Sugar Rush

by Sawyer Bennett

  Taking my seat next to Beck, I can't help but mimic his and Dennis' posture. Both on the edge of their seats, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on knees. Hands clasped tightly and intense focus on the TV screen. We're all nervous as hell right now, wondering if VanZant will go through with his commitment to take the dive. I have to think that JT is watching the fight right now, with probably the same nervousness. Or hell...perhaps he's enjoying this moment, the type of addictive personality that enjoys the euphoria of the gamble and the possibility of a big win.

  "What round do you think he'll go down in?" I murmur to no one in particular.

  "He'll take it all the way," Dennis says. "To preserve his credibility for future fights. I'm guessing late in the last round."

  I'd learned tonight that there are five rounds, five minutes each, and those few fights that went the distance, both fighters were huffing and puffing hard near the end.

  "Makes sense," Beck says as the announcer introduces the fighters to the crowd and the millions watching on TV. It doesn't appear there's a favorite, the crowd equally cheering for both men when announced.

  A few more minutes of the fighters meeting in the middle of the ring for the ref to go over the rules, and then the bell rings for round one to start.

  My heart is practically in my throat as they come at each other warily, circling and pawing the air with hands protected with fingerless gloves. Testing each other out, I learned. Waiting to see who would make the first move.

  I vaguely hear the announcers on TV discussing VanZant: "He's been criticized a bit about being a counterfighter, so I think we'll see him try to disprove that by coming out strong..."

  Mariota makes a short, quick lunge at VanZant, looking like he's going to throw a cross. VanZant's hands come up higher to protect his face, only to take a sharp kick to his ribs. It doesn't seem to hurt him though, because VanZant moves in closer and throws a volley of punches left and right to Mariota, who now goes on the defensive by moving back across the ring and covering his head with his hands.

  "See, that's exactly what I expected," one of the announcers says. "VanZant wants to put Mariota on the defensive right away. Let him know he's not just going to counter his moves."

  VanZant backs his opponent right up to the chain-link fence and continues to throw jabs, crosses, and hooks, these punches I learned quickly enough with Dennis' explanations during the first fights. My heart now feels like it's going to explode out of my chest as VanZant seems intent on pounding the ever-loving shit out of the other man.

  "He's not going to take the fall," I whisper fearfully.

  Beck reaches over, grabs my hand, and squeezes hard as he keeps his gaze glued onto the TV.

  I see our plan going down the drain and JT becoming two million dollars richer, and I'm stunned that just in a matter of thirty seconds, it appears our plan is being derailed.

  With a mighty heave, Mariota manages to push VanZant back a few feet. He's been cut over his left eyebrow and blood pours freely down his face. Both men take a short breather, circle each other, and then in a move so fast I'm not even sure I really understand what happens. Mariota spins 360 degrees, leaps into the air, and launches a kick to the side of VanZant's head.

  Almost as if in slow motion, I see his head snap to the side and his eyes roll backward before his legs buckle and give way to gravity.

  "Oh, look at that tornado kick Mariota just landed," the announcer screams above the roaring crowd. "And VanZant is down."

  As I've come to find out is typical in these fights, just because your opponent goes down doesn't mean the fight is over. Mariota leaps onto VanZant's prone body, straddles his waist, and starts raining down blows to his head. But almost just as quickly, the ref is there, grabbing Mariota by the waist and pulling him off. It's the universal sign that the ref just declared a knockout.

  "It is all over for VanZant," the other announcer says with unfettered awe in his voice. "Just unbelievable. What has been billed as a match that would go all five rounds has been settled in just thirty-seven seconds with a crushing kick by Mariota to VanZant's head. I don't think anyone predicted this would happen..."

  My head turns slowly toward Beck. He turns to meet my gaze, his mouth slightly open in astonishment.

  "Did that just fucking happen?" he mutters.

  "Jesus Christ," Dennis says in disbelief.

  "I don't think that was a dive," I say, my head turning back to the TV as I watch a doctor enter the ring and attend VanZant, who seems to be conscious but completely disoriented. Mariota runs around the octagon, flexing his muscles and screaming victory at the crowd. "I think Mariota caught him off guard."

