Sugar Rush (10 page)

“I want you to dig deep into JT. Find out what crap he's involved with outside of the business. I know he does drugs and still gets off on spiking women's drinks to rape them, so I'm guessing he's elbow deep in some dirty shit. I want anything I can use to ruin him.”

“Why don't you just report the rape to the police?” Dennis asks.

“Sela's considering it, but she's afraid her memory is too spotty for them to investigate him. Also afraid he won't roll on the others. We'd like to see if we can find out the identities of the others first and if there's any other dirt on JT. The police are a last resort.”

“When do you want me to start?” he asks, flipping back through his phone…presumably for his calendar.

“The minute you walk out that door. And I want you on this exclusively. Turn down your other work or farm it out,” I say firmly.

“That'll cost you big,” he warns.

I open my middle drawer and pull out my checkbook. It burns like acid deep in my gut knowing that I share DNA with my monster of a half brother, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to make him suffer. It's a good thing I'm fucking rich, and I'd spend every dime I have to help Sela. After pulling a check off, I scratch my signature on the bottom line and hand it to him across the desk. “There's a blank check. Fill in the amount.”

My move doesn't seem to surprise Dennis, but he takes the check from me and tucks it into his pocket.

Standing up from his chair, he taps a finger on his phone and says, “Let me get a picture of that tattoo.”

Pulling my T-shirt up and over my head, I turn to give my back to Dennis. I hear the sound of his snapping shots before he says, “Got it. Give me two hours to get my desk cleared and I'm all yours until we find what we need.”

“Good deal,” I tell him with a relieved smile after I tug my shirt back on. I extend a hand to him and he gives it a firm shake.

I've got Dennis digging deep, a week away from the office, and a beautiful girl who wants to hop around Europe with me. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

I gently tap my spoon against the shell of the soft-boiled egg, which is perched in a white porcelain egg cup. When it was set before me, I didn't have a clue what to do with it. I looked across the table at Beck, who eyed his just as suspiciously. The waitress, however, was not immune to our helpless looks and had clearly encountered her share of ignorant American tourists, and showed Beck how to tap through the top quarter of the shell and twist it off so he could get to the egg inside.

We're sitting at a coveted window table in the Café Schwarzenberg, one of the first true Viennese coffeehouses, which was built in 1861. We missed our connecting flight from Zurich to Vienna, which precipitated a four-hour delay whereby we had to hang out in the airport, only to learn when we arrived at the Grand Hotel Wein early this morning that our room wasn't ready. Apparently some Arab sheik was also staying at the hotel and our room had been mistakenly given to one of his security detail. We were assured they would ready another room for us immediately and suggested we have some breakfast at Café Schwarzenberg, which was just down the block off the Kärntner Ring. I was skeptical about the sheik story, but just as we were making our way out the front double doors, we were astounded to see about twenty reporters spring up from chairs all around the lobby and scurry toward the bank of elevators. Sure enough, a man dressed in full Lawrence of Arabia style stepped out surrounded by five bodyguards dressed in black suits, black sunglasses, and wire mics in their ears. They pushed their way through the crowd and Beck took my elbow, pulling me backward to give them passage. The sheik walked right out the door and into an awaiting nondescript black car, with two identical cars behind that carried his bodyguards.

With a sharp whack against my egg, which causes a piece of shell to shoot across the table, I blow off the top of my egg, causing yellow yolk to leak all over the place. I give a disgruntled sigh as Beck laughs at me and push the egg cup away. Instead, I pull a croissant off the side plate and break off a piece.

And oh God…I'm not sure anything more delicious has ever been in my mouth. I stifle a moan and put a larger piece between my lips before chewing on it slowly so I can savor.

“What do you think we should do today?” Beck asks as he takes the tiny egg spoon and pulls out some of the white flesh covered in warm yolk from the inside of the shell.

