The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (22 page)

“Come out and support the supporters, everyone. Guys are welcome, too.” One of the cheerleaders smiled sideways at John and gave his body a once-over with her painted eyes.

Yeah, maybe in Memphis, but a male cheerleader in Shirley County?
John entertained a brief picture of himself in a boy-cheerleader uniform (maybe an orange polo shirt and white sweater-vest with matching short shorts), being tied to the back of a pick-up truck and dragged the length of the valley.

“Where’d Candy go?” John scanned the small crowd milling around the club tables.

Erica shrugged. “Guess she took off. That’s so Candy.”

“Well, she’s got to be in homeroom, then. Antonio, I’m sure you’re with us,” he said, glancing perfunctorily at the homeroom chart. “How hard could it be, with only two groups?”

“Well, in recent years, people have claimed confusion just to annoy the faculty and cause first period to be set back,” Erica explained. “Like, sitting in the empty rooms, pretending to wait for roll call or heading over to the cafeteria and getting lost in the kitchens.”

“That’s kind of funny,” John conceded. Grandma Pearl would call it “tomfoolery.”

When he saw Antonio’s uncomprehending smile, he launched into a carefully worded explanation, with Erica supplying theatrical clues. John caught sight of Candy down the hallway, peering through doorways off the main corridor. He could hear muffled voices in a constant hum, with intermittent bursts of laughter or shouts of friendly recrimination, coming from two rooms located on opposite sides of the hall. As she neared one of the doors, she stopped and investigated the interior.

“Since Andrew Jackson lacks a school-wide intercom, students go to homeroom every Monday morning for fifteen minutes before classes, to hear important weekly info and stuff. Another classic example of Shirley County’s outstanding tech-savvy,” Erica explained, flipping the locks on the lockers as they walked along. “The teachers don’t actually take roll, but with a total student body of only about six-hundred kids, if you miss often it becomes obvious.”

They used the two largest classrooms, the music room, and the art studio, to split the student body in half. Candy had assumed a sentry position close to the art studio door. She looked past John as he entered.

“Who are you looking for?”

“No one,” she muttered, clearly annoyed.

What the hell is her problem?
With an effort, he returned his full attention to Erica.

Erica went on, bringing in the rear, unburdened by her friend’s moodiness. “Yeah, they use the smaller of the two room for us, because by junior and senior year lots of kids have dropped out.”

John wandered around checking out the studio. There were several large drying racks set against the wall, with about a dozen easels stacked close by, and slop sinks in the back of the room. Farther on, he could see several pottery wheels and kilns, and a doorway with heavy velvet drapes that probably concealed a photography darkroom. The place was huge. “How big is the music room, then?”

“Well, that’s where the band practices, so pretty big,” said Erica, pulling her shoulders back with pride.

“I hear the marching band is pretty good here.” John remembered that the girl was an accomplished musician, in a family of musicians. “Don’t they win lots of competitions?”

“State Champs four years in a row, and last year we were National Finalists. I should know, I’m the best trumpet player they’ve got.”

“I’d love to hear you play—”

“Robinson, you hiding a secret arsenal or what?” Will Bartlett boomed through the doorway, his voice echoing off the polished concrete floor and metal lockers in the hall. “You already grabbed the Italian Stallion, huh?”

Wondering if Antonio had any idea what was in store; John looked around for him to deliver a quick warning. He found the Italian Stallion was already seated next to Candy, flirting with the back of her head. She was still watching the door, looking through the massive football player like he was so much air.

§

Sam checked his watch with a groan, then jangled his bike lock to make sure it was secure. Rachel had kept him late at the studio, gabbing until after two o’clock in the morning. He overslept, vaulted out of bed, and rushed to school without even showering.

The campus was quiet.

“Already into second period, great.”

He combed his fingers through his messy hair and eased in through the front doors. He would’ve thankfully crept in a side door, but Andrew Jackson kept all doors but the main entrance locked from the outside.

For security, right.

