Chapter 32 Holly
It’s not the most absurd request I’ve fielded, in my almost nineteen years working at this club, but it may be among the more complicated—right up there with the three hundred real wax taper candles Ella-Rose Richmond and her mother insisted we suspend from the ballroom ceiling in delicate glass vases.
She was an especially attentive bride, micromanaging everything from the shade of natural twine used to hang all those dangling open flames to the type of lemon in guests’ water glasses (Meyer, of course).
Unfortunately, Ella-Rose seemed less concerned with the details of the special permit I had to procure from the Atlanta fire marshal, leaving that fun task entirely to me.
At least I have this to be grateful for: Linwood Hayes’s Easy Rider stunt doesn’t require any variances from the city.
Maybe I also should feel grateful that focusing on the complicated logistics of what’s about to happen, keeps my mind off what I’ve just done.
I’m not sure I was ready to submit that application.
Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the position.
But that Luisa—she can be quite persuasive.
“Mr. Hayes is incoming,” I alert Lionel at the gatehouse.
Then I head out to the main entrance to ensure the extra handicap ramp has been properly placed and effectively secured.
Wouldn’t want to repeat the film’s tragic ending.
I rush back inside to clear loiterers from the foyer, but I’m stopped in my tracks by Loula, who—in a flowing emerald-green dress—has managed to make herself into the spitting image of Anna, the younger sister in Frozen.
I’m not sure what an animated film set in the Arctic Circle has to do with iconic movies filmed in or about the South, but here we are.
“Oh, Holly,” Loula exclaims, her cheeks rosy with pleasure (or maybe wine), “isn’t this all just the most fun ever?”
I paste on a huge smile and nod enthusiastically while she gives me a once-over. “You look hot,” she says, her eyes roving my costume appreciatively.
I’m still a little shocked that I decided to go with this look.
After all, it clearly defies my “blend in” approach to dressing for work at the club.
But it feels right for tonight—bold, confident, maybe even fierce.
Somehow, these past weeks with Hugh, and the radical vulnerability they’ve brought, are letting me settle into a sense of myself that I guess has always been here, but that I’ve been reluctant to expose.
I think that’s what I most love about our time together.
Being with him makes me feel more at ease and relaxed.
His presence somehow reminds me that I’m enough, just as I am.
In the adjacent ballroom, the band strikes up Rick James’s “Superfreak,” inducing Loula to quite literally jump up and down, while squealing, “Sexy Holly! You have to come dance with me! Pleeease?”
I’m not even remotely surprised when Marg arrives at her side, in a shimmering blue gown and an ice-queen crown, then gently balances a now teetering Loula with her right arm.
“Oh gosh,” I say, trying to sound sincerely disappointed, “I really wish I could. I mean, I do love this song, but, you know—”
“She’s working,” Marg says matter-of-factly.
“Always working,” Loula slurs. “Soooo boring.”
I’ve got to hand it to these two—they’ve nailed the costumes, and the Anna/Elsa dynamic is pretty on the nose, too. Maybe one day sweet Loula will break through to thaw Marg’s cold, cold heart.
I’m glancing around, really hoping to glimpse one of their husbands dressed as Olaf, the heat-seeking snowman, but instead I see Captain America and Black Widow heading directly toward us.
The costumes are so realistic that I’m struggling to pinpoint who’s inside them, until I notice that Black Widow has bright red fringe earrings dangling beneath her red wig.
Damn, there must be a whole lot of spandex and silicone in that bodysuit. Rail-thin Anna-Byrd is sporting some serious curves.
Griggs arrives at my side, sending a chill up my spine. He’s leaning in to say something to me, when the roar of a motorcycle drowns out even the raucous chorus of “Superfreak.”
Linwood Hayes, investment banker masquerading as a leather-clad coke dealer, is making his grand Easy Rider entrance, and I couldn’t be more thrilled with the timing.
The crowd parts as he rolls in, revving the vintage Harley lowrider he rented for the night.
A young woman I’ve never seen before, with a fabulous brunette bouffant and perhaps the thickest eyelashes I’ve ever witnessed, rides behind him in an American Flag bikini top and electric-blue spandex mini shorts, her arms wrapped around his waist.
Their arrival incites so many whoops and hollers that Mr. Hayes, clearly an amateur, gets a little too confident with the bike.
He actually attempts a wheelie, which sends his motorcycle out of control.
The gathered crowd watches in shock and awe as Dennis, the club’s soon-to-retire general manager, appears out of nowhere to try and steady the bike.
But it’s too late. Both Linwood Hayes and the mystery woman are thrown off the bike, which then careens into a heavy oak sideboard, sending three Ming vases and a sweet little arrangement of miniature spray roses crashing to the ground.
The motorcycle lands squarely on Dennis’s left leg, but he hops up and brushes himself right off, eliciting relieved cheers as he hobbles away, wincing.
Dear sweet Jesus. I hope Dennis is okay. And I should have thought to move the vases. How could I have overlooked this detail? Someone could have been seriously lacerated. I grasp my headset and send out the call. “Cleanup needed in grand entry foyer. Calling all available staff.”
