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

every orifice like they were the fifteenth Dalai Lama. Since they didn’t actually do anything, they constantly justified their existence with trite advice and intense scrutiny.

“Does she really need a coach?” I asked. “I mean, how complex is shooting an arrow, really? Strategy?”

I could feel Junior doing his thing, staring at me as that thoughtful stillness engulfed us. Finally, he said, “You don’t respect my sport?”

“I thought cycling was your sport.”

“So’s this. Do you play a sport?”

“Darts.”

“Darts? Not a sport.”

“What’s the difference between archery and darts? They’re virtually the same in every way.”

“Archery is outdoors.”

“That makes it a sport?” I asked incredulously.

“Yup. Sometimes you have to track something or move on terrain or even run and shoot. Some people do archery competition while skiing. They ever do that with darts?”

“Okay, granted. But what’s the difference between target archery like this,” I gestured at the people shooting at round, stationary targets, “and darts? You really think being outside is the distinguishing factor?”

“Dude, it matters. It definitely hurts darts that the only place it’s played is in a bar, usually by people holding a drink.”

I had no comeback for that. In fact, I wasn’t even sure why I was arguing at this point since I didn’t think either of them were sports. Well, maybe the one on skis or if you were chasing deer through the brush like Davy Crockett.

Isabelle had stopped shooting. She and her uncle were engaged in a heated discussion. She flung her bow down and stomped away, her locks whipping back from her face as the wind picked up and some dark clouds rolled in. In the distance, lightning flashed.

Harold appeared, solo once again. “What you guys finding out?”

“Nothing,” Junior said sullenly. “Boise’s got the hots for Isabelle.”

“Where is she?” Harold asked.

Junior pointed out the main entrance to the driveway beyond. Her uncle picked up the bow and wiped it off. Then he nocked an arrow and shot it, straight and true.

“The guy’s got great form, even if he is an asshole,” Harold said. “So relaxed, like nothing could shake him.” He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s why competition’s the real test. Guy couldn’t hold his shit together when the pressure was on. See it all the time.”

“Go challenge him,” I said.

“Ha! Me?”

Junior and I waited and stared.

“That’d be fun to see, uncle.”

“Yeah, uncle,” I repeated playfully. “Show us how this sport is done.”

Harold looked around like a wallflower nervous about asking the prettiest girl in the room to dance. He acted so in control, but that was when things were on his terms.

Suddenly, Junior hollered out, “Hey, Jermaine!” Isabelle’s uncle jerked his head and locked eyes with Junior, who pointed at Harold. “My uncle wants to challenge you. Three shots. Best total from seventy.”

A jackal’s smirk appeared on Jermaine’s dark face. He hollered back, “How much?”

Harold didn’t look happy. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Fifty,” I yelled, joining the fray.

“Make it one-hundred,” Jermaine retorted.

“Done. Let’s do it,” Junior said, a jubilant grin breaking across his face.

Isabelle returned a few minutes later, no doubt after someone informed her of the contest. She marched up to Junior and me.

“What is your problem? You know my uncle shouldn’t be doing this. He has high blood pressure.”

“And a temper,” Junior snickered. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“You don’t have to live with him. He hates to lose.”

She stomped over to her grinning uncle and tapped him pointedly on the shoulder. He was now having fun, she the stone-faced coach.

As Harold walked by, he threw us an annoyed glance. “I haven’t even shot today. You guys are fucking stupid.”

Harold asked for twenty practice shots.

“I don’t think so,” Jermaine intoned. “These,” he looked Junior and me up and down, “boys said you were ready to compete. Let’s do this.”

“Come on, give him the practice. You’ve been here all day,” I said.

A flash of anger crossed the thin man’s countenance then vanished. “Fine. No Bacon excuses today.” The smirk reappeared. I could picture the man biting the head off a cat as he feasted on a fresh kill.

I wandered over to Harold as he finished his last practice shot. “You know, Harold, it would be really great if you busted this guy’s marbles.”

“Oh, yeah? How come that’s suddenly my job, man?”

“Look, just relax and shoot like I know you can. You got this guy.” I clapped him on the back.

Harold pursed his lips like he was ready to say something, then he shook his head and pushed me aside as he took his spot next to Jermaine.

“What the hell are you guys up to?” Isabelle hissed at me as the men lined up. “Is there something more going on here?”

“Friendly competition. I like your hair,” I said.

“My uncle doesn’t need this shit. Boise, you seemed like a nice guy, but you’re just like all of them. No one understands him. He’s socially awkward.”

“Your uncle competed, right? He trains you to compete. He must have an understanding. What’s so bad?”

She looked off at the approaching rain clouds. “It’s hard keeping him focused.”

I was confused. Every time I watched them together, the guy seemed to have laser focus.

“On what?” I asked.

“Me,” she said.

With that, she went into the shop and plopped down on a cushioned chair to pout. I could see her through the plate-glass windows. The jackal had stolen the peacock’s limelight.

An angry yell brought me back around to the match.

“What! What did you say?” It was Jermaine.

“Not feelin’ it, man. We’re not doing this.” Harold had his bow and arrows stowed. He was walking in my direction.

“You get back here this instant!” Jermaine was talking to Harold like he was an obnoxious teen. Harold ignored him and kept walking. “Bacon!”

As Harold approached my position, he smirked at me, then whispered, “You wanted him off his game.”

Jermaine threw down his bow and started toward us. I stepped between them.

“Jermaine, is it? I’m Boise.” I stuck out my hand. “Pleased to ... ”

He shoved me aside. The man was stronger than he looked. Harold was about to open