Sam believed the practice had been enacted to catch late students sneaking in, and to discourage clandestine smoke breaks or lunchtime jolly rides. He wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Davis emerging from his office, as soon as the doors closed behind him.

“Sam Castle,” the guidance counselor said in a reserved tone, at odds with the subtle menace in his narrowed eyes. “Late on the first day.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davis.” Sam straightened his shoulders and turned to face the man. “I’m late. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all, not at all, son.” He warmed his tone and widened his smile. “I understand.”

Mr. Davis had been after Sam’s ass ever since his precious daughter, Ashley Davis, was caught trying to pass Sam a note the year before. The bastard had taken Sam into his office for over an hour of lecturing about the merits of education and the pitfalls of squandering it, sitting under an ominous display of wooden paddles on the wall behind his desk. Sam hadn’t even seen the girl’s note before it was intercepted and had technically not done anything to warrant punishment, especially of the corporal variety. Nothing happened beyond the lecture. He didn’t think Ashley was so lucky, though. He saw her tear-stained face when she left school early that day, and she hadn’t given Sam anything more than furtive glances since. Claiming concern for Sam’s welfare (the health of just another troubled Andrew Jackson student) Mr. Davis had persisted in his eagle eye approach all last year.

And it just keeps gettin’ better.
Sam narrowed his eyes at the man. The counselor’s arms were folded over a lumpy sweater-vest. He leaned against the door to his office with one mushy, khaki-covered leg crossed over the other in supreme arrogance. The truth was, Mr. Davis could give Sam much more trouble than he had any wish for, whether anything had happened with his pretty daughter or not.

Your daughter’s too tight-assed for me, buddy.

“I’m concerned about you, Sam.”

Here it comes. God, I hate Shirley County.

“How about you spend lunch in my office, and we have a little talk about starting the school year off right.”

chapter twenty-five

“Get on your feet and give ‘em a clap! GOOOOOOOO, BOBCATTS!”

Ashley Davis performed a perfect pike jump; both her legs locked in a ninety-degree position above the ground for a split second before coming back down to earth. She transitioned into hoots and cheers, rolling her fists and pumping them overhead. John had a perfect view of her backside from his position on the field and he didn’t see a hint of jiggle in her muscular legs as she jogged in place and bopped up and down. Her back-up squad of about a dozen uniformed girls followed along, while a handful of hopeful freshmen watched covetously, holding their paperwork and shifting from one foot to the other. One of the new girls joined in, hooting with one hand cupped around her mouth and shaking her mini pom-pom on a stick (a welcome gift from Ashley).

John willed patience to Candy. She was perched on her haunches in the stands, reading a book propped on her knees. She shaded her eyes and looked across the field to where the football players had been huddled together with seven or eight new recruits for the last half-hour. The gathering was supposed to be a quick “info session,” but it wasn’t shaping up that way and John knew Candy was probably royally pissed off by then. First, there was a big welcome pep talk, then they handed out paperwork. Next was a tour of the locker room and weight room, followed by a field demonstration. And probably summing things up: this huddle thing.

Candy had already been approached several times by some cheerleaders trying to cajole her into listening to
their
“info session.” He could imagine her reply, “Hard not to hear it,” and he couldn’t help but grin.

A chant brought his attention back to the huddle. There was a final communal shout, and the guys were slapping each other’s shoulders, backs and buttocks, and starting to disperse to the locker room or parking lot. John breathed a sigh of relief and motioned for Antonio to follow him to the bleachers. He hailed Candy as they approached—

“Come on girls; let’s give a cheer for our newest Bobcatt boys.” Ashley led the others in an impromptu chorus, “J-O-H-N! Rack -em, stack ‘em, pack ‘em in! T-O-N-Y! Hit ‘em, hit ‘em, hit ‘em high!”

John waved politely (Antonio mimicked him), as the cheerleaders clapped and jumped. Ashley vaulted into a backflip and several others cartwheeled and bounced into round-offs, their bloomers flashing bright white under the sun. Whether their display was an attempt to impress the guys or their new recruits, John couldn’t say, but they obviously held top scores with Antonio. He watched their flailing limbs and exposed bloomers with open admiration.