I’m berating myself when Luisa arrives at my side, laughing. She crouches down and begins to gather broken shards of pottery. “You didn’t tell me the biker-banker was bringing an escort,” she whispers, glancing up at the bikini-clad woman.
Wait, is she a prostitute? I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess that would make the Easy Rider setup even more authentic. Needless to say, Linwood Hayes didn’t fill me in on this detail any of the six times he called me at work to offer step-by-step instructions.
“I actually feel sorry for her,” Luisa continues, as Gone with the Wind’s Rhett Butler crouches to help the bewildered woman to her feet. “She’s not getting paid enough for this shit.”
Besides being down three Ming vases, the foyer has been returned to pristine condition, thanks to our excellent cleaning staff, and just in time.
I rush through the service corridor to supervise the delivery of hot-glazed Krispy Kremes, fresh off the conveyor belt.
They’re being transported from a doughnut factory on North Avenue, and I need to be sure the kitchen is prepared to receive them at the service entrance.
Heaven forbid they not be pipin’ hot from the oven.
I’m approaching the staff hallway that also services the men’s locker room, when Captain America himself materializes.
I glance around quickly, noting that only he and I are present in this long corridor, and that familiar chill returns to my spine.
I am loath to admit it, but I’m becoming physically afraid of this pathetic excuse for a man. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to muster the fierce energy I carried only moments ago, but it has all dissolved in the presence of Griggs Johnson.
“Holly,” he calls across the hall, his voice gregarious and chummy.
“Just the woman I wanted to see.” It strikes me as odd, suddenly, that Griggs is slinking through the service hallway, away from the other revelers.
Could he be hiding from someone? Probably just his overbearing wife.
“I was upstairs earlier and I saw your application for the GM job,” he says.
“Good for you. Way to step out of your comfort zone and go for it.”
Demeaning, patronizing prick.
“I’m rooting for you to get the job,” he adds, scanning my body with an unrestrained hunger in his eyes. “Would give us the chance to work even more closely.”
A part of me wants to punch him in the chest, aim directly for that big white star. Another part wants to turn and run like hell away from him. And, also, why is he lurking about in so many hallways tonight?
“What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?” I ask, my voice tremoring slightly.
“Well,” he says, “as you’ll recall, the dean over at UGA is joining our threesome for golf in a week.”
I stop in my tracks and involuntarily lean against the cold concrete wall.
“And I thought we might reserve the Ivy Room for brunch after the round,” he says, his tone still light and jovial. “You know, make it a special, private event, since it looks like I might have some sensitive information to share with him.”
By “sensitive information,” he means the legal investigation he’s planning to open on my son, and the criminal felony conviction that will no doubt ensue.
I suddenly feel nauseous. Exactly what kind of man asks a woman to plan the celebration of her own demise?
The kind of man who’s striding confidently toward me, coming too close.
“Unless,” he says, so near to me that his voice is a whisper.
Letting the word linger in the still air between us, he uses one arm to trap me against the wall, then lifts a hand slowly to my upper lip.
I’m frozen in place, my heart hammering in my chest, my brain willing my knee to find his ball sack.
But I can’t seem to move. Instead, I’m forced to feel his fingertip drag along my lip, my chin, my neck.
“Unless I cancel with the dean and take you out instead.” His hand has somehow made its way to my chest, and his finger skirts along the open edge of my shirt. “For a business lunch, of course.”
“Stop,” I croak. “Stop now.”
“Just relax, Holly. All you have to do is quit playing this ‘hard to get’ game.” His finger grazes my left breast, and I feel it, cold and menacing, piercing through the fabric of my bra and button-down shirt.
Suddenly, as if I’ve woken from some terrible nightmare, I find the will to move. I place my hand firmly on his chest and push him away so that he stumbles backward into the wall opposite us. Seeing him falter brings me just enough confidence to do what I know must be done—consequences be damned.
“I’m going to say this nice and loud, to be sure you hear me,” I tell him, planting my feet in a wide stance. “And I’m only going to say it once, so pay attention.”
He stands upright, too, his stupid fucking Captain America costume sagging around his narrow hips, and then he pastes a bored look across his face.
“I’m not playing hard to get,” I tell him.
“I am—for you—permanently and forever impossible to get.” I prop both hands on my hips, hoping that the stance will elicit courage.
I need to finish this—to end the sick game I never agreed to play—once and for all.
“You might get me fired from my job, you might get my son kicked out of school, but let me assure you—you will never, ever touch my body again.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he sneers, giving me a sick little salute. “But just so you know, this is when the game really starts to get fun.”
He walks away and I watch, using sheer force of will to stay on my feet, not to collapse into a pile.
I stare at his back, hoping he feels my stern gaze through the red, white, and blue of his stupid spandex bodysuit.
I hope he feels weak, emasculated, and rejected.
I hope he feels like the small, idiotic man that he is.
But I also know, with absolute clarity, that Griggs Caldecott Johnson III won’t stop until he wins—or gets sent directly to jail, without passing Go.
He opens a service door and exits to the courtyard, where I see Judge Thacker and Jim Wade standing expectantly, as if they’ve been waiting for him. As the door slams shut behind him, I feel a wave of relief.
This is almost over, I tell myself. We are so close to ending this nightmare forever. It’s Eli’s turn to roll the dice, and my bet’s on him.