Jon woke with a pounding headache, the cold concrete beneath him and the dim light of the drunk tank pressing against his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The fragments of the night before swirled in his mind—too much whiskey, too many words shouted, faces blurred by anger and drink.
The clang of the cell door opening made him flinch. Chef stood there, arms crossed, his expression equal parts disappointment and relief.
“You’re lucky,” Chef said flatly. “If Holly hadn’t spoken up for you, you’d be facing more than just a night in here. She vouched for you, said you weren’t a bad man—just made a bad choice.”
Jon rubbed his temples, shame burning through the fog of his hangover. Holly. Even after what he’d said, what he’d done, she had defended him.
Released