Candy stuffed her book and hopped down the bleachers to meet them. “Are you okay with ‘Tony’?”

“Mieke said expect nickname.” Antonio was clearly not thrilled with the idea, but willing to accept the American penchant for shortening names. “I like ‘Tonio.’ Is more correct.”

“Ah, it’s a sign of affection, man,” John reassured him. “Look at the essence of sweetness, Candy-cane, here.”

She aimed a kick at his rump, but missed as he dodged out of range. “I’ll call you whatever you prefer to be called,
Antonio
.”

“Hey, Tony! Hey, John!” A cute blonde sang as she skipped over, hauling along one of Candy’s more distant cousins, Jessica McBride. “I’m so happy you’re going out for the team, you guys.”

The group exchanged introductions and John noticed the blonde, Lindsay, elbow her friend in the ribs. Jessica gave her a frown. John had met Jessica once or twice; she and Candy were related by their grandfathers, who were brothers. The two girls were not enemies, yet not exactly friends. Candy was a tomboy, raised by a less conventional branch of the family, while Jessica was a princess. She wore her own red hair in long, soft curls, usually tied with a bow. Candy called her a cookie-cut, and ridiculed, “Her bright green Irish eyes are always smiling.”

“Candy,” Jessica said. “Lindsay here has been dying to meet both Antonio and John, so I guess you’re the woman of the hour, cuz.”

“Happy to oblige,” said Candy dryly.

“So, what are you guys doing now?” asked Lindsay. “We were thinking of heading over to Big Joe’s for a smoothie or something. We could find a ride, but if you guys are going, too—I absolutely love your Mustang, John.”

“Oh…thanks,” John had actually been thinking of heading over there to see how his dad was doing. “Yeah, I might go too. I don’t know what everyone else had planned…”

He looked to Antonio. His face said he was up for anything, especially with beautiful girls.

John looked to Candy.

“Why not?” She shrugged, and then added in an undertone, “As long as I’m finally allowed to leave the Andrew Jackson campus.”

“Cool, I just love convertibles.” Lindsay grabbed Jessica’s arm and looked up at John through her eyelashes, as they all walked towards the parking lot.

“It’s kinda tight in the back seat for three.” John noticed Candy falling back and he slowed down to match her pace. “Candy already called shotgun earlier.”

His best friend’s face brightened considerably, and she looped her arm in his.

§

“Thanks, man.” Sam performed the necessary hand maneuvers—shakes, claps, clicks, and bumps—in the correct order to signal, “we’re chums.” He almost flubbed at the last, remembering some other town, some other time.

He handed Ricky the inventory log to sign. “She ever sell much stuff here?”

“Rachel? Yeah, bro. They’re perfect souvenirs—little bobbles like the sunset over green mountains to hang from your rearview mirror, with a Shirley Valley tag. She’s got some that look like the rapids and shit, they’re nice. Of course,” Ricky admitted, “we don’t get that many tourists, but those that we do get almost always buy her stuff.”

“Hmph.”

Sam had only been working at Rachel’s glass studio for two days, and he hadn’t been given much to do yet besides grind glass—a tedious, dirty, mildly dangerous job that he felt he had mastered about twenty minutes into his four-hour long project—but he knew there was a lot going on that he hadn’t seen, and he was interested to learn more. As an added bonus, Rachel hated to leave her house or studio at night (the two were connected by a gated atrium), and she told Sam to just keep her truck overnight after he dropped off her work at the post office and Big Joe’s. Then, her assistant Caleb wouldn’t have to pick Sam up from school—right after school, rushing to get back to Rachel’s so Caleb could get his shit done and leave early.

Sam would have a truck to drive, two or three nights a week and the following mornings, thanks to Rachel. She sold most of her work online, and that meant regular mailings for her, with much less bike riding and train hitch-hiking for Sam. Maybe he could show up at Candy’s house in relative style.

