The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (4 page)

chapter three

Amanda Jameson clicked away from the Wicca training website when her mom breezed into her room.

“What are you doing in here alone? The Davises are here, why don’t you go out and play with Molly?”

“Mom, I think I’m a little old for ‘playing.’”

“Yeah, fifteen-years-old is ancient. You’re being rude, go get your suit on.”

“I have my suit on.”

“Well everyone’s by the pool—they’re grilling hotdogs.”

Amanda snorted.
How ironic.

She snapped her laptop closed and tossed her swim cover-up onto her bed, grinning at the pool party scene that she knew was waiting for her. Her brother Tristan had been dating the same girl for over three years and had yet to score. “Poor guy’s balls are probably about to explode,” she mumbled, walking down the hallway to the glass door leading outside. She paused long enough to watch Ashley Davis skip past Tristan, giggling, her breasts bouncing in a baggy swimsuit. Tristan reached out an arm, to grab her as she went past, but she slapped his hand away and screamed. Amanda chuckled and stepped out onto the pool deck.

“There you are. Hey, Mandy.” Ashley gave Amanda a full body hug. Tristan’s cheeks went red over her shoulder.

“Hi guys,” Amanda said, pulling back and looking the buxom senior girl over. Her full-coverage suit was surely meant to be modest, but the plain white, wet fabric was thin and showed every detail underneath.
Girlfriend’s got an impressive bush.

“Mandy, come sit by me,” Ashley’s little sister called from her lawn chair. Molly had already smothered herself in tanning oil; every square inch that was allowed to be exposed. The Davis girls’ father was extremely strict. Amanda was surprised they were even allowed to wear swimsuits at all.

She readjusted her own skimpy string bikini, flashing a smile at Tristan’s friend by the grill. “Hey, Will.”

“Hi.”

His petite blonde girlfriend scowled next to him.

“You want me to grill you a dog?” the enormous linebacker asked.

“Thanks, but I think Tristan already has a wiener grillin’.” Amanda bit her lip to keep from grinning.

“Shut up, Amanda,” her brother said, flouncing into a patio chair.

“Huh?” Will was one of the nicest guys you’d ever met, but totally clueless. The blonde rose up on tip-toe to kiss him, just about climbing onto his back in the motion. He growled and pretended to bite her neck, scooping her into his arms.

“Stop it. You animal,” she squealed, then tossed her head back to give him better access.

Tristan settled his dark sunglasses onto his face and started gnawing his nails. Ashley sat on the low stool in front of him, right between his knees. “Tristan, will you put more sunscreen on my back?”

“Uh. Yeah, sure.”

Amanda couldn’t stop her smile from spreading as she dumped her stuff by the lawn chair next to Molly. She untied her sarong and let it drop to the ground, never worried about looking fat next to her old friend. Molly rolled over to roast her front side for awhile, and Amanda pictured a pig with an apple in its mouth, being rotated on a spit. “Hey. So glad you guys could come over.”

“Can you believe summer is almost over?” Her friend squinted into the sun. “I’m gonna work on my tan every chance I can get before school starts.”

Yeah, tan cellulite is much more attractive than pale cellulite.
“I know. Me, too.”

“Hey kids.” Mom popped her head through the sliding glass door. “I’m going down to Buffalo Square to pick up a couple things. Y’all need anything?”

“No. Thanks, Mom,” Tristan muttered, his voice strained.

“No thanks, Mrs. Jameson.”

“I’ll take some more Coke. And more chips?” Will called, before she disappeared back inside.

“Coke. Chips. Okay, bye kids. Tristan’s in charge, Amanda.”

Yeah right.
Amanda smirked. Tristan squirted more creamy lotion into his hands, with a loud wet spurt, deep concentration darkening his features.

Will’s girlfriend stood with a hand on her hip, shaking a finger at him in mock condemnation, “You are so rude. Me want coke. Me want chips.”

“I’ll show you rude.” Will’s hand shot out like a viper. He pulled her bikini string as she screamed and dashed away.

“You asshole,” she laughed, covering her bared breasts with her hands as she jumped into the pool. Will was right behind her. Water sloshed over the sides and sprayed supine Molly, who was closest to the pool. She squealed, and Amanda almost lost it the sound was so authentically piggy.

