Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“Jealous? Ha! Mi son, I ain’t jealous nobody. Out!” She shooed me, scraping my skin with her fingernail.

“What time do you work tomorrow?” I really was never this persistent.

“Five.”

“Five. Then what’s a little more time out with a friend. I bet you’ve known me almost as long as anyone. We go back, what twenty-three years?”

She bit her lower lip, then said, “You really are cute, just like your old man. But you look like you ten. You got some other habits from him too.”

“Oh please, you serve the shit, don’t start.”

“I do, so I won’t. You right. I even drink my share. But Terry, he could put it away.”

“Don’t say his name. Between you and that asshole at the bar, that’s two mentions in one day.”

She muttered something indecipherable.

“What?”

“Nothing. I have to get up at seven and take my little brother to school. My mom has a doctor’s appointment. You happy now? You have to know.”

Chapter 28

Harold, Junior and I arrived at the archery range at ten the next morning.

“What’s that smell?” Harold asked, getting out of the car on the still damp dirt. “One of you dudes fart or something?” He waved his hand in front of his nose. Sometimes I wondered how old Harold was.

I sniffed the shirt I’d slept in. Yup, I stunk. “Dunno,” I muttered, “don’t smell anything, but I’m not much sensitive to smell.”

“Me neither. You live in a dorm, you learn to breathe out a lot,” Junior said.

Junior’s red face was peeling, and he rubbed at his skin. A thin, sugary snow drifted to the ground.

“Maybe your skin’s rotting,” Harold said, grabbing Junior in a playful headlock and knuckling his scalp.

The guy was a fun uncle. Driving a Rav-4, rough-housing, I always wished someone had done that with me. My father’s version of roughhousing wasn’t fun. He’d try, but in his drunken anger, he’d always wind up hitting me for real before long. In general, I avoided contact. Handshaking was one of the physical ways of connecting I had painstakingly worked on over the years. It was a safe zone; a connection with little danger.

Inside the seven-foot-tall walls that resembled a medieval castle, the outdoor archery field looked like it had been freshly mowed the day before. Harold clapped everyone he met on the back and was greeted warmly. We rode his coattails. Junior was more like me, formal but awkward. He’d get better over the years. At least, that was my hope for him.

After the meeting and greeting and grabbing a beer each from the adjacent indoor shop and lounge area, we went back out to the range. There were a few familiar faces amongst others I didn’t recognize. One face eluded me. Gilroy’s accomplice.

The flirt came up, waving an arrow around.

“You back,” she said to me. She didn’t wait for my response before whapping Harold playfully on his ass with the arrow. “Hey, love. Where you been?”

Harold leaned in, loving the attention. “Nowhere and everywhere, baby.” These two were made for each other.

Scanning the rest of the shooters and their companions, I found no one that resembled the man who’d met with Gilroy the day before.

“Hey, Harold.”

Harold was whispering something in her ear. Whatever he said made her open her mouth in a large “O” and slap him lightly on his shoulder. Two slaps so far, arrow and hand. Harold took her wrist, and they headed into a small grove of banana trees in the corner of the large yard.

Continuing to survey the scene, Junior tapped me on the shoulder.

“That who you’re looking for?”

It took me a moment to spot Isabelle sauntering out of a door to my left. Her distinctive hair had changed color since last we met. Today, it was a very tasteful purple and black combo.

“Where’s that she’s coming from?” I asked.

“Members call it the smoking room. A lot of the guys smoke cigars in them high-backed chairs you see in rich dude studies with buttons and paisley patterns. They got lots of bookshelves with books about archery. It’s kinda pretentious you ask me.”

Isabelle moved past us, eyes distant. Moments later, the man Gilroy had met at Duffy’s the day before also emerged from the smoking room. I knew the guy looked familiar yesterday, but with the goggles, hat, and loose-fitting clothing, coupled with my having never seen him outside this archery range, he’d managed to fool me.

“Clever,” I muttered to myself.

“Sorry?” Junior said.

“That’s her uncle and coach, right?”

“Yup, he’s everything.”

“Name?”

“Jermaine.”

The man ignored Junior and me, although he passed within two feet, close enough for me to dial in on his thinly shaved beard and the faint scent of metal. Today he wore tight-fitting athletic-ware and nothing on his eyes. The eyes were the giveaway. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Isabelle’s coach-slash-uncle was involved. Jermaine. His features were burned into my memory.

“What’s that guy’s story?” I asked without taking my eyes off the stern-faced man. He pointed at the target, punched a stop-watch and she commenced shooting again. Like some kind of archer machine-gun turning right then back to the front over and over.

“He was a champion-level dude way back they say, but his temper got the best of him. In one competition, after he lost a lead, he took his quiver and broke every arrow. The ref wouldn’t let him borrow arrows, so he was d-qued. He was the favorite to win the Pan Am Games that year. He never competed again. Now he trains her like she’s his second chance. I shudder to think what he’d do if she quit or fucked up, you know?”

“Sounds like a prince.”

The man had the focus of a cat tracking a bird. Every movement noted for improvement later, or maybe so he could justify his coaching position and take credit for her skill.

Personal trainers and coaches were mostly bullshit. In California these leeches infested public spaces. Bro-dudes seemed to be everywhere, puffing their chests and spouting new-agey crap about positivity from