The Tramp

Chapter 2

Madison was standing in front of a small bungalow with a candied pink and yellow door and an unlit neon sign in the window, encouraging passersby to, "Have a sip. Take a lick." Feeling a little dirty, in a kiddie-porn sort of way, Shannon pushed the door open to venture inside.

 "Dad's looking for the shop person. There's no one here," Braden called over his shoulder. He stalked off down the path, kicking stones and bending down now and again to grab one and peg a bird. An indignant crow hopped away from him, squawking.

The store was at least cooler, air-conditioner dry, and Shannon filled her lungs in relief. She smelled burnt coffee, old leather, and books. The place was part ice cream parlor and coffee shop, part library and game room. Two walls were lined with bookshelves that met in the corner, the store separated by a wide hutch crammed with board games. One side was a festival of overstuffed chairs parked next to marble and iron ice cream tables The other was strewn with beanbag chairs mostly hidden from Shannon's view. She wouldn't have minded crashing on a beanbag with an ice cream cone, but she had a feeling the place was closed. Just like everyplace else.

Why bother having a shopping area where the stores are always closed? Small towns drive me insane. She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned all around, her hair frizzed and her patience gone. "Kevin, where are you?"

Behind the shop counter, she could see a fancy cappuccino press—unmanned, of course. A faded silkscreen print claimed that, "Joe's swirl will blow your whirl," next to a lonely soft-serve machine and tubs of ice cream under frosted glass. Kevin appeared from behind the counter, apparently having cased the back room unsuccessfully, his hands raised in surrender. Shannon banged the counter bell, wincing, as the action stung her fingers to the bone.

"This is the rudest little shithole I've ever had the misfortune of 'discovering.'" She was embarrassed by her air-quotes. It was so very Braden of her.

"That's a pottymouth, Shan."

"Let's get the hell out of here before I say a worse one, then."

A teenage girl snorted and bit down on her knuckle to stifle her laugh. Her companion raised a finger to his lips, barely daring to breath in their covert location behind the hutch. The two had been absorbed in their game, she on her belly, knees bent with her feet in the air as he sat cross-legged opposite a chessboard—concealed, when the tourists bustled in with self-righteous demands.

"The grocery was definitely functioning and staffed when I passed it," Kevin said as he opened the door. "Let's just get some supplies and hit the road."

"Fine."

The door banged shut behind them, the whines of children and their strained parents fading into the summer heat.

"Was that rude of me not to spring up and fulfill their every desire?" the girl asked in mock innocence.

"No, but you're definitely a sugar-honey-iced-tea hole."

"You're disgusting, Louis. How would you know, anyway?"

"Touché, Candy, my dear."

"Are you gonna move, or not?"

"Yes, Snappy Snapstress. Give me a minute here."

She had already given him at least twenty and she could tell he wasn't going to figure a way out of her trap. "Your knight is growing mold on it."

"Don't help me."

"I'm trying to help myself." Candy rifled her shaggy red hair in frustration, and rolled onto her back. She squinted her eyes at the cracks in the ceiling, transforming them into a network of roads on an old yellowed map, and began composing a story in her head to entertain herself. The bell banged on the front door again and she heard the conversation-in-progress between two men pour into the store.