“Let’s do a chicken fight,” Ashley cheered. “Tristan, get in the water with me. Put me on your shoulders.”

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” he said, making for the house.

“Got to relieve yourself, bro?” Amanda said under her breath. She rifled through her magazines for a good one.
Dum-dee-dum, show’s over.

chapter four

She looked at the Oreo cookie on the wall.

“I didn’t know an Oreo could tell time.” But, as she watched, the licorice whip second-hand started ticking backwards instead of forwards. “Of course it can’t,” she giggled.

“What’s so funny?” She turned to see her cousin Andy had woken up. Finally. They had been waiting forever.

“You’re funny, Funny Face,” she said, as Andy’s smile morphed into her Uncle Brian’s scowl, his rusty beard-stubble catching the light from the window. The light had a strange green cast. Tornado skies.

“You’re mama will never know, little one.”

“Mommy already does know.” The Oreo started screaming. “Oh, it’s an alarm clock…”

Candy sat bolt upright.

Her cell phone was ringing. She rubbed her face and looked at the caller ID.
Shit, it’s Sam.
“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I was awake.”

“Good…can you meet me?”

“At The Palace?”

A sigh. “Nevermind. It’s probably too late…”

No!
“I can meet you. I’m so bored, why not?”

All she heard for several thundering heartbeats was her own pulsing blood and the clock ticking on the wall. Did he hang up?

“Alright, I’ll see you there.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“See you soon, Candy.”

She tapped the end button and sat on her bed, dazed. That dream. It had been so long since she dreamed about her Uncle Brian. Or her mom.

Sam.

She pinched her cheeks and scrubbed her hair.

Ugh. Wake up, Candy.

The clock read 10:23 p.m.

“At least it’s not an Oreo clock.” She tried to laugh to dissipate her unease. When it didn’t work, she focused on a particularly yummy memory of Sam, and reminded herself she’d see a similar scene as soon as she got her ass out of bed and hauled it to The Palace. “That worked.” She made for her bathroom to brush her teeth.

She saw less of Sam than she would have liked, since he worked a lot and lived way down south in the hollows, and she would meet him anytime, anywhere. She offered the impression that she was a night owl, and always up late, but she was just a light sleeper and she kept one ear tuned for his ring.

“Candy, dear. Look at you,” she said to the mirror, smiling to think of Louis. It was exactly what he would have said, with a face to match his meaning: pathetic. She didn’t care.

Not that much.

Never had she imagined her evening would’ve turned so fortuitous, but at least she’d fallen asleep with her clothes on. In less than ten minutes she was creeping down the stairs, listening for sounds of life from the den. All she heard was the television, but the last time she checked, her dad was already passed out watching The Discovery Channel.

“…the past 60 years, reports of a monster hammerhead, more than 20 feet long, have circulated through Florida. A team of scientists and anglers explore the waters of the world’s largest hammerheads to see if these stories could be true…”

Shark Week.

And soft snoring.

Her sneakered feet padded through the patio door, the furthest exit from the den on the ground floor. She didn’t risk getting her bike. It was in the garage and the wheels on the garage door were so rusty that screeching was inevitable.

Not worth the noise.

Candy lived on the ridge above The Palace, and though it was a steep climb down in places to get there, those woods had been her extended front yard since she learned to walk. She could reach The Palace from her house or Dad’s shop in twenty minutes flat. Sam had to ride his mountain bike through the winding dirt trails around the face of the mountain. Sometimes she worried he might take a nasty tumble in the dark, less familiar with the terrain than she was, but Sam always seemed sure of himself. He said the views of the valley below were worth the ride.
He
was worth the hike, for her, though she was careful never to reveal that.

Her heart raced anytime she thought of him, it was both terrifying and thrilling to feel so out of control, even a stray thought of Sam made her burn from ears to toes. She had to remind herself to slow down, lest she arrive too early and have to wait around in The Palace by herself. Over the summer, Candy had begun to feel a weird sense of foreboding when she went there alone. Nothing she could identify, just a vague feeling of apprehension. She didn’t know why.

She thought it was stupid, but repressed a shiver anyway.

