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 from 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.

Sela and I had been talking about this for days, and the best way to approach JT with a buyout when he asks for the money. I hope to God I stick to the script we created, which we felt was the best way to “handle” JT, and that this goes as smoothly as I hope. But for now, I silently wait him out as a nurse pushes him out in a wheelchair. I get my car, pull it up to the front, and JT is loaded into the front seat. We don’t say a word during the short drive to his house in Sausalito, and he’s utterly silent when we walk into the house.

I follow JT into his den, an ostentatious room filled with expensive leather furniture, two seventy-inch TVs, and a surround-sound system that cost a small fortune. He bypasses the couch and heads to the mahogany bar against one wall. Pulling out a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid, he pours almost a full glass. Without looking at me, he asks, “Want one?”

“No, man,” I say quietly, trying to lace my voice with concern. “But I would like to know what happened to you. Were you in an accident?”

JT’s shoulders jerk as he barks out a laugh, and then groans from the pain that movement caused. He takes a hefty swallow and hisses through his teeth after it goes down.

“You shouldn’t drink if you’re taking pain meds,” I say, not out of any concern for him but because I want him lucid.

“I didn’t take any pain meds,” he grunts, and takes another slug. “I need a clear head.”

Well, that makes two of us who need that.

“So what happened?” I prompt as he turns from the bar and walks over to one of the big couches that flank a large fireplace. The leather is buttery and the cushions are deep. He sinks into it slowly with a groan.

JT takes another sip, swallows it, and raises his bloodred eyes to me. “I’m in trouble.”

So much trouble, I mentally agree. But I just raise my eyebrows in friendly worry.

“I got in deep with a bookie in Vegas. His enforcers paid me a visit this morning. That’s why I look and feel like shit.”

Here was part of what I had rehearsed with Sela. The need to be shocked by JT’s revelation he could be in so deep. So I downplay any danger off the bat. “Well, what the fuck JT,” I say with exasperation. “Pay the damn money. It’s not like you don’t have it.”

“I don’t,” he says, takes another sip of bourbon. I can tell it’s working on him because he starts to relax his body into the couch. “Have the type of money they’re collecting, that is.”

“What type of money are we talking about?” I ask hesitantly…my eyes wide with curiosity.

“Four million,” he spits out, as if he can feel the bitterness of his debt on his tongue.