“Sweetheart, it takes two to tango,” Ginny chimes in. That woman has one ear perpetually pressed to the bar.
“Let’s get something straight,” Holly whisper-yells at me through gritted teeth. “I amnothaving an affair with Griggs Johnson. I’m not having an affair with anyone. That horrible man has been harassing me for years. I’ve never given him what he wants, which drives a power-hungry person like him crazy. And now he’s found a way to blackmail me with my son’s future.”
I raise my eyebrows, trying to take it all in. “So, to be clear,” I say tentatively, “you’re not his mistress?” Are all my hopes for an inside source about to be dashed?
Holly doesn’t answer. Instead, she eats in angry silence, practically fuming. “No,” she says finally. “I’m not his mistress. And, frankly, I’ve had enough slut-shaming for one lifetime, thank you very much. Not that I owe you my life story or anything—but I got pregnant when I was eighteen, and I got slut-shamed for years. Skank, hussy, floozie, trollop—I’ve been called all the names. I’m done with it. I’m through with being punished.” She shoots me a barbed glare. “I love my son, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about how he came into this world.” She’s breathing hard now, hands holding a bottle of ketchup a little too tightly.
“Shit.” I take a swig of my beer, needing to buy myself a few seconds. I’ve totally misjudged this woman. Inadvertently slut-shamed her.Andhit a big-ass nerve in the process. All because I prayed to God she was Griggs’s mistress?Fuck.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I add, remorseful.
Holly narrows her gaze on the ketchup bottle in her hands, seemingly trying to gather her emotions.
After a few beats, I ask, “How in God’s name did you end up trashed inside that bathroom on Friday?”
She scoffs. “How far back do you want me to go?”
“All the way.”
Over the next half hour, I learn all about Holly’s upbringing in Jackson.
“Ironically, I wound up right back in the world I was trying to flee,” Holly says, finishing the last of her onion rings. “But, honestly, I love my job. And I love the people I work with.”
“Did you ever think of calling your family?” I ask, finding it hard to imagine life without my own. “Asking for help? It must’ve been hard for you, going it alone.”
Holly shakes her head, eyes set on the empty basket in front of her. “They wanted me to give my son away.” She takes a deep breath, then releases the air slowly. “I won’t subject you to the cruel things my mother said.” Her gaze turns to meet mine, and I can see the pain resurface with the memories. “Besides, I’ve made my own family.”
“And now Griggs is threatening to take everything away from you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Holly sighs, nodding in response. “How long has he been harassing you?” I add.
“I’m not sure when exactly it started,” she tells me. “But about a year ago, he seemed to start testing how far he could go, like pushing the boundaries?” She shrugs, a shadow falling over her expression. “And then suddenly he got way more brazen. Like he knows he’s untouchable.” Then she tells me about Aidan keying Griggs’s car, the video evidence, the club’s security employee who was fired after Griggs joined the club’s board.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, enunciating the words slowly. “A grown-ass, misogynistic prick is going after a kid raised by a single mom so he can get in her pants?”
“That about sums it up.” Holly taps the bottom of her beer bottle against the bar. “But just to be clear, this isn’t about Griggs Johnson wantingme. He’s just one of those guys who gets off on power.”
Griggs, I recognize, is borrowing from the same harassment playbook so many other douchebags have used before him: coerce, threaten, discredit. He has positioned himself as a charming bastion of social good, an icon in a world of wealth, influence, and power. Without indisputable evidence of wrongdoing, it would be Holly’s word against his. In which case, Griggs would spare no expense destroying her reputation. Also, Griggs joining the club’s board meant he is now technically Holly’s boss. He’ll waste no time pegging Holly as difficult to work with, incompetent even. He’ll dig up the names of every person she’s dated or slept with, then frame her as a shameless flirt or even a gold-digging slut. Holly’s life and career would be irreparably ruined.
My lungs collapse under the weight of a long, hopeless sigh. Holly is not the inside source I had prayed for.Dammit, Saint Jude! How many more candles do you want?Holly is a victim—no different from the Castillos, or even me. And like us, Holly and her son also stand to lose everything because of one greedy shitbag.
I search for Ginny among the steady stream of customers, collecting their drink and food orders, hoping she might be feeling generous with those sympathy tequila shots. I find her at the far end of the bar, listening to none other than Lumberjack Guy, who is whispering something in her ear. Naturally, my curiosity is piqued. Ginny’s face sours, taking on a troubled expression. She nods and quickly gets to work, pouring about a half dozen vodka shots and setting them on a tray.
His heather-gray T-shirt hugs his arms and torso in all the right places, and a pair of very worn Wranglers highlight the curves of a well-toned ass. I’m ogling now.
Lumberjack Guy cuts his eyes to me, quirking an eyebrow, as if he can read my thoughts.How does he do that?I don’t look away, though. Remembering our last encounter, I sit up taller, taking up space at the bar, brashly telegraphing that I belong here as much as he does. To my surprise, he breaks into a smile, waves his fingers at me cheekily before turning his attention back to Ginny.
“You know that guy?” Holly asks.
“He’s a regular,” I tell her.
“I think he likes you,” Holly observes, poking at my shoulder. I cut a side-eye her way.
Ginny adds one last shot glass to the tray—tap water, positioned over a folded napkin. Lumberjack Guy sloppily carries the tray back to the pool table, stumbling along the way. I’m not fooled, though. I can tell by the clarity of those wolfish eyes—and the water spilling from his shot glass—that he’s not drunk.
He hands out vodka shots to a bunch of white college bros wearing KA insignia polos—Kappa Alpha. A few years ago, I had thepleasureof writing about their Old South Ball, an antebellum-themed spring formal in which young women dress as Southern belles, and the young men pretend to be slave owners. Apparently, they still hail Robert E. Lee as Kappa Alpha’s “spiritual founder.” The scene immediately raises my hackles.
“I’m guessing those kids wandered down here from Athens, bored with the bar scene on West Broad,” Holly says. “My son’s at UGA. Says those guys are total asses.”
We both watch as a KA sneering jackass puts one patronizing arm around Lumberjack Guy’s shoulders. Lumberjack Guy then clinks his glass with the group and shoots it, stumbling backward and hitting a chair on his way to the floor. No one but me seems to notice the practiced way he breaks his fall with one hand. One of the KA bros helps him stand and pats him on the shoulder before dropping a stack of cash on the pool table. I’m frankly a little shocked when Lumberjack Guy pulls a large wad of cash from his own pocket and matches the bet.