She felt the weight of the night as she padded through the underbrush. The summer air was hot and thick and it felt heavier in the dark. She looked up and saw the moon was waxing, but not nearly full enough to explain the electricity in her palms. She tried to clear her head with the sense of the forest around her—the sharp tang of pine, the rich death in the loam under her feet, the smell of rain near—.

“Hoo-hoo. Ooooooooo…..”

Candy jerked upright and loosed an avalanche of leaves over her head. The owl voiced more recriminations before taking flight. “Thanks a lot.” She laughed at herself, her heart in her throat.

Why did owls sound so human? She could hear her mother talking in its call: “Oooo, oooo. Where do you think you’re going, little one?”

If she had a mother.

She was getting close to the edge of the big bluff. Zebadiah’s Bluff. She could smell sulfur in the Blue Spring and recognized the clot of lauryl bushes before the drop-off. Way before the cliff, she turned north. The path down to The Palace on that side was longer and more treacherous but she’d avoid that creepy cold spring at any cost. When she’d finally descended into the glen—grabbing branches in a slip or stumble more times than she was proud to admit—she squinted her eyes and noticed she could see light in the direction of the water.

Is it glowing?

She felt repulsed, but had to see, and strained towards it.

Is someone over there?

She stepped over a log and crept through fallen leaves, as gingerly as she could, clearing branches out of her line of vision. It felt like there was something happening over there—

“Thanks for coming.”

“Jesus!” Candy sprang into the air like a startled bobcat. Panting, she clutched her chest to make sure her heart hadn’t exploded.

A throaty chuckle sounded from the shadows, “Wow.”

“Sam,” she breathed. “You devil.”

His teeth glinted in the darkness.

“So, you wanted to get some late-night painting done?” she asked, her voice not her own. Her heart was still thudding, threatening to jump into her throat. He moved closer without a word. And that didn’t help her pulse. She took a step back.

“Something like that.” He took a step closer. Sweat and fresh air, cigarettes and Dial soap underneath—Sam’s smell. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.”

“You can see me?” she tried to laugh. It was so dark.

He moved forward again, and rested his hands on her hips, so close that his hair tickled her face when a soft breeze ruffled by. “Yeah. I can see you.” He ran his nose down hers. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She pressed her mouth to his and felt him wince. She put her fingers to her lips, tasting blood. “What happened?”

He was quiet when she tried to pull away for a better look.

“Did you get in a fight?”

His body enfolded hers, insistent. And not in the mood to talk. “Let’s go inside, Candy. I’ll light the lantern if you’re scared.”

chapter five

“Y’all have a good one now.” Joe slammed the cash register drawer shut and wiped his meaty hands on his apron. But as he was turning to head back to the kitchens, he caught a glimpse of brown curls swing to a stop in hesitation, round expectant eyes fixed on his face.

“Oh, Shelby—your mama forget somethin’ important?” he bellowed, and threw his head back into a thunderous laugh, the better to give his belly room to quake. “You come back over here and get you a pickle, sweet thang.”

Joe lumbered over to the wooden pickle barrel and pulled open the plastic doors of the lid. The vinegary sweet dill spilling into the room made his mouth water every time: like he was one of Pavlov’s dogs. He unhooked the tongs from the steal bands holding the worn oak cauldron together and fished around to bring the sleepers to the surface, chunks of garlic bobbing between them.

“Those are the best. You pick yourself one and I’ll catch ‘im for ya, honey.”

The little girl teetered up the stepladder, steadying herself, with one of Joe’s proffered hands. She went on tip-toe to look over the edge into the pickle barrel, “That one.”

“That one, there?” Joe pointed to a different pickle than the one she had chosen.

“No,
that
one,” Shelby insisted, jabbing her finger so close to her pickle that her choice could hardly be mistaken.

Joe, still teasing her, went to scoop up a different pickle, “Oh, I see now.”

“No,” she whined, her chin trembling just a bit, poised to grab her choice without his help.

Joe burst into another belly laugh, and ruffled her hair with a sweaty paw, then fished out the correct pickle. Still chuckling, he let the fat, salty cucumber drip a few seconds, licking his lips. Then he wrapped it in a napkin to soak up the extra juice, covered the bundle in a tight wax paper roll, and sealed the wrapper with a shiny gold “1st Place” foil from the bulk sticker roll next to the tub.