  "Doesn't matter if it was a dive or not," Beck says. "I'll pay him the money."

  We all three watch as VanZant is helped onto wobbly legs and led out of the ring. Mariota retains his title belt and holds it up proudly for all to see.

  And somewhere, probably in his own house, JT is probably watching in horror as he tries to figure out how he can come up with four million dollars.

  I let out a small snort of euphoria. A horrible sound, really, causing both Beck and Dennis to look at me. I immediately clap my hand over my mouth in embarrassment, but then another one pushes forth. They stare at me with wide eyes, and then I start laughing hysterically, pulling my hand away so I can let it all out. I double over at my waist, slap Beck on his thigh with my palm, and laugh until I wheeze.

  Beck puts a hand on my back and chuckles as he rubs.

  "Holy shit," I gasp as I sit back up straight again, wiping tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. "That was intense. I thought for sure during those first few seconds that VanZant was going to knock Mariota out."

  "Me too," Beck says with a grin.

  "Un-fucking-believable," Dennis adds, then stands up from the chair. "And this definitely calls for a celebration."

  He picks up our empty glasses and heads into the kitchen, presumably to refill our glasses with more Devil's Brew. Beck and I sit in silence, still somewhat stunned that VanZant lost. I mean...we wanted him to lose. We expected him to lose, since he said he would, but there was always that strong fear it wouldn't happen.

  Dennis returns in a minute balancing three highball glasses between his big hands. He pauses at the couch, and Beck and I carefully each take a glass from him, not really caring who's is whose. Beck and I have traded bodily fluids enough, and there's enough of a buzz going on that I don't care if I drink after Dennis either.

  "Looks like I'll be visiting Mr. VanZant with some money," Dennis says as he sits back down in his chair. Gone is the excited posture with his ass hanging off the edge of the seat. Now he's settled back in with one leg casually propped on the other. He didn't wear a suit tonight, for which I was thankful. In his jeans and a faded Chicago Bears sweatshirt, he looks just like an average joe hanging out with friends on a Saturday night. It makes him seem more approachable, and the air of mystery he seems to have around him is dispelled a bit.

  I'm not sure how Dennis is going to get five hundred thousand dollars in cash to VanZant. I know he's got the money, because he cashed the check Beck had given him, but you just can't take that much money out of a bank and not call attention to yourself. But then again, I don't need to be worrying about those specifics. It's why Dennis had us give him the money to launder before passing it on to VanZant. Plausible deniability is what he called it.

  "JT has to be shitting his pants right now," Dennis muses with an evil laugh. And I like that laugh. Like how much that Dennis has taken such a vested interest in helping me get justice. It's nice to know someone besides Beck cares.

  "So what will happen now?" I ask.

  Dennis takes a gulp of his drink, smacks his lips, and tells me, "The bookie is likely sending JT some type of message right now. Probably a phone call to make arrangements for payment. He'll give JT a deadline, and I have it straight from the horse's mouth he's only giving him twenty-four hours."

  "Is that normal?" Beck asks.r />
  Dennis shrugs. "I think in this case, and with him doubling down that type of money, it was made clear to JT when he placed the bet that they expected immediate payment if he lost."

  "And what if he doesn't pay?" I sit forward on the couch a bit, eager to hear this next part.

  "I expect they'll impress upon him the urgency of paying," Dennis says ominously, and I'm sort of surprised he doesn't rub his hands together with glee while giving an evil mwah-ha-ha-ha-haaa laugh.

  Hell, I want to laugh like that at the prospect of JT getting beaten up for failure to pay his debts. It's almost as good a fantasy as when I imagine him in prison getting his ass raped by some beefy dude who will make him his bitch.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Dennis says, "It will hurt, Sela. Trust me."

  "Think they'll videotape it for me?" I ask with a grin.

  Dennis and Beck both laugh, and I realize that all the tension we were all feeling just five minutes ago has left the room. We're now almost delirious with excitement over how the plan will progress next.

