The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (6 page)

“Running isn’t the same thing as owning.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

New place, old story. Same bullshit.
“You’re just another victim of circumstance…”

“The hell with that, I make my own fate,” Ricky muttered, counting Sam’s presented cash, and holding it up between them. “See? I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a real fortune. My fat bankroll there.”

Ricky cocked his head to the side with mock concern. “Mommy short you on milk money again?”

Funny.
Sam’s friend knew how hard he’d worked for that money, but he couldn’t have known that Sam was more likely to give his mother money than the other way around. So he put the joint that he had rolled, despite the warning, in his mouth and ignored the jibe.

“Seriously, man—you can’t blaze up in here.”

“Fine, fuck.” Sam moved the weed behind his ear, his thick hair covering it easily.

“What was that?” They both froze when they heard a barely stifled giggle near the basement door. The two locked eyes and turned silently to see the stairway; gunmetal ballet slippers tip-toeing down the steps, and a plaid skirt floating well above soft pink knees.

“You guys aren’t as sly as you think,” whispered Amanda Jameson, closing the dining room door behind her. She pointed at the bag in Sam’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Nothing you could imagine in your wildest rainbow-unicorn dreams, precious.” Ricky pocketed Sam’s bag and met the girl’s gaze straight on.

“I’m not as sheltered as you think. Just what do you think happens to the marijuana my dad confiscates?”

Ricky’s eyes shifted to Sam’s, incredulous. Sam wasn’t fazed.
Big surprise, crooked cop in Shittown.

Amanda used the pause to saunter closer, her flowery perfume overpowering in the tight space. She kept her eyes locked on Sam and plopped down on a nearby packing crate, daring him to refuse her.

“Forget it, jail bait,” said Ricky, “go back upstairs to your mommy.”

“I’m not jail bait—you’re not 18 yet,” Amanda told him, unperturbed, half smiling and raising an eyebrow at Sam. He remained silent and let insolent eyes roam over her body.

“I’ll turn 18 long before you do, bobby-socks, and girls like you don’t like to let go, once you sink your claws in,” said Ricky.

“Whatever.” Amanda flung her unbobby-socked bare legs off the wooden box in Ricky’s direction and stomped up the stairs.

Ricky makes the girls cry. How ironic.
“Hey,” Sam called after her, “don’t get your panties in a wad. Entrepreneurs like Ricky just get nervous around the sheriff’s little princess.”

Amanda stopped at the top of the stairs with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m not wearing any panties.”

She waited just long enough for the shortness of her skirt to become apparent from Sam’s vantage, and then grinned as a deep blush crept up his neck. She wheeled around, spinning her skirt to hint at the truth of her boast, before slipping out the door into the noisy restaurant.

“I hate chicks like that,” muttered Ricky.

Sam rubbed his jaw and smiled. She actually had pretty nice legs.

§

Amanda’s heart was hammering, her whole body zinging from the thrill. Rushing out of the hallway back to the dining room, she slammed into the swinging door to the kitchen as the old Mexican lady was pushing through. Her face burning, she muttered an apology and fumbled back through the tables to her seat.

She sat down with a smile, then looked around, trying to act normal. At a neighboring table, she noticed a couple of Sendalee Indian gentleman. That was weird. The older of the two was dressed in crisp clean blue jeans and a denim shirt, buttoned tight, and secured with an elaborate sliver bolo tie. He had a long silver ponytail gathered in a leather thong at his back. Some kind of chief probably. His younger companion wore a tailored, charcoal gray suit and had shiny, neatly styled, raven-black hair. Amanda had never seen the second man before, and she couldn’t imagine him being a resident of Shirley.

He must have flown in especially.
How could some dumb club that my mother belongs to actually be so important?
Amanda realized that she had no idea what the meeting was actually about, and she tuned back in.

“…international acclaim,” Mieke Walsh was saying, “in the long tradition of foreign exchange.”

Several people shifted in chairs or crossed and uncrossed legs, leaning forward in anticipation, but most continued their private conversations, ignoring Mieke. But she had Amanda’s attention.

“A foreign exchange student,” she clarified, letting her arms drop heavily, her hands slapping her thighs, begging the room to share in her excitement.

“From another country?” asked someone, bewildered.

“Why, of course, another country. Oh—” She hurried over to her laptop and advanced the screen a few slides. When an image of the Leaning Tower of Pisa came into view, an auto-play accordion accompaniment of “That’s Amore” began a static-filled rumble from the blown-out speakers. Mieke beamed, pleased with her artistry, and turned back to her recalcitrant audience to catch their applause—which never came.

“Hon, we’re fixin’ to leave. Vanessa wants to show us the new rooms they added.”

Amanda’s mom was already gathering her purse, and so were her friends. Lindsay was talking with Molly, oblivious to the Rotary Club developments.

“Mom. Aren’t we even going to eat?”

“Vanessa has some stuff for grilling—less fattening anyway.”

“But there’s finally something interesting going on,” said Amanda, incredulous. “What about the meeting?”

