Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

I move up to my ball again, and try to remember the lessons my friends taught me. This time I do better, and the ball almost reaches the marker at one hundred and sixty yards.

I watch Cadillac Guy take another swing. He must come out here several times a week.

He watches his ball sail down the range. After it lands, he glances over his shoulder and catches me looking at him.

“Sorry,” I say. I’m not. This is exactly what I wanted to happen. “It’s just…you really know what you’re doing.”

He smirks. “Years of practice.” It’s a humble brag. He’s good and he knows it, and he wants everyone else to know it, too.

“That’s what people tell me.” I step up and prepare to take another shot.

Cadillac Guy grabs a ball from his basket and puts it on his tee, but I can sense him glancing in my direction.

I pull back my club and let it swing. This ball would have bettered my last by at least ten yards if it didn’t take a left hook halfway into its flight.

“You’re taking your eye off the ball,” Cadillac Guy says.

“Am I?”

“Among other things.”

I laugh. “Maybe I should just give up.”

“If it’s that easy to do, then maybe you should.”

“Nah. As bad as I am, I love it too much.”

“Then don’t take your eye off the ball.”

For the next several minutes we take our swings in silence. He’s right. I was taking my eye off the ball. My shots are flying much straighter now and I’m actually enjoying myself.

When Cadillac Guy reaches the last few balls in his basket, Paul runs over and says, “Another, Mr. Lyman?”

Without looking at him, Cadillac Guy—Lyman—pulls out a ball and says, “No more.”

“Got it,” Paul says and jogs away.

I get off five more shots before Lyman finishes his basket. With nothing left to hit, he shoves his club into his bag, wipes his hands on a towel hanging from the strap, and pulls out a bottle of water, which he drinks halfway down in a single swig.

As he starts to pull his bag over his shoulder, I say, “Thanks for the tip.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Hey, can I ask—where do you play around here?”

He looks at me, eyes narrowing, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You not from around here?”

“Just moved. This is the first chance I’ve had to get out and swing a club. I’m Matthew, by the way.”

He takes a beat before saying, “Robert.”

“Nice to meet you, Robert.”

He returns the sentiment with a nod, then says, “The county course is the closest. It’s across the river, south of town. But if you want to play something more challenging, Finch Lake is the place. It’s about fifty miles west. You can google it.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Another nod and he’s off without a goodbye, as if I should feel lucky that he thought me worthy enough to speak to at all.

Chuckie’s friend is another asshole? Shocking. Shocking, I say.

I pull out my phone to text Jar his name. Only there’s a message from her waiting for me. She’s already learned his name from his car’s license plate.

To think I wasted all that charm on him when I could have just been concentrating on my form.

I hit my way through the two additional baskets I paid for, and then I head back.

It’s Sunday evening, and the Prices’ normally silent dinnertime is anything but.

The moment Kate sets the main course on the table, Chuckie snarls, his head twisting to the side as if he’s smelled something bad.

“What the hell is that?” he asks.

“Butter chicken,” Kate replies.

“Butter chicken?” He’s apparently never heard the words used together before.

“Is-is there something wrong with it?” She looks at the serving dish, truly confused.

“It stinks.”

“Those are just the spices. It’s Indian. From India. I got the recipe from Angie. I thought we could try it out.”

“What the hell, Kate? You seriously expect me to eat some messed up chicken from a Third World country?”

“I’m sorry. I-I can make something else.”

She reaches for the dish but Chuckie waves her arms away. “And wait another hour? I’m hungry now.” He pokes the casserole with his fork. “I’ll force this crap down. But I don’t want to see this again. Ever. Understand?”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I was just trying something new.”

Emphasizing each word, he says, “Do you understand?”

“Yes. We won’t have it again.”

“We’d better not.” He serves a helping onto his plate, scoops some onto his fork, and lifts it toward his mouth.

“It smells good to me,” Sawyer says, his voice just above a whisper. “Can I have some?”

Chuckie whips his head around, the bite still on his fork. “What did you say?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Kate says quickly.

“The hell he didn’t.”

“He’s only talking about himself, not you. It’s all right.” It’s clear she’s spent years trying to maintain the peace. You can both read it on her face and hear it in her voice.

“You think I don’t know when something smells bad?” Chuckie asks Sawyer.

“I don’t understand,” Sawyer says.

“You implied I was wrong. Am I?”

Sawyer stares at his dad for a moment, then looks at his mom. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Kate says. “It’s just a misunder—”

Chuckie’s eyes shift to his wife. “Oh, so you’re saying I don’t understand my own son, is that it?”

Sawyer sniffles, water gathering in his eyes. “Please don’t yell.”

“This is my house,” Chuckie says. “I’ll yell if I want to.”

The boy can no longer hold back the tears.

“Stop that,” Chuckie said. “Stop that right now.”

This only serves to make Sawyer cry harder. Kate gets out of her seat to comfort him.

Glaring at her, Chuckie says, “Don’t you coddle—”

“Leave him alone!” Evan cuts him off.

Chuckie shoots his gaze to his oldest son. “What did you say?”

From the fear on Evan’s face, I have a feeling standing up to his father is not something he does often, but he doesn’t back down. “I said leave him alone.”

Chuckie stares at him, anger