The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (27 page)

part three:
hello &
good-bye

chapter thirty-one

Candy said the name to herself as she walked up the dirt path to Rachel’s studio. Sam had his back to her, cupping his hands around his lighter to shield the flame as he lit a cigarette.

Please don’t turn around. Please let this all be John’s imagination.
“Sasha.”

Sam turned his head—a knee-jerk reaction, as if he’d heard the name since infancy. Candy’s stomach turned over.

“Hi.” He closed the door on the sound of Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You,” lilting out of the cavernous workroom, and collapsed on a timber and cinderblock bench. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, calm and clear.

So green and perfect, with coal-black lashes—stop it!
Get your head together, Candy.
“Your name isn’t Sam, is it?”

“Sasha’s a girl’s name in the States; do you expect me to go by that?” He raised his palms in supplication. “My father is—”

“Russian.”

He pursed his lips in a rueful smile and nodded.

“Some kind of Russian gangster, Sam? And you’re from New York?” Her whisper turned into a shrill hiss. “Who are you?”

“I’m exactly who you think I am, Candy.” He looked at her, unflinching. As if he had always known the confrontation was near.

“Not Castle either, or King,” Candy challenged. “What was the other? Kent?”

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Guess I’ll have to be more careful about who posts on goddamn BroadcastMyPicture.com.”

“I can’t believe that all this time I haven’t even known your name.”

“Hey, they’re just names. My mom isn’t that creative with them. We keep our own castle, king and queen. We had to take care of ourselves alone. We wouldn’t be controlled by—” He stopped, like he’d said too much. But Candy didn’t understand a word he said. “People. And, stupid shit…” He let his voice taper off, defeated. “Don’t judge me by my family. Family ties tie you down, remember?”

She was instantly chastened, slapped by her own words. His humbled expression made it worse. She almost felt a tinge of remorse for him before, believing him to be fatherless, but the truth seemed even worse. What did she know about his life before she met him? She slumped down next to him on the bench. “I thought you said you were from nowhere—everywhere? I don’t understand.”

“I am. Ever since my father went to prison when I was a kid, my mom’s kept us on the move. Vegas, New Orleans, Phoenix, Houston, wherever she could make a buck when I was little. Lately, wherever she thinks she can get the best state help.” He fell quiet again. Always editing. “Small towns are easier to hide in; with all you disconnected country bumpkins.”

They both laughed at the obvious error; even Shirley County was connected enough for his life story to come tumbling out in a matter of months after moving there.

“You never told me your dad was in prison.” She strained for encouraging; she desperately needed to know the full story and she needed Sam—Sasha?—to talk.

“Well, it’s not really something I like to spread around,” he said, lighting a new cigarette. They watched the trees across the clearing together, in silence, as the breeze picked up and shivered through the branches. Rachel’s studio backed up to a sharp decline in the landscape, with a spectacular view. A million shades of green mixed with splotches of gold, blood and rust so shocking it was almost indecent. Candy watched the forest dance from top to bottom in the shimmying wind. When the air finally met them on their sunny perch, it was cooler than she expected, and goose flesh stood up along her arms. Autumn was on its way, screaming in the leaves but lurking in the lengthening shadows. She remembered that same tingle up her arms, tickled by Sam’s breath.

She cast around for some way to help instead of criticize, “Are you guys in danger or something?” She thought she already knew the answer, though; why else would Sam’s mother be trying to hide him?

“We’d rather not be around when my dad gets out. Let’s put it like that.” Sam regarded her with a face of steel: and that’s all you get.

“Well...” Candy looked up at the sky and sighed hard.

“I understand you need to know more, but I don’t really know much, myself. I was just a kid the last time I saw my dad.”

“Well, when does he get out?” Candy persisted. Sam put up his hands again and shrugged. Candy cocked her head, bewildered, “Doesn’t that freak you out? Having some vague, possible peril looming sometime in the future?”

“Well, yeah,” he laughed bitterly. “What am I supposed to do about it, though?”

“Something.” She shook her head, puzzled. Looking around, she saw Ender’s Village preparing for a party. Folding tables were stacked alongside buildings. Doors that were usually shut tight were open, the lights and smells and sounds of activity within trickling outside.
Oh, right. First Thursdays.
She was unable to feel excited about one of her favorite events in Shirley.

She kicked a couple pebbles away from her flip-flops. Sam blew impressive smoke rings that floated over their heads like a Walt Disney dream sequence. After smiling graciously at the show for several minutes, she frowned at him, ugly and hard. She needed something more. Surely he understood that.

