Page 39 of Good Graces

I stare straight ahead while they keep talking. Threats. Promises. A reminder that Sycamore’s reputation comes before any of us. Their voices blend into the background, dull and slow, like a radio set to the wrong frequency.

“Y’all are dismissed,” the manager says finally. “But let us be clear. If anyone knows anything and doesn’t come forward, you’ll be implicated, too.”

There’s a shuffling of bodies as people move toward the exit, murmuring under their breath. I’m the first one out, slipping through the doorway and into the hall like I’m in a hurry to get to my next shift.

Then, slender fingers pinch around my wrist and tug hard.

I glance down to find Quinn beside me. “Follow me,” she mutters, already moving.

I don’t argue.

She leads me past the staff lockers, around the back of the maintenance shed, a narrow strip of concrete between the building and the wooden fence that blocks the club from the road. It’s secluded. Quiet.

She turns on me the second we stop, scanning the area before lowering her voice. “Word on the street is it was Preston Beckett’s car.”

I tilt my head, feigning interest. “Huh.”

Her glare sharpens. “Huh? That’s all you have to say?”

I shrug. “Seems like he had it coming.”

Her lips press together. “I know it was you.”

I raise a brow, amused. “Yeah?”

“It had to be.”

I don’t confirm it. She knows I did it. I know she won’t say a word. But it’s better left unsaid. So, I pivot to something else. “You still never answered my text, by the way.”

She flinches. “Wesley’s okay. Of course he is, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“So, your phonedoeswork, then?”

“Stop deflecting.”

I lean against the fence, arms still loose, giving her nothing. “It doesn’t matter who did it. It’s already been done.”

“But Beckett’s going to blame me,” she says, urgency threading her voice.

She must’ve done something—reprimanded him in the moment or said something after. I figured she bottled it up and let it all loose in the break room, alone, like she always does. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe she said something he didn’t like, and now he’s looking for payback.

“Why?”

“Because I snapped at him.” She swallows, like the words are harder to get out. “When he grabbed my ass, I snapped.”

A slow, simmering heat rises in my chest. I rein it in. Breathe slow and deep and count to four. I want to tell her that he deserved more than a snapped warning, more than a dirty look and a sharp word.

That I’m proud of her for standing up for herself and that I wish I’d seen it happen so I could’ve backed her up. But I can’t go there or say those sorts of things to her. Not anymore.

“You’re always snappy,” I say lightly. “Part of your charm.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I glance down. Her fingers are still curled around my wrist and haven’t moved. I shift and press my thumb lightly against the inside of hers, tracing the warm skin of her pulse point.

Her breath catches, just slightly, and I don’t let go.

“I’m glad about Wes,” I murmur. I can give her that. It’s safe. Careful. Not loaded. “That he’s okay.” I hesitate, then add, “I hope you’re okay, too.”

---