“Mandy,” Vanessa took up her friend’s reasoning, Steph nodding agreement in advance. “There can’t be a Rotary Club meeting now that Joe’s in the hospital. He’s the President.”

Molly pleaded with her mother, “Can we get Coke at the grocery?”

“I told you, you’re already getting bagel-butt, honey. No carbs after seven o’clock.”

“Well,” someone spoke up from the table next to them. Amanda turned to see her History teacher, Mrs. Collins. She stood and addressed the front of the room, her brow furrowed in concern. “Foreign exchange is a wonderful program, and a perfect opportunity for educating our students, Mieke, provided we have time to consider this as a community. In order to offer a secure environment for a visiting child—”

Mieke pounced, “Oh, it’s a done deal. We better be prepared, because the kid will be here before school starts.” She said, and looked proudly from face to face, but most had lost interest in the meeting and were tucking into dinner or resuming previous conversations.

“Hey, is the student a boy or a girl?” Amanda piped up, desperate. She poked Lindsay, attempting to garner interest and slow the progress of their exodus.

“It’s a boy,” Mieke declared, like a triumphant obstetrician.

“Well, how old is he?” asked Lindsay, finally catching on to an adventure.

Aunt Meghan had slung her purse over her shoulder and motioned for her companions to do the same, but she paused when she recognized the teenage hormonal enthusiasm in her daughter. “Where is he going to live?”

“He’ll live with a member of the club, of course,” said Mieke.

“Well, I can’t lodge a foreign boy in our house.” Amanda’s mom affected horror at the impropriety, “I have an under-age daughter.”

“Mom…”

“I don’t speak Italian, that boy can’t live with us.” Aunt Meghan narrowed her eyes at Lindsay’s pout, “Forget it.”

“Look, his name is Antonio, Antonio di Brigo, and he has to live somewhere.” Mieke’s face darkened a shade. “That’s exactly what we’re here to discuss tonight. Look, this is a really positive step for the club.”

“I don’t speak Italian either,” another person lamented from a nearby table.

“He isn’t supposed to speak Italian while he’s here,” Mieke explained, straining for patience, “That’s the whole point of a language emersion program, to learn the host country’s native language.”

“So he doesn’t speak English?”

“What was Joseph Robinson thinking, setting up a scheme like this, unbeknownst to the whole county, until now?” Ms. Collins said. “Mieke, do you have a specific plan to propose for the boy’s lodging?”

“Yes,” Mieke said, throwing up her hands, “How about Vanessa Matthews? They just renovated their entire basement, as we’ve all heard. They have plenty of room.”

“If that’s your plan, that’s my exit strategy. Come on girls,” Vanessa said, rising in unison with Steph, Kerry and Megan.

“You people are always going on about your kids, I thought you loved kids,” Mieke fumed. “Now you can’t stand the thought of hosting one?”

Vanessa shot her a look of contempt as the herd moved toward the door together.

Yeah, right.
Amanda knew Vanessa had been waiting all summer for her kids, whom she so dearly loved, to go back to school and get out of her hair. She could picture her now, right after drop-off Monday morning, soaking in her bubble bath and sucking down chilled Chardonnay, with Shania Twain pumping on their new sound system: “Man—I feel like a woman!”

“Look, I’ll take him first.” Mieke stormed back to her table and snapped her laptop closed protectively. “We can figure out where he stays next later.”

And I thought she had such potential.
Amanda watched her shove papers back into her briefcase, avoiding eye contact. Lugging her briefcase in one hand, she shoved past a few mingling diners to the bathroom, covertly wiping a tear with her silk sleeve.
Someone needs a lesson or two in driving cattle.

“What grade is he in? Do they even have grades in Italy?” Lindsay whispered, grabbing Amanda’s hand so they had to squeeze through the doors together. Molly slowed down to join in, hooking her arm in Lindsay’s elbow, her face alight with the titillation of a new young male on his way to Shirley County.

“Of course they have grades in Italy,” Amanda said, “Oh no, I left my phone on the table. I’ll catch up.”

She had seen the Sendalee men stop at Ms. Collins table as they were leaving. They were talking in hushed tones and looking serious. Amanda found her phone immediately, but the neighboring conversation was too much to ignore, so she sat back down in her chair, leaned over and pretended to search for something under the table while she listened.

“…wishes to remind you, Madam Collins, of never-ending blood ties, and of promises made, but not kept,” the sharply dressed young man was saying.

“Gentlemen, I cannot think of many promises that I have made, yet not kept, in my life. I have reached out to the Sendalee Nation many times.”

The gnarled old man spoke gruffly into the other man’s ear, who listened quietly, then responded to Ms. Collins. “Surely you understand the value of the treasure that your family has stolen from our people.”

Treasure?
Amanda risked a glance from behind her chair.

“If I only knew how to mend this, sir. I am but one person. I have requested private audience with your esteemed grandfather many times.”

“We were disappointed not to have spoken with Joseph Robinson this evening.”

“You are not alone in that regard, I assure you.”