“Look. My name is Alexander Volkovski Koselov. But, I’d appreciate if we kept that between us.”

The blood drained from Candy’s face. Another name? “Alexander? I thought it was
Sasha
.” She sang the girly name in a taunt, suddenly furious and needing to injure. She jumped up with her hands on her hips, her black eyes smoldering.

“Candy…”

She hated being lied to. It made her feel like such a fool, her head completely twisted and jumbled. “You have so many names I can’t keep track of them all. Why don’t you get your stories straight if you’re gonna bother lying in the first place?”

“I can’t take this anymore,” Sam said, sounding tired. He stood and turned away. Avoiding her eyes, he stalked down the side of the corrugated metal building to retrieve a broom. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“So, that’s it? I get nothing else? Nothing?” Candy balled her fists at her sides.

“Sasha’s a nickname for Alexander,” he said, narrowing his eyes in a resentful green gaze as he brushed past her. “Thought you did your research.” He winked and clicked his tongue on the side of his teeth, before disappearing back inside.

chapter thirty-two

The heavenly aroma of garlic sautéed in butter greeted John as soon as he snuck into the kitchen. People were already arriving around the other side of the restaurant. When he walked up, he heard doors slamming in the parking lot and people hollering to friends that loitered around the front entrance, so John went in the back. He had been studying in the café and would’ve rather kept doing that, but there was no way he could miss “Italian Night.” James Robinson’s first event as restaurateur, Antonio’s welcome party, was a big deal on many levels.

More than anything, he was hoping for a sample. He found Rosa brushing fresh loaves of sliced Italian bread with one hand, and sprinkling minced oregano with the other, with all the finesse of wrapping a present.

She saw John inching nearer with shoulders scrunched and hands poised for picking. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned him with a throaty giggle. Rosa was a sweetie; she slapped his head, but then tweaked his cheek. “You see how perfect these are laid out?”

“You’re killin’ me, Rosa.”

She brandished the little brush in his face. “Get outta here, go on and help your papa.”

“Alright, alright.” John pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. His dad had just opened the front doors by the look of it, and he was already having trouble.

“For heaven sakes, I’m starving,” he heard someone whine.

“It’s about time you opened up, Jamie. I was wondering if we bought tickets for nothing.”

“I’m glad I waited to take my pill, my stomach can’t handle it without some food…”

“Don’t worry, everyone—there’s plenty of food. Good food.” Dad held the door open, and bowed to the elderly Shirleynarians wandering in. Their faces were screwed up and their eyes were strained, as if they had never been to Big Joe’s in their long lives. “The early birds can be harder to stomach than the worms,” was Grandpa’s sage advice. “The old farts always arrive early and ravenous, hoverin’ by the door like vultures.” Dad thought the idea he found online of making two separate buffet lines, to split up the crowd and keep people moving, was expert. He had lectured, “Serving the cold meats, fruits, cheeses first is more in keeping with the Italian diet.” John wasn’t so sure that authenticity mattered so much.

A senior patron looked at the first buffet table and then at Dad, aghast. “This is all there is—salad?”

“This is the antipasti, ma’am—the main course is on the patio,” Dad assured her.

“What’s
anti
-pasta?” someone else asked. A younger woman (though at least sixty herself) took her by the elbow leaned close to her ear, “Mom, you like this stuff. Look: salami, cheese, tomatoes, melon. That’s just olives and peppers; you don’t have to try those.”

Dad kept his calm, but John heard the edge in his voice. “Folks, you can either start here at the antipasti buffet—which is really just Italian-style appetizers—or you can head out to the patio and dig right into the main course. Theresa, would you mind.”

“Welcome to The Kitchen’s Italian Night, everyone.” The new hostess, dressed in traditional black, took over. She started shunting people gently yet forcibly into proper corrals as soon as they walked in. The pretty smile and long blonde hair helped. More dubious older folks were sent straight to the patio buffet, assured they would find familiar dishes there (bread and meat).

Escape to the patio sounded good to John, so he wandered in that direction before his dad could enlist him. As he turned away, he heard a shaky, confused voice ask, “We’re eating in the kitchen, not the dining room?” John kept walking.
Poor Dad.
Probably shouldn’t have introduced the new name tonight, although he had to admit “The Kitchen” was far superior to “Big Joe’s.”

