The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (39 page)

“Oh my god…”

“What?” John tried to turn around to see what she was looking at, but she clutched his forearm with an iron grip.

She partially shielded her mouth with the pretense of fixing her overlong bangs. “Don’t turn around. Just act natural. Look at me.”

He frowned at her and watched a brittle grin crack over her face. Not even close to natural.

He strained his eyes as far as he could to the side, hoping for some hint of what lay behind him. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

Candy clawed his arm tighter, her fingernails nearly piercing flesh. “Shhhh!”

John stared at the table—he couldn’t bear to see the anxiety etched in Candy’s face—as seconds ticked by. Finally, her grip loosened and she leaned in to whisper, “Okay, she’s looking the other way. Turn around slowly and look at Charlotte Finley’s feet.”

“Her feet?” It was the last thing he expected to hear, but he did as he was told. He found her easily; she was the only person dressed in anything but solid black. Her black and white harlequin patterned dress shouted through the mournful gathering. John’s eyes fell to her feet. “Oh fuck.”

Charlotte was standing with her back to the kitchen, nodding at something Grandma Pearl was saying. Her long ponytail swayed back and forth with sympathy, one hand reaching out to console a shoulder. And on her feet were Lindsay’s black satin shoes—shoes last seen in Antonio’s death grip.

§

Steph tossed her car keys into a wooden bowl on the side table and closed her front door, exhausted. She had stayed up late the night before, preparing a tuna casserole for Pearl, then woke up early that morning to make apple cinnamon muffins for Joe’s funeral reception. Afterwards, she’d lingered late at the Robinson’s to help clean up, to boot.

“You girls want some dinner?” She groaned at the thought of more cooking, but she could whip up some chili mac in a jiffy. When she turned a tired face in the direction of her daughter’s room, however, Amanda and Lindsay had already disappeared inside and closed the door.

She sighed hard, pausing in the act of hanging up her purse, then followed their rude departure instead. “Enough is enough,” she muttered, starting down the hallway before even kicking her shoes off her sore feet.

Amanda and Lindsay had been inseparable since they heard about that train accident. That would’ve been understandable, since a fellow Bobcatt had been horribly killed. And everyone in town was feeling strange about that awful rumor of a Satanic ritual…well, Steph didn’t like to think about that part. But constant locked doors and meal refusals were starting to drive her batty. She had a mind to stop it right then and there.
We’re all mourning for Pete’s sake.

She stopped outside Amanda’s door, about to knock, when she heard snippets of one half of a phone conversation. Figuring she might nibble a crumb or two of information from her highly secretive daughter, she decided to listen instead. Steph pressed her ear to the door.

“…sure as hell did. What was that supposed to be, a threat, Tyler? We want those shoes back.”

Lindsay snuffled in agreement.

“I already told you I sent my dad in the other direction. Didn’t you see the paper this morning? Or do you even read?”

Lindsay whimpered through a half-hearted laugh, her voice shaky.

“I can’t out and out accuse anybody, and you know why—”

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

Oh, fiddlesticks!
Steph clapped her hand over her purse to quiet her cellphone and hurried away from the door grasping at her chest. She was beginning to reconsider using the “Hallelujah Chorus” as her new ringtone, no matter how excited she was about Christmas. It startled the dickens out of her every time.

As soon as she was out of earshot, she answered the call, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Jameson, please.”

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Ricky Mendez, from The Kitchen?”

The Kitchen? Oh, that’s right.
Steph chuckled at Jamie’s new name for the restaurant. “Well, hi there, Ricky. What can I help you with?”

Ricky cleared his throat and seemed to shuffle through papers. “We’ve been asked to clear a few things from the schedule, and…” There was a click interrupting his voice, “I’m sorry, could you hold for one moment?”

“Sure,” she said, annoyed. Why was the stock boy calling her, and who was he to make her wait on the line? She hung up her purse and put her shoes in the closet, then stood waiting with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“We need to cancel your breakfast that you scheduled for December, Mrs. Jameson.”

Steph’s mouth fell open. “Pancakes With Santa? Why?”

Pancakes With Santa was the kick-off event for the Christmas season. She hosted it every year since she could remember, on the Saturday morning right after Thanksgiving. It was one of Steph’s favorite holiday parties—she had the most adorable fur-lined, green velvet elf dress that she wore with candy-cane tights.

“She said to take it off the calendar,” said Ricky, unapologetic.

“But it’s over a month away,” whined Steph—she couldn’t help it. Was it because Pearl felt a festive event would be inappropriate, so soon after her husband’s death? Joe had played Santa once or twice, but lots of other grandpas in town took turns. And Jamie had been running Big Joe’s for months. “Pearl wouldn’t have to be involved at all. I’ll take care of everything, like I always do.”

“Mrs. Robinson wasn’t the one who canceled it.”

“Oh. Jamie did?”
I thought he said ‘she’ wanted it off the calendar.

“No, Mrs. Walsh.”

Steph blinked in stunned silence for several beats, then found a chair and sat down. “Mieke Walsh?”

“Yeah, the new owner,” Ricky said, like it should have been obvious.