“I'm tired as hell,” I say after swallowing, and then punctuate it with a yawn. “But I'm excited to get out and explore. Maybe just walk around the city a bit. Nap in the afternoon so we can get our inner clocks adjusted.”

“We should definitely take it easy today,” Beck says with a nod, and takes another perfect scoop of egg from his waitress-cracked shell. “You have us booked solid with stuff over the next four days, so this might be our only day to relax.”

It's true. I picked up a guidebook about Vienna in the San Francisco airport and I'm trying to pack in as much sightseeing as I can. We're going to tour the Hofburg and Schönbrunn imperial palaces; watch the world-renowned Lipizzan horses perform at the Spanische Hofreitschule Winter Riding School; and take in a performance at the famous Vienna State Opera. We've got the concierge trying to get us tickets to tomorrow night's performance of the Vienna Boys Choir performing at Hofburg Chapel in the Imperial Palace, and I plan to gorge myself on stunning architecture wherever we walk, Wiener schnitzel, and Viennese coffee in between. Because this coffee—I put my croissant down in favor of a sip of the creamy, sweet goodness—is fucking phenomenal. I could totally drink this in place of tea if I could figure out how to make it when we get back home.

“Thank you for doing this,” Beck says as he puts his egg spoon down and picks up his coffee. He went with regular black.

I smile at him over the edge of my cup. “Like it was so hard to accept an offer to jet off to Europe with you.”

“You had school obligations,” he points out.

“Still have them when I go back,” I say matter-of-factly. “But you were right…you needed a break from the craziness that I laid on your doorstep.”

“You needed a break too, Sela. We've got to tread carefully when we go after JT, so we need our wits about us.”

“You think Dennis will find something?” I ask before taking another sip. Beck had filled me in on their meeting and right now he was supposedly digging into JT's life.

“I guarantee you there's something,” Beck snarls with hatred for his partner. “His soul is black.”

“I'm sorry this is hurting you,” I say quietly before placing my cup down. “Especially since he's…you know…your brother and all.”

“Hey,” Beck says as he puts his own coffee down so his hand can take mine. He squeezes and my eyes lift to his. “He's not my brother. We might share my father's DNA, but he's otherwise dead to me. Don't worry about my feelings on that matter, because the only ones I have now are disgust and hate toward him.”

“Still,” I say as my head turns to the left and I look out over the sidewalk, which is becoming increasingly busier as the morning wears on. “You probably would have been better off never knowing this. You know…the sweetness of ignorance and all that.”

“I'd rather have you, even if this shit comes with it,” he assures me. “You're more than worth it.”

I smile, trying to blink back the stinging in my eyes caused by his words. “By the way, how is it that you're related and you know about it but he doesn't?”

I've been curious about this, as well as other things we haven't been able to discuss. An airplane isn't a very conducive place to talk about such sordid details.

Beck releases my hand and picks his coffee back up. He takes a sip and swallows with a grimace. “My parents and JT's parents have been friends long before any of us kids were ever conceived. When I was about nine, I was playing in my dad's office, under his desk. They had a fancy dinner party going on and I was bored. At any rate, my dad and JT's mom came in and I didn't come out of hiding. Knew my dad would be pissed to find me in there. So I hid under that desk while he fucked her right on the other side, and then later, I listened as they talked about JT.”

My hand rises involuntarily to cover my mouth in shock. He was just a kid…listening to that. Did he even understand what they were doing?

“What did they say?” I whispered.

“His mom was telling my dad about JT getting in trouble at school. I wasn't half paying attention at first because they'd just had sex five feet from me and I wasn't sure what the fuck that was all about.”

I can't help the snort that comes out, but then I clear my throat and look at him with serious eyes.

“At any rate, they started fighting about JT. My dad suggested moving him to another school, and his mom didn't want that, and then Dad got really angry and said, ‘Well…he's my son, so I should have a say-so.' ”

“Oh my God.”

