Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,88

crowded and smelled strongly of beer and lime and the mouthwatering scent of grilled beef. There were no empty tables but a few people were leaving the bar and we were able to grab four stools in a row. I made sure to sit next to Oliver, my safety blanket. I’d had nothing to eat since lunch and quickly ordered a burger, as did Oliver, and Adam and Wyatt ordered Moscow mules, which arrived in copper mugs. Oliver ordered a beer and I asked for a Coke. Above the bar, TV screens were showing a repeat of today’s World Cup game, which apparently had taken place in Moscow, and the crowd in the pub seemed to find that fact uproariously funny as they toasted with their copper mugs.

The place was too loud for conversation, and that was fine with me. Adam and Wyatt seemed to know nearly everyone. I felt uncomfortable with the noise and the crush of people, many of them banging into us as they walked past. Even when I drank, it hadn’t been in a place like this. First of all, I’d been barely old enough to go to a bar by the time I was locked up, so when I drank, it was at parties with people I knew, people I’d cared about. People I would probably never, ever see again.

I kept my gaze on the TV as I ate. Trey had loved soccer and I followed the game easily. I felt proud of myself: I was watching a game that made me think of Trey and it wasn’t bothering me, and although I was surrounded by booze, I was happy to simply enjoy my burger and Coke. It felt like a test, sitting there at the bar, and I was acing it.

Oliver and I had a shouted discussion about what was happening on the soccer field—it was clear he wasn’t much of a fan—but we soon gave up and focused on our food. On my other side, a couple of women stood talking to Adam and Wyatt. I couldn’t understand a word they said, but I could easily make out the conversation’s flirtatious tone.

I’d nearly finished my burger when there was a sudden escalation in the noise behind me. Then male voices, shouting. I looked at the TV. Nothing special happening in the game to merit the clamor.

“Oh, shit, here they go again,” Adam shouted in my ear as he pointed over his shoulder.

I turned around to see a couple of men exchanging blows directly behind us. I rolled my eyes. Idiots. The two women standing next to Adam and Wyatt started yelling, holding their drinks in the air to ward off any wild blows from the dueling men. I wanted to leave. I reached into my purse and took a twenty from my wallet. Placed it on the counter next to my plate.

Oliver set his own bills on the bar and leaned toward my ear. “We’re out of here,” he said, starting to get up. Just then, the idiotic man closest to me tossed his drink at one of the others, and I jumped from my stool, trying to get my ankle and its monitor out of harm’s way. I moved too quickly. The stool toppled over behind me, catching my right ankle—the one without the monitor—in one of the rungs, twisting it hard enough to make me scream as I fell to the floor. The men never stopped fighting. They were so damn drunk. God, I hate drunks, I thought. Wyatt and Oliver were instantly next to me on the floor, helping me up, while Adam extracted my foot from the rungs of the stool. All three of them were talking to me, but I couldn’t hear a word they said for the cacophony.

Once I was on my feet, Oliver took my hand and cleared a path for us through the sea of revelers, leaving Adam and Wyatt behind. I kept up with him, hoping against hope that my monitor was clean and dry.

Outside, I felt a welcome blanket of thick midsummer-night air wrap around me, the craziness inside the bar nothing more than a hum now.

“What a zoo!” Oliver said, and I could see him shake his head in the light from the streetlight. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I bent over and lifted the leg of my jeans to see if my monitor was unscathed, but it was too dark to tell. Bending like that, though, I suddenly became aware of pain