  "I just hope the ass whupping is enough to impress upon him the dire situation he's put himself in. He's got to be desperate when he comes to me," Beck says.

  "He will be," I say confidently, my hand going to the back of Beck's neck, which I squeeze slightly for reassurance. I'm feeling good about this now. Really good.

  "Listen...I went ahead and pulled the investigative file of your rape from Santa Clara," Dennis says to me in an abrupt change of subject. My eyes slide from Beck to his. "They did a pretty good job from what I could tell. Scoured cab companies; interviewed people at the mall who may have seen you and the other boys who gave you the ride. But as you know, they didn't get any solid leads."

  I nod, because this isn't news to me. While my parents kept me shielded from actually dealing with the lead criminal investigator, they did keep me updated. Ultimately, the failure to find who did it caused me to tailspin and landed me in the hospital again. It was my second admission because of JT.

  "I also wanted to see if there was anything in there that maybe they missed," Dennis adds.

  "I assume there wasn't," Beck surmises. Because otherwise he would have told us the minute he arrived tonight.

  "Nothing I could see they failed to do," Dennis says. "But I did see something that was interesting. I couldn't find any paperwork where the DNA lab that ran the semen sample submitted the results to NDIS."

  "NDIS?" I ask in confusion.

  "The National DNA Index System," Dennis tells me. "It's part of the FBI Combined DNA Index System database that all law-enforcement agencies in the nation submit DNA results to. It should have been done in your case."

  "But it wouldn't have helped anything," Beck points out. "JT's never been arrested, so he wouldn't be in the system."

  "True," Dennis agrees. "But I still reached out to the lab to see about getting a copy of the paperwork. That way we'll have a complete copy of the file. Just making sure all the t's are crossed and i's dotted so when you report JT, you know exactly what the police know."

  "Thank you," I say softly while looking at Dennis. "I'm just so grateful for what you've done for me. I don't even know how to show you how much it means."

  Dennis' face flushes red and he ducks his head to take another sip of his drink. He mumbles, "Well...you're a sweet girl. I want that fucker to pay."

  Beck shoots me a smile and I can see he's equally as touched that Dennis seems to go above and beyond for us. And because he seems loose and relaxed, and even like...a friend, and because I'm also buzzed, I ask him teasingly, "So how do you know so much about the seedy underworld? Bookies, and taking dives and bribes. You seem so normal and...I don't know...like too suave to know about that stuff."

  He doesn't answer right away, but stares reflectively into his glass. Then he tilts it to his mouth and drains it, and I know he's got to be feeling the effects by now. When his gaze lifts back up to mine, I'm taken aback to see them flooded with pain and anger. "I was very much a part of that world for a while. Married into it, actually."

  "Oh," I say on a small gasp, not shocked by his revelation because he wears a wedding ring, but by the anguish I still see on his face. And although I know it's nosy, I can't help but try to appease my curiosity, since he's opened the door and become infinitely more interesting to me than he was just five seconds ago. "Is her family mob or something?"

  "Close enough," Dennis says, and starts to lift his glass again to his mouth before realizing it's empty. He frowns and stands. "I'm going to get another drink. Want one?"

  Beck shakes his head and Dennis turns to the kitchen, but I continue to pry, because just...wow. Dennis married into the mob?

  "You should have brought your wife tonight," I say impulsively. Because I like Dennis and I'm betting I'd like his wife too. I know Beck likes Dennis...they've formed an easy friendship these last few weeks. I mean...maybe we could all double-date or something.

  "She's dead," Dennis says softly, and his eyes actually shimmer with kindness over my suggestion. "Three years ago."

  "Oh God," I say, my hand coming to my chest, where I rub at the dull ache that's appeared. "I'm so sorry. That was so insensitive of me--"

  Dennis holds his hand up to cut me off, even as Beck's hand goes to my lower back to soothe me. "It's fine, but I suppose this is relevant to why I'm helping you. She was killed as a vendetta against her father. It's a dangerous life and she suffered for it."

  "You suffered for it," I whisper.

