The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(38)
“Man, I’m bagged,” Shredder said, hauling his personal luggage into his bedroom. “Think I’ll turn in.”
“It’s only nine o’clock,” Cole said, slipping his knapsack off his shoulder and onto the couch in the living room. “Feel like a brew?”
“You mean beer or coffee?”
“You know me, I’m a caffeine freak. But if a beer works for you, by all means.”
“You should take it easy on the coffee, bud,” Shredder said. “It’s a diuretic you know. Sucks the water from your tissues. Working against yourself drinking that, then trying to stay hydrated for peak performance.”
“Who made you the team trainer all of a sudden?”
“C’mon, you know I’m right,” Shred said with a clap on Cole’s shoulder. Even without his goalie glove, his mitts were still huge. “Are you going down to Blues?”
“Yeah, you coming along or not?”
Shredder thought about it, then waved a lazy hand. “Naw. You go.”
Cole changed clothes and left the apartment. He felt somewhat relieved that Shredder had chosen to stay behind. If – no, when – he found Trey at Blues, he had a few questions to ask him and things might get ugly and turn into an all-out brawl. He decided to walk the few blocks, the night air clearing his head and his sinuses. The air-conditioned buses always seemed to stuff them up. In a few minutes, he reached the coffee house. He looked over the funky exterior for a moment, then stepped inside.
Walking over to the row of coffee machines, Cole decided on which of his personal recipes to concoct. Nothing too dark at this time of night; he needed to sleep eventually. A light Colombian would do nicely, he thought and stepped behind the bar to start construction.
“Hey,” called a voice. Cole looked up to see Trey sauntering toward him. “You guys just get back from your road trip?”
Cole’s stomach lurched. He’d spent most of the trip home figuring out how he’d react when he saw Trey. What he would say. And it wasn’t good. Nausea crawled up the back of his throat, threatening to run down his arm, fist his palm and cold-cock the mother f*cker. “Yeah,” was all he could say, resuming his coffee preparations. It would keep his hands busy and prevent him from throat punching him.
Trey leaned an elbow on the polished bar surface. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you at the karaoke night. I need you to sign the petition against Murphy’s bar.”
Cole looked up. “Petition? The construction’s nearly finished. How can you petition against that? Besides, I can’t be involved. Murphy signs my checks, man. It’s a major conflict of interest.”
Trey held up a hand. “Just asking. All you had to say was no.” He smiled and pushed away from the bar. “The petition is just a backup, anyway. The real action will come from the coalition. We’re appealing to the Planning and Zoning Department to have it shut down. And a stop work order on the skyway and parking ramp.”
Cole topped his coffee with low-fat milk foam and a sprinkle of cinnamon. He was determined to enjoy this cuppa despite the maelstrom of emotions roiling inside; the least of which were his sympathies for Trey’s problems. “Good luck with that,” he replied, lifting his cup and taking a sip of his caffeinated creation. Perfect.
“Wow, what’s up your ass, dude? That famous NHL cock of yours not getting enough *? Maybe you should go home and bang that little brunette number you left with the other night. What was her name again? Louisa?”
Cole set his cup down in slow-motion. Holy f*ck. Did the guy really not remember a girl he sexually assaulted in high school? Or even her name? He couldn’t imagine anyone not noticing or remembering someone as stunning as Eloise. No wonder Trey was divorced if his attitude toward women was so callous. Discovering this ugly side of someone he considered a close friend for many years sickened him. It was like lifting a rock and finding a nest of snakes underneath.
“You lived in Columbus, right, Trevor?” Cole asked after a long moment, emphasizing his name.
Trey gave him a wary look, as though someone had just walked over his grave. “That’s right. How’d you know that?”
“Well, unlike you, I’m good with names,” Cole said. “Why’d you change yours? Something in your dark, dirty Ohio past you don’t want following you here? Dirty laundry?”
“Huh?” Trey looked confused. “Listen, I think you’ve got a touch of road fever. You should rest up. Nothing’s following me from shit hole Ohio.”
“Really? Well then, your memory’s not so good either. That little number introduced herself at the Town Hall, *. Eloise Robertson. From Columbus. She went to your high school. Ringing any bells… Trevor?”
“Oh shit,” Trey cursed, dropping his chin as though bored with the subject. “That was ancient history, man. Who gives a shit what happened in high school? I kicked off the dust of that crummy burgh more than ten years ago.”
“Well, you left a pretty nasty trail,” Cole said, venom in his voice. “Tell me, were there any other girls you plied with bootlegged liquor and raped before you skipped town?” Trey glared at Cole, rising to his full height. He still fell a few inches short of him. Cole could flatten him with a single punch. His fists clenched in anticipation. “So many you force f*cked that their names all run together?”