Page 10 of Second Draft

He grabs a half empty beer bottle off his desk, and chugs it back, then looks at me and slurs, “What’re you doing here?”

Technically, it’s my house. I don’t need a reason. But I’ve let him live here so long that I swear he forgets who pays the bills.

“Your text sounded pretty urgent.”

He shrugs, but I see the guilt that crosses her expression. “I’m just dealing with a lot of shit right now.”

From the way he shifts to lean against the wall, I’m thinking he’s got a good six or seven beers in him.

“You’re not in jail, so I assume it’s about money.”

“Ouch.” He winces, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How much?”

“Want a drink? I’ll grab you one–”

“How much, Travis?” I hate being an ass, but I need to know the damage. I do well enough, but the last time I received a text like the one I got the other night, it ended up costing me forty grand in property damage and another five in lawyer’s fees.

“It’s not about money.” Travis sucks his top lip over his teeth and looks away.

Shit. This is going to be bad.

“What is it then?” My stomach twists.

“You just got here. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” So it isn’t that urgent. The squeezing in my chest subsides slightly, but in the back of my head there’s a flashing neon sign warning me it’s not going to be a simple fix this time. “Fine.”

I’m already in a pissy mood after an hour delay on my flight. And my knee is throbbing from sitting for so long. I’ll probably handle whatever he has to say better after a good night sleep.

I start down the stairs towards the kitchen, and say over my shoulder, “You mind telling your buddies to take the party somewhere else?”

“Seriously, bro?” Travis’ hands slam down on my shoulders. “Come on, have a couple beers with us. When’s the last time the two of us got tanked together?” He gives me one of his easygoing grins. “Or better yet, stoned.”

“One beer.”

“Good man.”

I grunt, following him into the crowded kitchen, choking on the fumes.

“I’ll meet you in back. I need some fresh air.”

Travis nods, before being dragged into a conversation with a guy sucking back a joint.

I head through the sliding doors that lead to the backyard, and breathe in the fresh air.

Boxes of empty beer bottles line the back of the house, but other than that it looks like Travis has actually kept the yard up. There are even flowers in the few pots that sit on the large wood deck.

I frown at that, because I know there’s no way in hell that Travis planted any damn flowers.

Maybe they’re just weeds. I pick one of them, and look at it more closely.

“Definitely not a weed,” I mutter.

“They’re Begonias,” a woman says behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, following the sound of the voice and freeze.

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