“Right? I suddenly started paying attention to what they were saying. They kept arguing about my dad's role in JT's life, and it was clear that JT's dad—the man who raised him, that is—had no clue he wasn't his son. It was clear that no one knew about it except those two.”

“So you've held on to this secret since then?” I ask, amazed that someone so young would carry such a terrible weight.

Beck shakes his head. “I told my dad I knew a few years ago. We'd gotten into an argument about Caroline actually. The lengths my family will go to keep their precious secrets. I got pissed and just confronted him about it.”

“Did he deny it?”

“No,” Beck says with a wry smile. “But he instructed me that I was to forget about it and never mention it again.”

I watch as Beck takes another sip of his coffee, fiddles with the end of his croissant. I take a breath and share something that's been on my mind. “Lengths your family would go to keep secrets. An argument about Caroline. You're talking about her rape, right?”

Beck's eyes slide up to mine and they're filled with anger-laced pain. “My parents didn't want Caroline to report her rape to the police. They didn't want the public scrutiny.”

“But rape victims' names are held secret,” I say in defense of Caroline. I know this from personal experience.

With a grimace, Beck says, “Try telling that to them. They didn't want to take the chance.”

“So what happened?”

“I took Caroline to the police station and stood by her while she reported it,” he says softly. “My parents never acknowledged it, refused to support her, and as you can imagine, that's what drove Caroline away. She hasn't talked to them since.”

“That's awful,” I say with disgust. “I'm sorry, but your parents sound like horrible people.”

“They are,” he agrees with a rueful smile. “They're nothing like your parents. They had your back all the way, didn't they?”

I lower my eyes to my coffee cup and remember fondly their almost-perfect handling of a brutalized daughter. Outrage over what happened to me, validation I did nothing wrong—although I was loath to ever believe that—protectiveness to make me feel safe, and an open, honest environment in which I could process my feelings.

“They were amazing,” is all I can say to Beck about them.

“Well, my parents aren't worth a fucking damn and Caroline's glad to be rid of them.”

“If you don't mind, could you tell me what happened to Caroline? The experience has also affected you, given you a better understanding of what I went through, but I'd like to know just what happened.”

Beck leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. His eyes are clear with honesty but no less clouded with pain. “I don't think she'd mind me telling you. It might be good for you two to talk.”

I nod quickly because I'm feeling all kinds of bad that Caroline didn't have the support she needed.

“It happened almost five years ago about this time of year. My parents were having their annual Christmas party, and both of us were attending as dutiful children. Caroline had just turned twenty the month before.”

I hold a hand out, do some mental calculation on my fingers, and say, “So Caroline is a year younger than me.”

Beck nods. “We left the party after only a few hours, but Caroline was drunk, because that's really the only way to get through being around my parents. This guy she had brought as a date drove her home so I figured she'd be okay, you know?”

His voice has taken on a guilt-filled tone, which causes my hand to fly out to grab his. I squeeze hard…painfully hard until his eyes focus on me. “Don't. Don't even go there. You couldn't have known and it could have happened anywhere.”

Without acknowledging my words but giving me a return squeeze, which causes my grip to loosen slightly, he continues. “She doesn't really remember much about it. Doesn't remember the drive home, or getting into her apartment. Just that she woke up the next morning, and she…well, could tell she'd had rough sex and that protection wasn't used. She had bruises on her throat and wrists; all over her legs and she was bleeding between…well, you know.”

“God…I am so sorry,” I whisper.

“She called me right away and I went over to her apartment,” Beck says, pulling his hand from mine so he can take another sip of coffee. “Her memory was spotty, she was drunk, and she wasn't sure if it was consensual. She felt—”

“Responsible,” I supply automatically.

“Yes…blamed herself. But given her condition, I didn't think it was consensual and I asked Caroline point-blank if she was the type to give it up on the first date.”

“That was the first time she'd been out with that guy?”

“Michael Schaefer is his name. She'd met him at school. He was the exact opposite of the type of guy my parents would approve of, which is exactly why she brought him.”