The elderly Indian stiffened and turned away, barking an unintelligible command, but the younger man gave Ms. Collins an apologetic smile. Moving to follow his grandfather, he seemed to reconsider, and returned, “I am an interpreter, but more than that. I would love to speak with you alone.”

He stepped closer to whisper something in her ear and shake her hand. Ms. Collins sighed and nodded, offering a tentative smile. Resigned, but almost pleased.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Michael returned the smile and hurried to open the door for his grandfather.

What was that about?
Amanda thrilled secretly, sneaking through the door before Ms. Collins could suspect she had been listening. Outside, her mom and Aunt Meghan were fervently denying responsibility for the foreign exchange student and Lindsay was wondering, starry-eyed, about what part of Italy the kid came from. She and Molly were giggling about Antonio, saying his name with an imagined Italian accent and conspiring for who would talk to him first.
Missed all the good stuff again, poor calves. Man, was that Sendalee guy hot. Michael…

chapter seven

Helen Collins gathered her things and left, to find that darkness had fallen. Passing a few Rotarians who stood around the cigarette urn, their faces darkened behind periodically blazing red embers, Helen wondered whether or not they were smoking Native American cigarettes—the Sendalee Nation’s brand, in particular. She had often been told of their superior quality, apparently made with better tobacco, and lacking in the harmful chemicals common to most commercial brands. Never having tried cigarettes herself, she could only imagine.

“Hello, Aunt Helen.”

“Oh, Charlotte dear.” Helen was honestly surprised to see the girl. How long had it been? “I didn’t see you inside.”

“I know.”

She wasn’t actually Charlotte’s aunt, but the girl’s father had worked for Helen’s family for so long that they felt like family. Charlotte must have been in her early twenties and she had become quite a woman since the last time Helen had seen her. Dressed entirely in black, she sank into the shadows—except for the buxom display of pale flesh tumbling over the top of her corset. A cruel streak of red lipstick was her only makeup.

“How have you been, dear? We haven’t seen you at the house in years,” Helen asked.

Charlotte’s sullen lips puckered around a stream of cigarette smoke, the cloud billowing into Helen’s face and stinging both her eyes and her pride. Not sure how to react, she nodded to her with patient generosity and kept moving. When she reached the summit of the steep stairway, and re-emerged into Buffalo Square, she was confronted with the backside of that ridiculous statue of the generic Brave. She wondered how Michael and his grandfather reacted when they met him that night. Embarrassed, she shook her head and resolved to put petty squabbles, ancient and modern, out of her mind for the rest of the night.

Helen inhaled deeply, winded from the steep climb out of the Big Joe’s compound, but instead of catching her breath, she nearly choked on the thick, humid air of the enclosed square. Cicadas droned inside the heavy ring of trees, their rhythmic strumming adding weight to the muggy darkness. Instead of plunging through that oppressive soup, she decided to take the Riverwalk home, and backtracked a little along the crest of the hill, towards the water. A well-worn footpath led through the trees, and down to an iron gate, opening onto the blessedly fresh air of the wide, quick running, Tenakho River. The river thundered down from a deep cleft between the Eastern and Western Mountain ridges to the north, spraying violent rapids over the rocky riverbed alongside Shirley’s town center, before hurtling around the peninsular landmass on which Buffalo Square was built.

Helen’s family estate sat atop the highest crag, overlooking a quick hairpin: the most violent part of the river’s eastward turn before barreling back down through the south valley. In colonial times the towering structure provided the perfect vantage point for a warring clan to monitor both the lower valley and the opposite shoreline. The river itself had never threatened invaders. It was unnavigable to any but the most avid rafting fanatics in the modern day extreme whitewater rapids world, and even then, only during the calm season. When the Collins family had first settled there, centuries ago, attempts to run the river had always ended in tragedy. Every once in a while, Helen would see a rafting expedition rage past, but mostly the river simply provided a beautiful view from her upper rooms, which she employed as a library and shared with her daughter as a painting studio when she was in town. The Riverwalk provided a pleasant upwards stroll, through the rear family gardens, towards home. Helen chose that path, more and more in her advancing years, instead of the steep climb up endless stairs to the front entrance that faced Buffalo Square.

“A walk along the river is so much more refreshing,” she said to herself, tilting her face into the moonlight and the crisp spray on the wind. She smiled, unsurprised to see another little ember glow brighter at the edge of the river, away from the light of the street lamps. “Good evening, Mr. Castle.”

The disembodied cigarette flew upwards as he flicked it into the river and stood to greet her. He moved into the light and nodded respectfully as she passed. Sam Castle had a rough look about him but he had the best manners of any student Helen could remember in her long years of teaching. “Good evening, Ms. Collins.”

“I trust you have adequate transportation home?” she asked without breaking her stride, knowing he would deny that he did not, yet she felt compelled to extend the offer.

“Yes, I do,” he lied and cleared his throat.

“Take care of yourself, son.”

“I will.”

Helen continued towards home, hoping her butler Desmond would be there to greet her in that cavernous, empty place.