The band was already setting up their gear outside. The spot his father had chosen would set the musicians’ backs to the cool breeze and rushing river below. It was a beautiful night and they would be comfortable there. Also, anyone milling around the immediate area of Shirley’s downtown would be able to hear the music. If they hadn’t already planned to attend the party, the sound of music or the smell of roasting meat would reel them onto the deck. That was the idea, but John didn’t think Shirleynarians needed reeling in for an event at the only restaurant in town, whatever the name. People were already hiking up the stairs to the patio, bypassing the clogged bottleneck at the front. He wondered if the hostess stationed at the entrance had sold them a ticket first.

“Better make sure they know about the rogues,” John mumbled to himself, then headed back inside.

He found his dad talking with Mrs. Jameson, the PTA president John had started thinking of as The Bobkitten. That nickname was the height of irony; there was nothing kitten-like about Mrs. Jameson, though she played the role and wore the costume and thought she had everyone fooled. The two parents were so absorbed in conversation that they didn’t notice John’s approach. He tuned his ears in their direction.

“…and you could have waited for me, before traipsing off across the world,” she was saying.

James Robinson ran a hand through his hair, always his first gesture of discomfort. “You would have wanted to join me across the world?”

“Maybe.”

“Why did you start screwing Mike Jameson the minute I left, then?”

She put her hand on her hip. “Why did you leave the minute after graduation?”

Dad mumbled something John couldn’t quite hear.

“Don’t be silly. You’re all I ever wanted, Jamie.”

“Mike Jameson, of all people. After that time when I passed out.” He was pissed.

“Oh, come on,” she said. Her knuckles grazed his chin like they were just old buddies, but her smile said the opposite. The Bobkitten was practiced at coy; John had seen her use a similar tactic on half-a-dozen male faculty members. “You know that was just an evil rumor.”

Dad finally caught sight of John, and his expression went from confused to relieved in an instant. “Well there he is.”

John put an arm around him. “Hey, Dad.” He offered his hand, “Hello, Mrs. Jameson.”

“Hey there, John.”

Shoulders went rigid under John’s arm. “You two have already met?”

“Of course. Mrs. Jameson practically runs Andrew Jackson.”

“Oh, John. I’m just the PTA President.” She grinned, clearly pleased with the honorable mention. “I always have a lot to do around the school, especially in the first few weeks of classes.”

“Well, I have to do the formal introductions,” James broke in, not willing to let the moment pass so unremarkably for some reason. “Stephanie Sherman—Jameson, sorry—I would like for you to meet my beloved son, John Robinson. He’s my pride and joy.”

“Aw shucks.”

“It is lovely to meet you formally, John.” She patted his cheek and broadened her smile, Vaselined teeth gleaming.

“And you, as well, ma’am.”

The Bobkitten looked from John to his dad, all innocence. “So, where is Amy, anyway?”

“Uh…” John searched his dad’s face. Snippets of his parents’ hushed arguing over the phone trickled through his thoughts. “Mom’ll probably be in for a visit next weekend, I think. Right?”

“That’s what she said.”

“She’s not coming to stay, Jamie?”

“Well,” James began awkwardly. Most people in Shirley would view the fact that his wife was not attached to him as strange in the extreme. The supposition that the couple might be living apart for some time raised questions.

John rescued him, “Mom, leave Memphis? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Imagining his mom there in the country, especially at the ‘Italian Night,’ gave John the willies. He actually enjoyed meeting all the strange civilians, teasing out their shady histories and discerning their twisted connections, but he knew his mother would have lost patience days after arriving. She had only visited sporadically through the years, putting in an appearance every other holiday or so, to keep face.

The Bobkitten pouted her sparkly pink lips. “Well, that’s too bad. I’d love to get to know her.”

By the way she was twirling her hair around her finger and bumping her elbow against Dad’s, John was sure the woman would have loved almost anything more. Right on cue, someone pushed past in a hurry and she fell into him, touching his chest in apology.

“Whoops,” his dad said, all awkward and goofy, helping to steady her without touching anywhere inappropriate.

John cleared his throat in embarrassment, but not for his father.

A teenage girl appeared with an equally well made-up frown. “Mom, I’m not going to wait forever. I’m not even hungry.”

“Oh, okay honey. Whatever…”

“You must be John. I’m Amanda. Let’s get out of here and let the old folks make goo-goo eyes at each other in private.” She grabbed John’s arm and steered him to the back patio. “Wow, there’s even a band playing. Nice touch.”

John looked for her face again, but cascading deep brown locks obscured it. “Uh, thanks. My dad found them last night in Ender’s Village, at the ‘First Thursday’ event.”

