"Carrie Richerson - Sous La Mer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Carrie)

on the back of some great live thing sunning itself and bobbing gently in the
embrace of mother ocean.

The sight at the end of one of the side piers burst my reverie. A deep-sea
fishing charter had just returned to port, and the triumphant client was posing
for pictures beside his catch, a blacktip shark fully as tall as he was. The
dead thing hung suspended on a huge hook through the tail muscle; a black cloud
of flies buzzed about its bloody maw where the teeth had been cut out for
souvenirs. The fisherman swilled beer, loudly related his prey's fierce
struggle, and showed off a vicious scratch on his arm received while landing the
frenzied shark.

I felt sick, and turned away. By the time I made my way back to Suzanne and
Allan I had regained my composure. I leaned against a rafting and watched the
two of them. It was clear that Allan thought he had made a conquest. He squatted
beside Suzanne's wheelchair and helped her throw tidbits to the acrobatic gulls.

"Some of my friends go to USM -- up in Hattiesburg, you know? Anyway, I told
them about you, how well you sing. They said the student entertainment committee
is always looking for singers to perform on campus. Why don't you give them a
call? My friends sure want to hear you."

Suzanne shook her head. Pointing to the gulls overhead, she said, "Hattiesburg
is too far for my friends." She and I traded a private smile. From the comer of
my eye I saw frustration flicker over Allan's face. My smile grew wider.

Allan tried to recover lost ground with an invitation to dinner. I willed
Suzanne to decline, but she accepted with delight. They flirted like
schoolchildren throughout the meal, laughing and touching hands, matching each
other glass for glass as they worked their way through two bottles of wine. When
I refused a refill after my first glass, Suzanne shot me an exasperated look,
but I ignored it. My hard-drinking youth ended on a patch of moon-drenched
highway, to the sound of Suzanne's screams. These days I practice restraint.

At the end of the evening Allan lifted Suzanne out of her wheelchair and placed
her in the car himself. For a moment she nestled her head against his chest.
Hormones tingled in the air, and I wondered if they would drive off and leave me
standing on the curb.

He didn't kiss her. Not yet. I beckoned him to join me at the rear bumper after
Suzanne and he had said their farewells and he had shut the car door. He was
flushed, prickly with the heat of his triumph, wary of my calm.

"Stay away from my sister, Allan." There was a harsh edge to my voice, but I
didn't care what he thought.

My lack of subtlety surprised him. Then the testosterone kicked in, and he
leaned over me. "You don't control her, man! I'll see Suzanne if she wants me to
-- and she does. You can't stop us!"