Did he just say “a bourbon intermission”?
I switch the channel on my walkie-talkie, and blurt out, “Honey Badger to Jade Jackal: What’s going on? Why is Wolf Man walking away?”
And then, before she can even reply, it hits me.God, this man is good.Men like Griggs and their primal caveman brains can smell desperation a mile away. They will pay no heed to someone who is trying too hard, but they’ll kill themselves to get the attention of anyone who completely ignores them. They want what they can’t have; they desperately need control. I should know, since Griggs’s thirst for power is threatening to ruin my life—and our Tripp certainly knows it, too.
Sure enough, Griggs follows eagerly behind Tripp, both of them heading toward the bar.
Hot diggity damn.
We’re in.
CHAPTER 21Luisa
I make a beeline for the bar, then stand out of view, blending with the other guests. Tripp orders a Blanton’s neat, just as Holly instructed. In an instant, Virginia appears by his side.
This woman is like a persistent rash. I wrap my fingers tighter around my wineglass, pulling myself a little taller. Why am I getting so worked up over this? I need to focus, stay rational, shrewd, and keep a lid on my emotions.
“Make that two,” Griggs tells the bartender, joining them. He kisses Virginia on the cheek, then compliments her dress and orders her a spritzer.
“Reel him in, Tripp,” I say. “You got this.”
Instead, Tripp does what Tripp does best—takes his sweet time.
He laughs cheerfully as Virginia regales Griggs with tales and photos of the derby party, inserting enough anecdotes to quickly cement Tripp into this world. Then, for what feels like forever, they talk about the upcoming college football season. Tripp passionately defends “his” Ole Miss Rebels, while Griggs clamors after the Georgia Bulldogs. Virginia bursts out with a proud “Roll Tide!” that makes everyone guffaw.
Tripp is careful to steer the conversation to topics we practiced and for which Holly provided insight into Griggs’s likes and dislikes: football was first on the list, then golf, skiing, tennis, hunting, fly-fishing, and deep-sea fishing.
Each one of these activities became part of Tripp’s photo reel, a series of AI-altered images of Tripp living the one-percent life, any of which would drive home the point that he’s got trust fund money to burn.
And because I’m an overachiever at heart, I even included a few photos of Tripp’s around-the-world moments: island hopping in Bali, sunbathing on a sailboat in Croatia, hitting the bars in Ibiza, deep-sea fishing off the coast of Mexico.
Right now, he’s casually thumbing over a few of these photos, in blatant disregard of the club’s “no cell phones” policy. Griggs peers over his shoulder, proffering his own photos, as Tripp searches for the one where he’s pulling the fin of a blue marlin off the side of a charter boat in Cozumel. I guess like every other entitled man under this tent, Tripp and Griggs assume the rules don’t apply to them.
Virginia, blessedly, has taken a bathroom break.
“That bad boy was almost four feet,” Tripp exclaims. “Took three of us to get him out of the water.” He slides off the screen and tucks the phone into his jacket pocket. “I’m headed to Belize in the fall.”
“Belize?” Griggs asks, seemingly impressed.
“Some of the best deep-sea fishing in the world,” Tripp assures him. Then, lowering his voice, “And the women…” Tripp pauses, chuckles to himself. “Tanned, in love with their tiny bikinis, ready to party. Like shooting fish in a barrel.” Tripp cocks and shoots off an imaginary shotgun.
I barf internally. But Griggs is eating it up. He laughs, because apparently, the sexual objectification of women is so very funny.
“But first, I need to get my shit together,” Tripp says, leaning against the bar. “Prove to the old man that I can make something of myself, put that trust money to good use. You know?” Tripp takes a long swig of bourbon, and I pray that he’s keeping tabs on his alcohol intake. There’s no Ginny behind the bar pouring him shots of water, and the last thing we need is a repeat of the derby party.
“I get it,” Griggs says, leaning in beside Tripp. “This whole family legacy thing can put a lot of pressure on a man. You’re never just you,” he says, eyes distant. “You’re always part of something bigger, grander. Something impossible to live up to.” Griggs finishes his bourbon, then immediately orders another round. I set down my wine and ask a server for a coffee.
“I miss the days when my biggest problem was remembering the names of every girl I’d fuck on Sorority Row.” Griggs laughs at the revolting reminiscence.
“Tell me about it,” Tripp says, leaning in conspiratorially. I catch an almost imperceptible wince in his eyes, a sign of Eli breaking through the disgusting display of misogyny.
Two other men join Griggs and Tripp at the bar. Griggs introduces them as Judge Billy Thacker and Jim Wade.
“I think we’re in,” I whisper to Holly, dropping a sugar cube into my coffee and swirling in a splash of creamer.
Virginia plants a kiss on Granddaddy Thacker’s cheek, then saunters over to Tripp’s side, presenting him like some prize she won at one of the club’s many tournaments.
“I’ll be showing him around the club this weekend,” she squeals—or so it sounds to me. “Giving him a taste of the Peach City’s Southern hospitality.”
