The subject line is simple and causes my heart to race: I Hit Pay Dirt.

The messages only has two words: Call me.

I shoot a quick glance at Sela, and assured that she’s sleeping soundly, I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. It’s only seven P.M. back in the States, and the worst I’d be doing is interrupting his dinner, so I don’t hesitate in dialing his number.

He answers on the second ring by saying, “Figured I’d be hearing from you fairly soon, although it’s what…four A.M. there? You’re up awful early.”

I don’t bother to engage the polite small talk. “What did you find?”

Dennis is all business and gets to the heart of the matter. “Turns out drugs and abusing women isn’t your partner’s only addictions. Appears he’s got a bit of a gambling problem.”

This does not surprise me, but I also don’t know if this can help me. “How big of a problem?”

“He is in deep, and I mean way deep to some nasty people here in San Francisco who are backed by even nastier people in Vegas.”

“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.”