And then I get it.
“What’s happening?” Holly asks, turning to watch the first solid pool ball glide into a corner pocket.
I gesture toward Lumberjack Guy. “He’s about to clean house.”
Holly gives me a skeptical look. “He can barely stand.”
“It’s a scam. He’s stone-cold sober.” I’m impressed. He’s good, this guy. He takes his time, giving the frat guy a few wins, but steadily striking solids into pockets.
I laugh out loud. Why didn’t I see it before? Lumberjack Guy is a pool hustler.
I raise a hand to get Ginny’s attention, my thoughts consumed with Griggs and the pack of entitled frat boys acting like they own the place. I realize there’s not much difference between these KA assholes, Griggs, and his golf buddies—just another boys’ club for privileged white men. I hope Lumberjack Guy takes them for all they’re worth.
Ginny must sense the rage bubbling up inside me, because she strides over carrying a bottle of mezcal that she reserves for celebrations or desperate cases—which in my book only adds to her saintliness.No candles required!Saint Ginny pours one for me and Holly without saying one word.
I shoot back the smooth, smoky spirits, adding up the stakes in my head—the Castillos, Holly, Aidan, my future. How can one man be responsible for ruining the lives of so many people? And how do we turn the tables on him?
“I’m so sick and tired of these greedy, selfish, rich assholes taking and taking without consequence. Turning everything to shit for the rest of us.” I set down the shot glass as Holly gulps hers down. I anxiously tap two fingers on the bar, a wordlesshit mefor two more shots, like a blackjack player whose entire luck rests on the next card. My gut reminds me:The house always wins.
CHAPTER 10Holly
I might’ve been a little uneasy when I first walked into this dive bar, but as I settle in and chat with Luisa, I’m finding it kind of… cozy. And chatting openly with Luisa is refreshing. None of my co-workers actually like Griggs Johnson, but we can’t exactly go around talking shit about club members. You never know who might be listening.
“So, why exactly do you care about Griggs Johnson?” I ask, setting my empty shot of mezcal on the bar.
“Are you familiar with the Preserve at Lake Chiaha?” Luisa asks me.
“The Westlake development?” I clean the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “He’s been obsessed with it for at least three years. Is it finally getting off the ground?”
“On the backs of hard-working people whose land he stole,” Luisa mutters.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you sure?” I ask, placing our now-empty food baskets one over the other, then cleaning the bar with my napkin. Force of habit. “Griggs may be a scumbag with an overinflated ego, but he doesn’t need to steal. Trust me, that man is closing deals left and right. I know because almost all of them happen at the club.”
“Unless he has no other option,” Luisa says. She pulls out her notebook and starts telling me about the Castillos—a hard-working immigrant family who were set to inherit acres of land on what is now the Preserve at Lake Chiaha. She explains how the land was taken out from under them, something about a fake company and a fake deed.
“Without their plot, there’s no way to access the land aroundthe lake,” she explains. “But they refused to sell. Griggs wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
I nod, not all that surprised. “Not many people say no to Griggs,” I say with a defeated sigh. “What options do the Castillos have?”
“That’s where I was hoping you’d come in.” Luisa sighs. “When I still thought you were Griggs’s mistress and could get close enough to him to secure proof of his underhanded dealings.” Luisa hands me a heavy binder.
I riffle through the paper trail—legal documents, land surveys, financial spreadsheets.
“Griggs didn’t just steal the Castillos’ land”—Luisa points to a development plan—“he’s bribing local officials, getting environmental regulations tossed, and I’m pretty sure there’s something shady going on with his family’s foundation.”
“His family’s foundation? The one he just accepted an award for, from the mayor?” I ask. That’s low, even for Griggs.
“Same one,” Luisa says, lifting another mezcal to her lips. “Problem is, I can’t follow the money trail unless I have someone on the inside. Proof. Solid evidence a prosecutor will consider.” She takes a long sip, then taps at her binder for emphasis. “And—dammit all to hell—I thought you were in bed with him, and the perfect person to get it.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I grimace. “But I don’t think you understand. Griggs is untouchable. He operates with absolute impunity. Also, he’d never share his secrets with a woman—not even one he’s in bed with.”
“So we’ve hit a dead end,” Luisa says, dropping her head into her hands.
“Yup,” I reply. “Tomorrow, you and I and the Castillos will wake up wondering when it’s all gonna fall apart. Not Griggs, though. He’ll be headed out to his standing tee time with Judge Thacker and Jim Wade—just another day on the course. Then he’ll sip Macallan at the Men’s Grill before a steak dinner with Anna-Byrd on the terrace.”
Luisa lifts her head, eyes wide. “Wait, who’s Griggs playing with?” she asks, grabbing the binder and then leafing through the handwritten pages of her notebook.
“Billy Thacker and Jim Wade—you know them?”