“I gotta get out of here if I can make it to Candy’s tonight,” Sam said. God, the first day of school had sucked. He was exhausted and he could use some Candy.

“She’s here, yo.”

“She is?”

“Yeah over in the restaurant, bunch of kids from school. Bossman’s grandson. Catch ya later.” Ricky yawned and punched Sam on the shoulder, before disappearing back inside the grocery.

Bossman’s grandson?
Sam watched his friend disappear, hoping Ricky didn’t suspect the way his comment had just slapped him in the face. He dug his phone out of his pocket, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed her call. He hadn’t.
I guess I never called her either…

He heard boisterous laughter erupt from the front of the restaurant and turned in that direction. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he prowled along the side of the grocery, listening and alert to the noise of the grounds. Nearing the entrance to the dining room, he ducked under hanging flowerpots and hung back at the edge of a window to peer inside.

It was well past the dinner hour and the place was mostly empty. Guests who remained were picking at their food, kicked back and relaxed. Candy was seated between two guys, across from a couple of girls in cheerleading uniforms. They all were watching a hulking giant of a football player (still wearing his jersey) pantomiming some hilarious story, according to the raucous laughter of the girls. Candy wasn’t laughing, but she seemed content, leaning over to listen when the guy next to her whispered in her ear.

The new foreign exchange student.
Sam smirked. He had been introduced in English class.
Seems alright. But the other guy…

The other guy sat with his chair at an angle to Candy’s. He kept one eye on her and one shoulder possessively behind her, corralling her into the group like she was an errant lamb.

Who the hell is that?

Sam fought with the urge to walk in, introduce himself, and sit down next to her. Claim her for himself. Or maybe he’d offer her his hand and tell her it was time to take off.

What the fuck…
Sam flexed his fits, knuckles cracking. What if she wouldn’t leave with him? He turned from the window and jogged up the stairs to Buffalo Square, passing by the Brave without a word and heading for the river.

Amanda Jameson held her hand to her mouth, unseen as Sam passed by. She was crouched behind a flower urn at the top of the stairs, waiting for her mom to do “some Rotary Club business” with Jamie Robinson.

“Can you believe it? Jamie’s the new head of Big Joe’s and maybe the Rotary, too,” her mom had said, trembling with excitement.

Amanda agreed to accompany her to the restaurant, but declined going inside at the last minute, pretending to have menstrual cramps. That gave her mom an instant sour puss, but Amanda was richly rewarded for her transgression when she saw Sam Castle pull into the parking lot in a big manly truck. He got out and gathered an armload of boxes from the back. She followed his progress through Big Joe’s and considered changing her mind on socializing for a bit. But she stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sam watching a party through the window, at the bottom of the stairs in front of the restauraunt. There was no doubt who he had been looking at. His heartache was palpable, even from her vantage point.

“What a bitch,” she muttered, after Sam disappeared through the trees. Who did Candy Vale think she was?

“What are you doing? Did you decide to come in after all?” Amanda’s mom’s shrill voice preceded her, as always. She rolled her eyes and stopped watching trees, then turned around with a plaster smile to watch her mom mounting the stairs, with Lindsay in tow. “Amanda, Lindsay was here! Did you know? Anyway, I said I’d take her home, so John didn’t have to drive all over dropping people off.”

“She lives right by Candy, mom.”

“Well, you know. Lindsay’s family. How’d you know Candy was here?”

Whoops.
“She isn’t?” It was easy to disarm fools with insight.

“Hey, Amanda.” Lindsay bounced up the stairs, full of pride at hanging with Antonio and John first. “You should have come in, but your mom said you had a stomach ache.”

“Yeah, cramps.” Amanda grabbed her tummy, just above her crotch. She enjoyed seeing her mom turn green.

“Oh, is that what it was?” Lindsay looked at her aunt, confused.

That was good; confused Lindsay was more pliable. Amanda needed information and she knew Lindsay would spill all possible beans just to impress her. “You can fill me in on the ride home.”

“Oh my gosh, you have no idea…”