Stephen Frey by Trust Fund

shook his head. “Bo, you and I have both known your father for more than forty years. He keeps close track of anything he holds dear.”
    â€œDon’t give me that crap, Michael. My father doesn’t hold me dear, he just keeps track of me.”
    â€œYou’re wrong.”
    â€œAll I’ve ever been is a hardworking, loyal son and he sent me out here like he sent me to boarding school when I was twelve. To get rid of me because I’d become a nuisance and he didn’t want to have to deal with me anymore. It’s Teddy and Paul he cares about,” Bo said bitterly, “mostly Paul.”
    â€œJimmy Lee wants to see Paul become president,” Mendoza argued gently. “You can’t blame him for that. My God, it’s an incredible opportunity. It’s natural for a father to take every action and every precaution necessary to see his son achieve that goal. President, for Christ’s sake. Think about it, Bo. Don’t blame Jimmy Lee for doing everything in his power to keep Paul’s campaign headed in the right direction. A campaign that is going very well, I might add. Your father is a very savvy man.”
    â€œYou too?” Bo asked accusingly. “We’ve known each for so long, and now you’re turning on me as well.”
    â€œYou drink too much,” Mendoza said matter-of-factly.
    â€œI have fun.”
    â€œAnd look what that fun does to you.” Mendoza gestured at Bo, who was still sloppily clad in the untucked denim shirt, dirty khaki shorts, and sandals he’d been wearing in the Jeep. “You haven’t shaved in days, your hair is down to your shoulders, and you stink of liquor. Your father is worried about you, and from what I can see, he has every right to be.”
    â€œI’m fine,” Bo retorted. “I’m a survivor.”
    â€œI’ll give you that. If you survived last night, you can survive anything.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œThere was an empty vodka bottle
and
an empty scotch bottle on the motel floor, as well as some other incriminating evidence spread around the place,” Mendoza answered in a low voice. “You drank enough to kill two men last night but you’re sitting here in front of me a few hours later and you’re reasonably alert.”
    Bo hesitated. “I was attacked, Michael. My condition has nothing to do with alcohol.”
    Mendoza leaned forward in his chair. “What?”
    â€œI was on my way to see some friends and I had pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road to check directions.” Bo didn’t want to tell Mendoza about Tiffany. They had been close friends since Bo’s childhood, but Mendoza would still be suspicious if he knew there was a woman in the vehicle and it wasn’t Meg. Bo didn’t need the fact that he’d been alone in the Jeep with another woman getting back to Jimmy Lee—or Meg. “All of a sudden I’ve got this rag that smells like a hospital jammed up my nostrils. The next thing I know I’m here on this couch.”
    Mendoza’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, Bo, do you really expect me to believe that?”
    â€œI don’t care what you believe,” Bo retorted, spying a wet bar in a far corner of the suite’s living room. He stood up and almost fell over from a sudden knife-in-the-eye pain searing through his head. The residual effects of the drug that had rendered him unconscious caused the world to blur once more, but he staggered to the bar. “I’m telling you the truth.”
    Mendoza rose from his chair and followed. “You’re telling me you don’t remember anything about being at a motel?” he asked.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThat’s hard to believe.”
    Bo held up the shot glass of scotch he’d poured himself, then consumed it in one gulp. “Hair of the dog, Michael,” he gasped.
    Mendoza chuckled. “You’re