  Dennis nods with a sad smile. "Yeah...I did. Lost the most precious thing in my life. The only way out of that life is through death, and when Rosa was killed, it released me from the family as well. But I still have contacts and ties that I used to help you. I also understand vengeance and the need for justice."

  "Was her killer brought to justice?" I ask, because I have to know. "Is he in jail?"

  "No," Dennis says, even though light shines from his eyes. A light that shimmers and sparkles with satisfaction and pleasure. "He's not in jail, but justice was served."

  A tiny shiver runs up my spine over his words as I understand their meaning. I nod at him in solidarity, because now I know that Dennis and I share something very much in common. We both believe that death is an appropriate sentence for someone that would dare to hurt either of us. While that might not be my ultimate goal anymore, it's nice to know that I'm not the only one who fantasizes about murder as the best means of retribution.

  As much as I care for Beck and know how much he feels for me, I know now that Dennis is probably the only one who would truly understand what my initial motivations were, and how hard it was for me to give up that quest to kill JT so that I could have peace.

  I knew it would happen sometime soon, but just not this soon. Sunday afternoon, less than sixteen hours after VanZant lost to Mariota, JT called me.

  From the hospital. Sela and I were actually cleaning up the condo and putting the Christmas decorations away. When I saw JT's name on my caller ID, I didn't think that he'd be calling me about the money he owed. It was too soon for anything major to happen, but I was instantly alerted to what this was really all about when he said in a rough but weakened voice, "Beck...I'm at Marin General in Greenbrae. I need you to come get me."

  "What happened?" I asked with as much fake concern as I could muster.

  "Not now...just come get me. They won't release me until someone can drive me home."

  "I'm leaving now," I told him, then hung up the phone.

  Sela had been on the living room floor, looking as lovely as she ever has in a pair of worn sweatpants and a tattered T-shirt; no makeup and hair in a messy ponytail. She stared at me with knowing eyes.

  "JT's in the hospital over in Greenbrae," was all I said.

  "Holy shit," she murmured in amazement, because like me, she didn't think it would happen that fast.

  "This is it," I told her, and she grinned back at me.

  Marin General sits only seventeen or so miles fr
om my condo, but it takes me almost forty minutes to make the drive, given the slow Sunday traffic in the city and across the Golden Gate. At the information desk, I'm directed back to the emergency bay, where I find JT sitting on a hospital bed in a curtained room.

  And while I knew that JT was going to be getting a message from the people who wanted their money, I wasn't prepared for what he would look like after that message was delivered. His face is swollen, almost beyond recognition. Eyes puffed up, not quite closed but ringed with dark blue and purple streaks of bruising. A cut slices diagonally across one cheek and is sutured with several stitches. His lower lip is split in two places and there's a dark bruise along his right jawline. His left lower arm is in a cast, and the fingers peeking out are swollen and purple.

  "Jesus Christ," I mutter as I take it all in, completely aghast at what he looks like. Not that I care he was hurt, but it's just shocking to see someone that beat up.

  JT looks at me through pained eyes, the whites of which are now red from what I assume are burst blood vessels. "I look that bad?" he asks, his voice lisping with what could potentially be a split and swollen tongue the way he sounds.

  "What in the fuck happened to you?" I ask with mock disbelief, even though I know damn well what happened to him.

  JT stands from the bed, the back of his hospital gown flopping open. He moves like a ninety-year-old man and winces with every movement. His hand reaches out, points over to a chair where his clothes lie, and says, "Just let me get dressed and get me out of here. I'll tell you all about it when you get me home."

  I don't argue with him, but hand him his clothes, carefully watching as every grimace and flash of pain plays across his face, and relishing in it. I thought I might have an ounce of compassion in me for anyone who's clearly hurting that badly, but it's not there. Not when I'm filled with the knowledge of Sela's pain and misery caused by his hands. On the contrary, it makes me almost giddy with happiness knowing he's hurting right now.

  The release process is smooth as all the paperwork had been done. It was advised he be admitted for observation, but he declined, and after the necessary waivers were completed, the only thing they were insisting on was he have a ride home either by cab or by friend or family member. He called me, which means he wants to discuss money now.