what I'm looking for, and tap the screen to dial.

He answers on the second ring. “What's up, man?”

Robert Colling is a fraternity brother of mine, and while he doesn't sport a red phoenix tattoo, we were and still are pretty close. He went on to law school and now handles sleazy and messy divorces here in the Bay Area.

“Need a favor,” I tell him as I start the car.

The Bluetooth engages and his reply comes over the speakers in my car. “Anything. Lay it on me.”

“I need a recommendation for a good private investigator, and I'd like it to be one with a low moral compass. Not afraid to get his hands a bit dirty.”

Robert whistles into the phone. “Damn, man…what do you have cookin'?”

“Can't say.”

“Let's pretend I'm your attorney and privilege is invoked. You can tell me.”

“Can't,” I say resolutely, “but I'll buy you a beer sometime soon in payment.”

“You suck,” he says with a chuckle. “I'll text the information to you as soon as we hang up. I have the perfect guy for you. Highly trustworthy and will do anything you need for the right price.”

“You're the best, man,” I say.

“Just don't call me to bail you out of jail when whatever game plan you have goes south,” he warns jokingly.

“I won't,” I say, although he'd probably be the first person I'd call if I got arrested and needed bailing out.

I disconnect the call and toss the phone onto my passenger seat to wait for his text. Putting my Audi in gear, I check my right passenger mirror, and seeing the street is clear, pull away from the curb. Holding on to the wheel with my right hand, my left comes across my chest and over my shoulder, much the same way it did this morning, and I press my fingers down into the muscles below the top of my tattoo.

It's nothing more than a stupid membership inside the inner circle of my fraternity. During rush week, I was approached and offered admission by some of the upperclassmen, which ironically included JT. He was in his senior year while I was a freshman. All I had to do was a stupid prank they chose to prove my worthiness, and I was admitted. Certain benefits came with the admission, including a coveted room inside the fraternity house.

My prank was easy. All I had to do was spray paint some graffiti on the side of the dean's house. I chose a rival fraternity's letters, which my brothers all thought was hilarious. I got away scot-free, and after I was inducted into the frat, I got my tattoo the very next weekend.

But what if something more sinister had been required of the other members? Was Sela's rape part of an initiation? She said one other guy had the tattoo already on his wrist, but on the other guy she didn't see one. Doesn't mean he didn't have one, but what if he was a lowerclassman and his induction into our secret society was to participate in Sela's rape?

It's a distinct possibility, one that I didn't think had existed just a day ago. But now I don't put anything past JT. I could easily see him duping or enticing like-minded sociopaths to jump in on that plan of action, especially if everyone was high on booze and drugs.

Sela can't remember much about the other two men involved. One had dark hair, the other pale blond. That's it, and with only that as a description, I doubt I'm going to be able to identify them through fraternity records.

Still going to try to pull some possibilities though and see if they unclog her memory some more. That's one of the reasons I want a private investigator.

Speaking of which, my phone chimes with the familiar
whoop
sound of an incoming text. I pick it up from the passenger seat, and while flicking my eyes between the road and the screen, I navigate my way to the texts.

Robert sent just the PI's name and number.

I tap my thumb on the blue link of the phone number and the Bluetooth connects the call. After a few rings, I get a recorded message:

This is Dennis Flaherty. Sorry I missed you. Leave your info and I'll get back to you soon.

After the beep, I say, “Yeah…Dennis…my name is Beck North. You were recommended to me by Robert Colling. I have a job I'd like to hire you for. It's urgent and it's big, and money is not an object. I'd like to meet with you today to discuss it.”

I leave my number and disconnect, eager to have him call me back.

I think that before Sela and I can decide what to do about JT, we need to dig up every piece of dirt we can on him. I need to wade through the pile of scummy shit I'm sure he's been involved in and figure out what I can use to my benefit.