I weave through several tables crammed full of bikers engaged in boisterous conversation over copious pitchers of beer. I pass a small stage where a woman is setting up equipment. She looks to be about my age. And, in a torn-up KISS T-shirt, with about a dozen tattoos snaking across her chest and arms, she also looks like a real badass.
When I arrive at the bar, the Hog Mountain man sitting beside Luisa stands to offer his stool. So chivalrous! I thank him and start to sit, but Luisa gestures toward the corner of the room, where a four-top remains remarkably empty.
“I got Ginny to save us a table,” she says, snapping her laptop shut and leading me across the room.
Rhonda looks up from the grill, where she’s expertly smashing about a dozen burgers. “Well, hey there, Southern Belle,” she says. “Welcome back.”
Oh well. So much for trying to blend in.
Ginny passes me a cold PBR without even asking, and then Luisa and I head over to the table, just as the badass in the KISS T-shirt takes the microphone, introduces herself as Crystal, tonight’s emcee, and launches into “Wagon Wheel.”
It takes approximately fifteen seconds for the beer-swilling biker ladies at the long tables in the center of the room to jump to their feet and sing along. When I saw her setting up, I was sure that woman’s voice would be all raspy and breathy—she strikes me as a smoker—but her voice is clear and low, and her song choices are turning out to be both surprising and epic. Crystal really knows how to get this crowd going.
I can barely hear Luisa over the raucous cries of “rock me, mama,” when she resolutely sets her laptop on our table, opens it, and then asks: “Are you ready for this?”
I nod.
She refreshes the home screen ofThe Georgia Times, and the headline appears:Atlanta Developer at Center of Multimillion-Dollar Embezzlement, Fraud, and Bribe Scheme. Luisa scrolls down, and I skim the summary line of her long-form piece. “?‘Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, real estate developer and son of renowned Atlanta architect, indicted for years of criminal activity involving a prominent local judge, a chair of the State Board of Natural Resources, and a Southern banker working in Panama. Former publisher ofThe Georgia Timesconspired to cover up the scheme,’?” I read, rapt, as Luisa’s article unspools the entire complicated scenario. Of course, Griggs was able to post bond, but the evidence is stacking up against him and his cronies. There’s no doubt that after their embezzlement, tax evasion, money laundering, and racketeering trial plays out, the whole bunch of them will be spending quality time together in federal prison. Maybe they’ll find a new Sunday morning hobby, in the absence of a swanky golf course.
Luisa finishes the article with a heart-wrenching account ofthe travails those selfish, power-hungry men put the Castillo family through. The final quote is from Gloria, framed with a beautiful photo of the entire family standing proudly in front of their Westlake home.
“Our prayers have been answered,” Gloria said. “And even though these men and their greed caused our family so much suffering, we have renewed faith that there are good people in this world. People with the courage to fight for the truth at their own personal risk.”
“This is absolutely incredible,” I tell her, looking up. “You’re a master of your craft!”
“And that’s not all.” Luisa grins, clicking on the paper’s Cooking section, then gesturing to a headline that readsCountry Club Buttery Saltines, For the People.
“A real coup!” I laugh, delighted.
Luisa leans back in her chair, props both hands on the back of her head, and grins from ear to ear. “Nina called the Griggs piece top-notch—a masterpiece of investigative journalism,” she tells me. I know Nina is her new boss, now the publisher ofThe Georgia Times, after the paper’s board fired Chip Marshall. “And then she gave me a promotion,” Luisa tells me, still trying to seem nonchalant, but I can see the absolute thrill in her eyes. “You’re looking at the new head of the paper’s investigative unit.”
Feeling anything but nonchalant, I jump to my feet and squeal with delight, then attack her with a bear hug, just as Crystal eases into “Wonderwall.” I release Luisa and return to my seat, while Crystal croons those overplayed lyrics of winding roads and blinding lights, then launches into a chorus about the surprising people who just might save us. And, to my own enormous surprise, both Luisa and I are gazing at each other, across our half-empty PBRs at a biker bar, tears in both of our eyes.
“Thanks,” she says. “For doing all this with me.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say back. “I couldn’t have done it with anyone else.”
And that feels like enough. There’s really not more to say, because we both know what an incredible gift it was that we stumbled into each other’s lives at just the right time—well, technically, I stumbled; Luisa marched confidently. We took risks together,some of them wild and scary and not exactly legal. We trusted that we’d somehow get through it all. And now, here we are, together, and we’ve each saved the other from our worst nightmares. In the process, we’ve managed to take down the bad guys, which feels pretty damn incredible, since it’s not like that happens every day.
We exposed the sort of powerful criminals who think they’re untouchable, while giving a helping hand to a few people who really needed it… one of whom happens to be walking through the door, with my (now official) boyfriend following a few steps behind him.
I stand up and wave them over, trying to peer around Eli to catch a glimpse of Hugh, but I’m frankly unable to avoid the way Eli looks at Luisa, as if he wants to devour her right here and now. Who can blame him? As I mentioned, she looks hot. Eli steps aside and I’m finally able to get a full view of my favorite professor. In his signature crisp white button-down and leather loafers, Hugh looks both out of place and perfectly at ease. I can already see his mind working as he takes in the array of Georgia accents that fill this crowded room.
For Hugh, every new place offers an opportunity to listen carefully and attentively, to learn. It’s become one of the many things I love about that man. I can’t wait to one day travel the world with Professor Hugh Pridmore.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Hugh says, which—even though he says it all the time—still makes me blush. He kisses me gently on the lips, then sits down and slides his hand into mine, while Luisa excitedly shows Eli TheGeorgia Timesarticle, and he beams with pride for her.
Rhonda, wearing a mildly offensive T-shirt that readsMerry Christmas, You Filthy Animal, a callback to one of theHome Alonefilms, arrives with a tray stacked with smashburgers, fries, and enough crispy onion rings to float a boat.
“On the house,” she says.
“No way—” Eli begins to protest.
“Aw, shut your fuckin’ mouth, pretty boy,” Rhonda interrupts. “It’s not every day we get an award-winning newspaper writer, a Southern belle,anda college professor in this dump.”She sets the tray down with a thud. “Just let Ginny treat you, for Chrissake.”
“Hey,” I scold, feigning offense. “Don’t you dare call the Road Queen Grill a dump. This place is absolutely perfect.”
I take in the room as we dive hungrily into our feast, and I mean it. There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than in this dive bar with these beautiful people.
