Sugar Rush
Page 42
“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.
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.
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.
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.
