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Tate wasn’t the only one who was good at lying. I’d told myself that I wasn’t in love with him so many times over the years that I was finally starting to believe it.
“I’m going to drop by his place today to see how he’s doing,” Henn whispered. “Come with me, please.”
I let out a dramatic sigh and slammed my glass on the table. “Fine. One time only. But that’s it.”
Since Henn wasn’t drinking, she drove.
By the time we go to Tate’s, I was all but jumping out of my skin.
What if he was using again? Just the thought of Tate being sick or worse made me shiver.
We got out of the car and headed up the walkway to the front door.
And then I heard the shouting.
“Stay here,” I instructed Henn.
I knocked on the door.
When the yelling continued, I disabled the alarm (typical Tate, he hadn’t changed the code in over a year) and I entered the front door.
I took several steps, past the foyer and into the living area, and stopped short.
Tate was standing in his bathrobe, yelling his head off at a naked man who was giving it right back to him.
“You’ve got five seconds to get out of my fucking house!” Tate bellowed.
“Or what? You’re gonna call the cops? I don’t think so, asshole. Now, you owe me for last night, so pay up!” naked guy yelled back.
“I don’t pay to screw. I don’t have to. Now get your shit and get gone!” Tate shouted and picked up a pile of clothes from the couch, throwing them at the guy.
“I made it very clear last night that I expected payment. And I ain’t leaving until I get it!”
“You got coke, that’s payment enough!”
“That’s not how it works, honey.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” I interrupted.
There was a second of silence as Tate finally noticed me. He looked like day-old shit, his face ashen, purple circles under his bloodshot eyes.
He’d also lost weight. A lot of it. Jesus, when he moved, his bathrobe fell open. I could see his ribs.
“Who the fuck are you?” The stranger snapped, then did a double take. “Holy shit, you’re Reed Larkin!”
“Jesus Christ, you’re fan girling over him?” Tate swore. “Get out!”
Naked guy shook his head and crossed his arms.
Fed up with the yelling, I pulled out my wallet and offered the stranger three hundred dollars, in cash.
“Will that cover it?” I asked.
“Not enough for putting up with his sorry ass,” he replied and gave Tate the finger. Then the guy bent to pick up a pair of shorts and a tank top. “But I won’t say no. A boy’s gotta survive.”
I pulled out another hundred while Tate’s man of the night got dressed. The guy took the money with a nod and stuffed it in his pocket.
“You were never here,” I warned him.