They were buffeted with a surprising crowd just outside the doors. Amanda held onto his arm as they watched the band from afar and said, “They’re pretty good. Kudos to Jamie.”

John agreed. He nailed it, in more ways than one. Rusty Pick-ups on Dusty Roads was playing a quiet jam, moving in and out of a basic melody. They weren’t blaring, but their music was endowed with enough of a perky bounce that the people loitering around talking were tapping their feet, feeling upbeat. A lady excused herself from her group to find the restroom, then twirled and clapped in admiration as she made her way across the central space. The space was perfect for a dance floor. John eyed the extra drums stashed behind the band. At Ender’s Village, Rusty Pick-ups hosted a drum circle, audience invited. Everyone in town knew that Antonio was a drummer.
Nice thought, Dad.

“Ender’s Village, huh?” asked Amanda, over the music, jerking her head to one side to indicate they might find a quieter spot. They settled in a corner away from the crowd, along the railing overlooking the river. John admired the view of the rapids, while Amanda kept her eyes on the people. “Good party. Your dad did an admirable job.”

John detected a hint of condescension. “Have you been to the First Thursday art opening? I didn’t go, had too much homework, but my dad is all about getting the feel for the real Shirley County.”

“Sure, they have them every month.” John waited for her to say more; when she didn’t, he knew she had never attended the event. Candy went all the time and couldn’t stop gushing about it for days afterwards. “But John, if you want to know the
real
Shirley County, you need to know its secrets. Where’s Candy?”

“I don’t know.” John looked around for show, not really expecting to see her. He didn’t regret warning her about Sam Castle’s dubious past, but he could have been more delicate. Candy had been snubbing him ever since. Not really angry. She was morose and he felt like shit about it. When he got on a research kick, though, it was hard to turn his mind away. Coming up empty about the stuff with his grandfather’s drawings and the possible ancient burial ground under Big Joe’s was frustrating in the extreme. The Sam mystery wasn’t as hard to solve and it helped let off some steam. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown it in Candy’s face.

“Miss your girlfriend?” asked Amanda.

“Candy?” John kept his face steady, because the chick was digging for something. “She’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”

“Are you wondering where she is tonight?”

“No.” John zeroed in. He got it—Amanda was more interested in Candy than she was in him. He hadn’t missed the “secrets” comment, and she was about to go in for the kill.
Hmm, what’s the game?

“Ever been to The Shack, where she likes to meet up with Sam Castle? Late.”

Oh, I see. She wants to destroy Candy’s reputation.
“No, I haven’t. Of course, you’ve been there yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Would you like for me to show you where it is?”

“What do you think?”

“John, my man!” John glanced back to see Antonio cutting through the crowd towards them, his adopted parent, Mrs. Walsh, trying to keep up.

“Hey there,” Amanda said, tossing her hair. “This is your coming out party, so now you need to let us get to know you, Tonio.”

John was shocked to watch her actually tickle his chin with one curled finger. He could tell she was trying to set him off balance, and John smirked as he watched Antonio grab her hand and kiss it. “You want to leave now, honey?” Antonio’s English always improved in such situations and John wondered how many American pornos he’d watched back in Italy.

Amanda was the one caught off guard. “Oh, heh. You sure live up to the Italian stereotype.”

“Stereo type?”

Candy’s nemesis is flustered, so she has to resort to insulting the poor guy.
John gave his friend a reassuring pat, “It just means the standard image of an Italian man is one who is aggressively flirtatious and sexually virile.”

“Oh, I am, Signorina…?”

Amanda looked at him, then at John.

“He wants to know your name.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m Amanda.” She leaned in for a kiss on each cheek, regaining her composure and ready to play her part with gusto. As Antonio openly appraised the sizable breasts she had just pushed into his chest, she gave John a triumphant smile. “I didn’t think we need an introduction. Everyone knows who you are.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but your presence is required over here, Antonio.” Mrs. Walsh finally pushed her way into their circle and grabbed her charge’s elbow. “Hi, kids. I’ll give him right back, but there are so many people who want to meet him tonight.”

“No problem, Mrs. Walsh. He’s an important guy.”

“You’re a dear, John.”

As soon as Antonio was out of earshot, Amanda resumed her earlier persona. “What a cliché. Every girl in town wants to do the Italian Stallion.”

“So, you just threw yourself at him, not because you want him—you just want to keep him away from your friends.”

Amanda jutted her chin and squared her shoulders, arrogance flooding her smile. “Actually, I’m not really sure what I want with him yet.”