Jest [Miniminter] *ON HOLD*

II.

11:26 pm

If there was ever anything you had to remember about Branchside Heights, it was that your personal business got out.

It got everywhere.

Steve Portsmouth, thirteen-years-old and red-haired, was caught making out with Elizabeth Harrowing under the bleachers at the middle school when he was supposedly in a relationship with Madison Baker. Kyle Winters, owner of the local home improvement department store, was drowning in debt and was too afraid to tell his wife. Heather Washington, formerly an elementary school teacher, was in the process of being convicted for tax fraud. And Georgie McAdams, 20-year-old community college student who worked part-time at Bentley's bistro, was in a really shit relationship with a really shit guy.

His name was Sommers, and he came with friends.

Georgie and I were sitting at the bar in DiegoDiego on Thursday night, obviously sipping ginger ales, when her boyfriend and his crew walked in. Jamie, owner of the little sports bar, only let us sit at the bar because we weren't taking up space, and, in her words, we did a better job at entertaining her than the soccer matches that played on the television screens mounted around the joint. Jamie was dark-skinned and bright-eyed, with a dry humor that only appealed to a specific species of people. Always teeming with new gossip and information about the locals, she was great to spend an evening with as well.

Clearly, Jamie was one of my favorite women in Branchside.

Jamie, Georgie and I were deep into a discussion about Mrs. Martins' affair with Gilly Abeson when Sommers and his friends waltzed through the front door. I wasn't aware of their presence at first; like in any sports bar, the place was dimly lit and the chatter of diners or people who'd come to watch the late night game kept you from hearing anything besides your own conversation. I nearly dropped my soda glass in surprise when Sommers swept in behind Georgie, coiling his thick arms around her from behind and forcing his face--beard and all--up against the side of hers. Georgie squealed. Jamie glanced at me, at our new company, and then away with an eye roll.

"Enjoying yourself, babes?" Sommers cooed, voice low and raspy. He reeked of alcohol. Surely, he'd been out drinking at another bar before coming to this one to meet his girlfriend of two years.

Georgie giggled, muttered some girly things that Sommers pretended to be interested in and I didn't care to listen to. Sommers wasn't the issue for me; he was too stupid to be afraid of. It was his three friends that gave me the creeps. They went wherever Sommers went, always hovering nearby, like gnats you couldn't swat away. And Georgie was always trying to set me up with one.

They were there that night as well, taking seats at the bar to my left since Georgie was in the one to my right, closest to the end of the bar. The tallest one was the one that creeped me out the most; he called himself Kicks, and he stepped over his stool to settle in right beside me. Fortunately--or, as fortunate as you could get in a situation like this--Sommers' tiniest minion Jay was the one with the thing for me in particular. He was stocky, wrinkly, and hairy all over. He took the seat between Kicks and their third companion, Hank, but not before flashing me a yellow-toothed grin and a wink.

I turned back toward Georgie and Sommers without response, raising my ginger ale to my face as Jamie drifted over to serve the already-intoxicated newcomers.

For a few moments I sat there, feeling awkward and alone as my body faced toward my coworker and her burly BF as they made out and made inappropriate grabs at one another through growls and giggles. Oh, so they liked each other tonight. My attention was directed toward the soccer game on the television screen above the bar, and it was a game that I really was interested in watching, but the sound was so low that I couldn't discern anything over the sound of Georgie and Sommers sucking face to my right and Kicks, Hank, and Jay sharing and laughing at rude jokes to my left.