“Of…the restaurant?” Steph spluttered.

“Of the whole compound.”

keep reading

Remember Stephanie Jameson’s reservations about her son’s date to the Homecoming Dance? She thought Meg Shannon was pretty, in a strange way, and seemed nice enough (though a little on the dumb side), but not even Steph could’ve ignored the rumors about her loose nature. The poor thing didn’t have much going for her; she lived in the Southern Cove trailer park with a dozen raggedy step- and half-siblings, and a hard-working, but usually absent, mother. No father. People snickered that Meg would sleep with almost anyone to spend the night away from her own filthy, overrun trailer home. Everyone would know, of course, why Tristan had invited the girl to the dance.

But Steph doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. Meet the real Meg Shannon in my new serial novel, Catchpenny...

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Sarah Wathen

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Sarah Wathen

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keep reading

Remember Stephanie Jameson’s reservations about her son’s date to the Homecoming Dance? She thought Meg Shannon was pretty, in a strange way, and seemed nice enough (though a little on the dumb side), but not even Steph could’ve ignored the rumors about her loose nature. The poor thing didn’t have much going for her; she lived in the Southern Cove trailer park with a dozen raggedy step- and half-siblings, and a hard-working, but usually absent, mother. No father. People snickered that Meg would sleep with almost anyone to spend the night away from her own filthy, overrun trailer home. Everyone would know, of course, why Tristan had invited the girl to the dance.

But Steph doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. Meet the real Meg Shannon in my new serial novel, Catchpenny...

catchpenny
chapter one

I stepped off the school bus, my brain still foggy and my eyes still sleepy. But when I saw the janitor re-painting my locker again, my early morning funk was slapped right off my face. Someone must have used spray paint that time, or maybe a permanent marker—not so easily cleaned as lipstick or a simple splatter of oozing garbage. My eyes scanned the lockers on either side of mine, all faded and chipped orange paint, while mine was a bright beacon of fresh lacquer. I wondered what graffiti Henry had seen that morning on his 5 a.m. arrival to campus. Maybe just a word: “slut.” Maybe something more creative, like the enormous penis, complete with pubic hair and a little squirt coming from the tip, that had been drawn on my locker door a few weeks ago. Luckily, most sharpie-wielding dipshits at my high school weren’t so clever. Clever was remembered better.

It looked like Henry was almost finished covering whatever new allusion to my reputation had been left for me to find. I didn’t need to guess whether or not anyone else saw the graffiti before it had been painted over—darting eyes and stifled giggles nearby told me they had. Thankful that I already had the book I needed, I changed direction, and headed for my first period class instead of my locker.

How did people even get into the school at night? I walked to class, keeping my gaze focused straight ahead and my face expressionless. Who had I newly pissed off—and how? Whose boyfriend had been caught with his eyes glued to my ass as I passed? Or, maybe a jealous underclassman brat hadn’t developed quite as well as I had yet? I had been the first girl to grow breasts in grade school, years ago, and it hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice, no matter how baggy the shirt I wore was. Those babies just kept growing over the years, while the rest of me stretched out tall and lean. Most guys can’t help but stare, and most girls hate me for it.

But I don’t wear baggy shirts anymore. I pushed my shoulders back and straightened my spine, the shock and embarrassment of morning graffiti already wearing off. It never took long to remember who I was, and shrug off the ridicule of who people thought I was. Who they needed me to be. I readjusted my backpack and fluffed my hair. Screw them.

A pair of eyes locked onto mine. Tristan Jameson, Andrew Jackson’s star quarterback, was walking down the hallway in my direction, staring at me. He was holding the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, the other hand in the pocket of his jeans, strolling slowly with a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Hi,” he said in a low voice as he passed, so close we almost bumped shoulders.

“Hi.” I glanced back. He was looking back at me.

“Watch it!”

“Oh, sorry.” I stopped short just before slamming into the oncoming student traffic. Several girls were walking together like a wall of bodies, chatting and laughing. I shot my elbows in front of me for protection, and accidentally toppled the books from one of the girl’s hands.

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” She stooped down to gather her things, tugging the hem of her miniskirt down and muttering under her breath.

“Here. Sorry.” She snatched the book I held out for her and pushed past me with a scowl, running to catch up with the herd.

“Why don’t you get a backpack?” I mumbled, watching her bustle away in the direction Tristan had been headed. He was already gone.

§

I sat on my favorite table in the outdoor courtyard, my feet propped on the back of a conjoined concrete bench. The yard was all brick and concrete, with a lone tree springing up from the center, a square space open to the sky where four school buildings met. The tables were mostly empty, with only a few guys loitering by the doors to the cafeteria. The cafeteria was where the bulk of the student body preferred to eat. I prefer solitude. I leaned back on my hands and closed my eyes, knowing that extending my tan was hopeless. I let the late morning sun warm my shoulders and face, soaking it in with greed. It was the last of the summer heat, the days already shortening and the shadows lengthening into autumn.