“There ya go, honey,” rumbled his lilting baritone. Shelby stretched her chubby fingers around her well-earned gift. “That’s your Shopper’s Patient Assistant award.”

“Thanks, Big Joe.” The breathless whisper was barely out of her mouth before she was through the door in a flurry of sweaty curls and grubby feet, the tinny sound of the bell banging against the doorjamb. Her older brother was lurking close to the entrance as she made her escape, and he sneered, “Oooh, did you touch Big Joe’s pickle?”

The lewd remark was vaguely audible inside the store; quiet enough for both of the remaining adults to pretend they hadn’t heard. Shelby’s mother blushed at the obvious reference to Joe Robinson’s penis and busied herself digging for her keys in a deep purse.

“See you tonight then, Joe?”

“That’s right. Friday night meeting.”

She scooped up the bulging paper grocery bag in one hand, jingling her keys in the other, and gave Joe a wink over her shoulder as she hurried after her children.

“Make sure Paul comes, too, honey. Gonna be some good news tonight at the Rotary meeting. You don’t want to miss a minute, I promise you,” the big man hollered after them, then punched the keys on the cash register to open and shut the drawer; a bookkeeping formality for the free pickle.

He held his tongue as much as he could, a skill that decades of marriage had taught him, but it rankled that Sheila was planning to attend the Rotary Club event. The Reynolds owned the ruby mine in the hills up north of the valley—it was really just a tourist trap, but Joe didn’t see any problem with bringing in more tourists. It was Paul who was the businessman, though, and damned if all the women in town weren’t trying to turn the Rotary Club into a silly social party. It was meant for business, goddamnit. He shook his head in disgust and shuffled over to the window for a final wave good-bye to Sheila and the kids.

He grumbled at the stairway in front of the restaurant. “Hell’s bells, that switchback.”

He knew he had better survey the courtyard at the top of the hill before dinnertime. He wiped the sweat off his neck, in anticipation, before shoving outside and out of the blessed air-conditioning. He grabbed hold of the railing and hauled himself up, one step at a time, the wood groaning under his weight. Huffing and wheezing at the summit, he looked around for loose debris or trash: saw the hoses were coiled properly and examined the benches. He made a mental note to remind Frankie to wash the bird shit off the iron seat backing.

“Oh, I’ll do it. Damn Mexican. He’s probably already into the chicken.”

He waddled over to the hoses to spray down the benches himself. As he worked, he sucked in the heavy aroma of lilies crowding over the rims of his flower urns. He reached behind the nearest one to finger a heavy rose, hanging listless from a thorny bush in the summer heat. He licked his lips and thought of how much the velvety inner cylinder reminded him of his second favorite thing in life, especially wet.

Maybe cut the girls and bring out the vases for tonight.
He gave the roses one last gentle sprinkle, his thumb jammed into the mouth of the hose to rain a delicate mist over them. He let the flowers drink to their fill, his head lolled back in the heat, and he closed his eyes against the late afternoon sun. A bead of sweat rolled into the corner of his eye. He knuckled it away, hissing at the sting, and gazed across the square. Sunbaked bricks wafted a mirage upwards and he stepped into the shade of the maple trees that hung over the low courtyard wall.

Mmm. Mmm. Mmm—maple syrup.
He patted one of the trunks thankfully and considered his first love—money. Those few maples wouldn’t give out much, but he knew of a large stand of them a little north of Shirley, and wondered how viable a maple syrup endeavor might be. He leaned under their shelter from the blazing summer sun, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“So damned hot.”

The old lodge across the way always seemed cooler, deeper in shade. He resented that, among other things.

Wouldn’t mind a rest in the shade, though…

His shin banged into the concrete rim of the fountain before he realized he had wandered closer to the lodge, as if it were magnetic. He hissed and bent down to see if his leg was bleeding, his face over the still water.

“Beware the traveler...” The voice tickled behind his ear.

“Criminy!”

He stumbled away from the fountain, nearly tripping over his own feet. Reeling, he spun around, searching the shadows of the Buffalo Square courtyard.

“Where—” Joe clutched at his chest, gasping for air “Where are you?”

The dark woman whose face he had seen in the water, looming over his shoulder, her long black hair cascading around her face, was nowhere to be seen.

“Leave me alone, woman.” Joe’s plea was barely a whimper, before darkness closed in around him.