Winding Down.

Setting down the empty bottle of root beer on the bar counter, I released a relaxed sigh. One when you know you're going to relax for a while, also knowing you would have to work the next day, but still that time which is completely yours.

I shifted slightly on the seat, it was a bit uncomfortable for someone my size, but I was going to grab a seat at the table soon anyways. My friend was going to arrive soon and it had been quite a while since we'd had some outing like this.

And this was one of our frequent spots. They served great booze, as many claim, great food to go along, which I agree to, but the best was their craft beers. I wasn't sold on the idea of ****, given the fact my dead father was always glued to the bottle. Except it was gang business. Nope, it was serious business, after all.

Welcome to the wonderful lands of childhood trauma! I snorted to myself.

"How goes your sleuthing, Jake?" asked Jill, the bartender and owner of The Crooked Spoon. It was amusing and yet an odd name for their establishment.

As usual, he was going to tease me about my work. Nothing malicious, but he'd been a little perplexed when I'd opened up my PI business in this town rather than the neighboring city. I had my reasons not basing in the city, but he didn't need to know that. Besides a little banter does me good, occasionally.

Hmm, I need a preemptive strike.

"It goes well, Jillian." I said, stressing his name. As expected his face scrunched up at that. He really didn't like his name.

"Come on, don't say that here! Regular patrons are one thing, I don't need tourists calling me that!" he huffed, though a resigned look of amusement was in his eyes.

"Why Jillian, I'd say you were embarassed about your name." I continued, mercilessly.

He groaned, his hands polishing the glass, faltering and facepalmed.

"Oh Jake," a voice called out, teasingly, "Don't tease the poor man."

I turned to look, a grin already splitting my face. My friend had arrived.