Chapter 9 Luisa #2
“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 wanting me. 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 the pleasure of 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.
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 wordless hit me for two more shots, like a blackjack player whose entire luck rests on the next card.
My gut reminds me: The house always wins.