“I overheard Lynn talking to Dennis, who’d just gotten off the phone with Buck Dorsey…”
I’m waiting patiently for Janey’s story to unspool, wondering what the club’s board chair has to do with any of this.
“Mr. Marshall said Mr. Johnson accused Reginald of some funny business. He insisted Reginald be fired—wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Griggs Johnson?” I ask, knowing the answer but still needing to hear it.
“Yes. You know, he just got elected to the board—youngestmember ever,” she says, apropos of nothing. “He must have dug up some terrible scandal involving Reginald, because—poof!—Reginald’s gone. Just like that.”
Just like that, Reginald is gone. I sure hope he’s taken my secret with him. But the sick feeling in my gut suggests otherwise.
CHAPTER 3Luisa
By one in the afternoon, I’m hiding at the Road Queen Grill, sharing my misery with Ginny and Rhonda, the women who own and run this place. It’s a legit biker bar on a back road between Atlanta and Athens. Over the last two months, I’ve turned the barstool I’m currently occupying into my Westlake headquarters.
“Fuck ’em,” Ginny spits, pouring me a sympathy shot, because according to her biker bar gospel,There’s nothing that tequila can’t fix. I cradle the amber liquid between my fingers, my chest tight with self-pity and indignation, wishing I had one ounce of Ginny’s bravado.
After quietly packing my cubicle, I sat inThe Georgia Timesparking lot, trying to process Nina’s sucker punch and my bruising unemployment. A quick search confirmed what I already knew: Jobs for investigative reporters are virtually nonexistent. And even if I managed an interview somewhere, how would I explain getting fired to a prospective new employer? And what if they called Nina or Chip for a recommendation?
One glance at my banking app revealed that I can no longer afford my spacious apartment, or my season tickets to the Atlanta Opera—my one and only self-indulgent, bourgeois splurge. I will need my meager savings to pay—among other things—for the fancy SUV I justhadto have because it was supposed to be my “grown-up” car. Well, there’s nothing “grown-up” about having to ask Mami for a loan or, even worse, move back into my old room.
Clearly, my birthday curse has not been lifted. Though, thisbirthday isn’t the worst I’ve ever had. TheWorst Birthday of My Lifedesignation belongs to my fifteenth. Days after my big Quinceañera celebration, our family gathered again for my father’s wake. There, we learned Papi had another family on the opposite side of the Island, and I had a half sister almost exactly my age. I cried a lifetime’s supply of tears that year, but whether I was crying out of grief, the discovery of a sister I didn’t know existed, or realizing I didn’t know my father at all, I’m not sure. All I know is that the man we most trusted to keep us safe, ended up wrecking our lives.
“You told the Castillos yet?” Rhonda asks, resting a heavy cardboard box against one of the coolers. Her mildly offensive T-shirt reads:You, my friend—one finger pointed at the reader—should’ve been swallowed.I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so wretched.
“I left work and drove straight to Westlake,” I tell them. “Chickened out and came here instead.” I shrug, angry at my own spinelessness. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Sucks to be you’?” I scoff, then down the shot of tequila. “Fuck, that burns.”
Rhonda lets out a low whistle, moving beer bottles from the box to the inside of the cooler. “The devil’s errand. Don’t envy you one bit.”
“Sometimes life is shit.” Ginny taps one finger on the bar’s wood surface. “I see it every fucking day.” She opens one arm, gesturing past the row of neon beer signs, where a Willie Nelson look-alike drinks alone. His leather jacket is stitched with patches that read:In memory of ChomperandCheating Deathover the image of a reaper. Her voice takes on a hard edge as she says, “Even if life gives you a shitty hand, there’s no backing out, you still gotta hedge your bet.”
“Preach,” Rhonda pipes in, beer bottles clinking in her hands.
“And then you figure out how to win with a shitty hand.” Ginny winks one kohl-rimmed eye, then cuts her gaze over my shoulder toward whoever just walked in.
“Or you learn to bluff.” Rhonda nods toward the stranger crossing the room.
Ginny moves down to chat with the new guy, a breezy familiarity between them. I know better than to stare at people in a place like this, but I can’t help myself. He’s about my age, tall andtoned, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and arm muscles that bulge slightly under his black T-shirt. An unkempt lumberjack beard and shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair cover most of his neck and face, barely revealing a pair of striking gray eyes that flicker with wolfish intensity.This man could devour me, I think hazily.
I’m so disconcerted by the bizarre thought that I forget to avert my gaze. When Lumberjack Guy’s head turns, he finds me studying him with the concentration of someone about to take the bar exam. I should break away, but I’m transfixed by the soft lines around his eyes. They lay bare a kinder side—in stark contrast to his rugged facade. But there’s also weariness in those lines. This man is tired, so very tired. Not tired as in “I worked all day at my lumberjack job,” but tired as in, “Why is life so fucking hard?”
“Hey,” he says in the low gruff voice of a country singer. I look straight ahead, my cheeks blushing in spite of every effort at self-control. I blame the alcohol. My skin feels warm and prickly. This is why drinking on an empty stomach is always a bad idea. The last thing I need today is some hairy, backwoods redneck chatting me up.
Ginny uncaps a beer bottle and passes it to Lumberjack Guy. He shows her something on his phone and her face softens, in the way people do when they’re looking at a puppy or a baby, or a puppy cuddling with a baby.
“Hey, Rhonda,” Ginny calls out. “Two burger orders to go. Extra onions and cheese for Pearl.” Rhonda signals she’s on it, then turns her attention to the open grill behind the bar, giving me a view of the raised middle finger on the back of her T-shirt. Classic Rhonda.
Ginny heads to the back room, and then it’s just Lumberjack Guy and me on this side of the bar. Suddenly, I’m an awkward mess, self-conscious of his gaze on me.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” he observes as if we’d been carrying on a conversation. He peers down at my black suede heeled booties. “You’re a ways away from Atlanta.”
My hackles stand on edge. I’ve gone out of my way to disappear into the background—one of the many reasons I’ve excelledat my job. There’s nothing about my all-black outfit that attracts attention.
“This is a far cry from those snooty bars in Buckhead,” he presses, casually taking another sip of his beer.
“I like it here just fine,” I respond, cutting my eyes to his, boldly holding his gaze. His lips curl into a provoking, closed-lip, impish grin that transforms his expression and lifts some of the heaviness behind his eyes. The effect is striking, and because I can’t seem to stop making bad choices today, I start wondering things like:Why is he hiding that smile under all that facial hair?andWhat kind of face is attached to that chiseled body?andWhy am I even thinking about this?Because I’m stressed, and distraction is a potent survival mechanism. And also, well, I haven’t had sex in a really long time on account of investigating country club criminals.
“Pretty sure this bar ain’t on the map,” he says, leaning casually in my direction. “So I’m curious, what brought a girl like you here? You lost or somethin’? Need a tour guide?”
