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

Four more beers. Darts and pool. Irene played pool like a fish swims. At five dollars a game, my wallet was taking more of a hit than I could afford. I asked if I could get it back playing darts, she said no chance. She remembered how good I was, even as a kid, and wanted no part of that. When hanging out in a bar there were only a few things for a kid to do: play darts, play pool, or play one of the video games. My parents wouldn’t spend money on video games and I was too short to play pool, so darts occupied hours of my time every day.

She offered me a ride home. I slurred my acceptance. Irene didn’t go in for perfume. She didn’t need it. Her scent was a combination of strawberries and sage. She’d always smelled like that. Her sitting on the edge of my bed reading a Hardy Boys book aloud as I dozed off. I’d peek out under my drooping eyelids at her brown cheeks and the swell of her breasts. In my dreams we kissed lightly, like I’d seen in censored movies shot through a filter.

“Aye, Boise! We here.”

The West Indian Manner loomed over us from the top of the hill. The black fence, spiked with arrow-like tips flashed me back to Kendal’s bleeding chest. The romance was dead and I was fading fast.

As I stumbled out of her car, she said something indecipherable. Gripping the railing, I pulled myself up the first set of stairs, then I lost my verve, but I held myself steady until her taillights disappeared at the end of the street. At the base of the first palm tree in the yard, I passed out.

Chapter 29

Ahard slap shot me out of my stupor. It was still dark. Two people had me by the arms. Fingernails dug into the fleshy skin above my elbow as they led me down The Manner’s steps and shoved me into the back of an idling car. My head bumped the edge of the roof on the way in, adding to my already considerable alcohol-headache.

One of them got into the backseat with me, ramming me to one side.

“Wha ... ” I muttered.

“Shut up!” my seat-mate growled. I tugged feebly at the door-release, but the child-lock was engaged.

A hand gripped my hair hard and pinned my cheek against the glass of the car’s window.

“Ow!” I moaned.

My mouth tasted horrible. I hadn’t brushed my teeth for almost twenty-four hours. They probably weren’t going give me any floss no matter how nicely I asked.

“I say ‘shut up’ or you get some of dis.” The whites of Jermaine’s eyes glowed at me in the semi-darkenss.

Three inches from my eye he held my raven-colored can of pepper spray. He loosened his grip slightly, and I nodded. It wasn’t a gun, but if you’ve ever had a dose of pepper spray in your eyes, you’d understand my compliance. It wouldn’t kill you, but you’d wish you were dead for a while.

He let go and slid to the other side of the seat. The driver glared at me in the rearview mirror for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. Gilroy Antsy.

Outside the windshield the vegetation trembled in the mounting gusts of wind. Stars beamed down from the clear sky, but the wind acted as if a storm were brewing.

The man next to me was exactly who you’d expect. Jermaine the Jackal. So many questions. I couldn’t help it. My mouth sometimes had a mind of its own.

“You killed Francine?”

No hesitation. Jermaine sprayed me, directly in the face. I squealed. The sound reverberated, bouncing around the car. My breath hitched in and out as burning, stinging, searing pain racked me. My eyes watered. I clawed the seat. I wanted to rip the skin off my face and scoop out my eyes. Anything to make it stop. Curled into the fetal position, I slipped to the floor behind the driver’s seat and moaned.

“I told ya to shut up!” Jermaine hissed. “Now you in pain, little man. Why we can’t just kill he?”

“I told you why. Stop asking to kill everyone. This why we in this mess! Because you got to kill.”

“You shut your mouth!” Jermaine leaned forward.

“I’m driving the car, you want to crash? Keep cool, man. Cool.”

Through the tears and pain, I heard the seat groan as Jermaine reclined and sighed. The acidic stinging wouldn’t stop. I keened and keened, praying for relief. Jermaine pulled me up onto the seat and pried my quaking hands away from my face.

He laughed and laughed and laughed. Every time I moaned or whimpered, he laughed, his rancid breath bathing my face. After an eternity, the agony went from ten to eight. Tears flowed still, but I was able to bring my attention to bear on the situation. No way to open my eyes. They teared relentlessly. These men hadn’t nabbed me for a bachelor party at Frenchman’s Reef.

“Where’re you taking me?” I snorted. My question probably wasn’t decipherable outside my head. Mucus dribbled down my chin. I hacked phlegm. As the pain diminished, exhaustion took its place.

“What you say? What’s he saying?” Gilroy seemed genuinely interested.

“I dunno.” Jermaine leaned close to my ear and yelled, “What?”

Even my eardrums were sensitive. The nausea began in my toes and crawled its way up my legs until it erupted in my stomach. Vomit spewed. I was happy to let it out all over Jermaine’s loafers.

The man started vibrating. He kicked me away as an endless stream of brown liquid and pizza plastered the carpet.

Luckily, it was my vomit, and I couldn’t smell anything. The car swerved to the shoulder and shuddered to a halt as red dust billowed in the faint half-moonlight.

I was sprawled across the backseat, my face planted in the leather, moaning, writhing. My feet pistoned into the door frame as if trying to run from the