A burst of laughter erupted nearby as a group of girls swarmed around one of the empty tables, flinging their purses and book bags on top, and my moment of peace vanished. I opened up Tolstoy’s
Anna Karenina
, the pages blue after letting my closed eyes bake in the sun. I had been slogging through the book for days, and I thought once again about seeing the movie before I finished. I hate that seeing a movie changes the way a character looks in my mind, but I detest how much a movie stinks after I’ve already read the book. I thumbed a few pages forward to see where the chapter ended, not really in the mood for reading, but always more comfortable to have a book in hand at lunchtime.

“Meg?”

I gasped. He was standing just behind me, his head cocked to one side, looking over my shoulder at the Tolstoy.

“Hi, I’m Tristan.”

He was squinting into the sun, and it was hard to tell if he was smiling or frowning.

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

He shaded his eyes and laughed. Didn’t everyone know who he was? He was on the billboard in front of the football field, for god’s sake, his arm cocked back to throw a winning pass.
Go Bobcatts!

“What are you reading?” His voice was soft and curious, and he squinted to read the pages I held open in my lap.

“Uh…” I stammered. The sun shone through his light irises like glass, shocking against his dark hair. His black polo shirt was gathered loosely around one hip, the hand in his pocket pushing it up casually over the waistband of his jeans. A slice of flesh was made visible. He stood in perfect contrapposto, a bookbag slung over his shoulder like Michelangelo’s David holding the slingshot. I closed my book and tossed it onto the table, pretending not to notice how his jeans hung, low and delicious on slender hips. “Just something for English Lit.”

“Man, that’s a fat book. We never have to read stuff like that in my class.”

“Aren’t you a senior, too?”

“Yeah. What English class are
you
in?”

“AP,” I shrugged.

“AP. What’s that stand for?”

“Advanced Placement.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Based on college reading lists.” I held up my “fat” book in illustration. “You take a test at the end and get college credits, depending on how well you do.”

“Oh, wow.”

I could tell he was surprised I had a brain. Most guys were. I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I held his gaze, challenging him to ask me more about books.

“How can you read out here? It’s so bright.”

Because I’d rather read a book than sit alone with no one talking to me. “I heard that people with light eyes have a harder time adjusting to bright light.”

“Really?”

He stepped closer to me, shifting his weight and putting his back to the sunlight. The color of his eyes reminded me of Halls Mentho-Lyptus cough drops after I’d sucked on one for a while and the zing got too strong to keep it in my mouth—icy blue and transparent.

“I don’t want to bother you or anything,” he said, dropping his voice lower, since we were face to face then. He smelled like soap and clean laundry, with something gritty underneath. Something undeniably male.

“No, I—” I cleared my throat. He was even better looking up close. “I’m not busy.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and the group of girls who had been watching suddenly picked up their conversation again, all of them talking at once and fumbling with their lunches. I was waiting with as much anticipation as they had been—why on earth was he talking to
me
?

“I’ll let you get back to your book, but I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure. What’s up?” Those eyes.

“Would you be my date for Homecoming this weekend?”

“Cough drop—” I spluttered.

“Huh?”

I slapped my chest and choked out a cough. “I mean…uh, the dance?”

“Yeah, the dance.”

“In five days?” It was Tuesday and the dance was Saturday. I hadn’t planned on going, for many reasons.

“Four. Depending on how you count it,” he said, a blinding smile spreading across his face. “Today’s halfway through.”

“I guess it is.”

“And Saturday would only be a half-day, since the dance is that night.” He was daring me to accept the challenge. I could never refuse a dare, especially one with such an irresistible smile attached.

“Wait. Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I wasn’t exactly buddies with anyone in the popular crowd at Andrew Jackson, nowhere close. But everyone knew that the star quarterback and the head cheerleader had been together since freshman year. Sugary sweet.

“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” That smile again, but with an undercurrent in his voice.

The neighboring table had gone silent once more, the bombshell news of Tristan’s single status freezing them all mid-prattle.

“Absolutely.” I grinned over his shoulder—a present for our shocked audience.

“Absolutely, you’ll go with me?”

Did he really think I would say no? The curiosity itself was enough for me to agree.

“Sure. Why not?” I shrugged, like it was nothing to me. Yeah, right.

“Great. Okay, lemme just get your number.” He handed me his phone and I punched my number in, wondering what kind of psychedelic rabbit hole I had accidentally wandered through. Had somebody drugged my orange juice that morning? He took his phone back and saved, whispering, “Meg…Shannon,” as he typed. “I’ll call you, so you’ll have mine.”

“I don’t have a cellphone. That’s the number at my house.”

“Oh.”

I felt my cheeks getting hot, and nothing to do with the sun. Was I the only person at school without a cellphone or something?

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, then?”

“Yeah, see ya.” I resisted the urge to bite down on my knuckles.

He winked at me and waved over his shoulder as he turned back to the courtyard entrance. His jeans looked even nicer from behind, snug around his well-shaped glutes and muscular thighs. “Bye, Meg.”

“Bye.”

I picked my book up again, refusing to gaze at his retreating form in concert with the other females. A wink—what did that mean? Maybe it was just the bright light on his Mentho-Lyptus eyes. I opened
Anna Karenina
again and pretended to concentrate for the rest of lunch. But I couldn’t read another word.

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