Free The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) by Sarah Wathen

thrown over the back and one arm trailing the carpeted floor. As Sam stepped closer, he saw that she had the cordless phone gripped in one hand, clutching it to her chest.
    Waiting for Terry’s call all night? Resentment washed over him.
    He moved closer and listened to her breath, escaping in gentle snores, lips parted and eyebrows raised in dreaming wonderment. Sam kneeled next to the couch, slipped the phone from her hand and set it on the floor. That’s when he saw it. Bending over to investigate, he picked up an empty vodka bottle. So she was waiting for Terry.
    “Sorry Romeo had other plans,” Sam whispered and dropped the bottle with a hollow thud. He plopped down next to her, not worried about waking her any longer, knocking her leg off the back of the couch to fall against his back.
    “It’s too bad you missed that Rotary Club meeting at Big Joe’s you were so excited about.” The sour tang of consumed vodka wafted up from her disturbed nest. “Don’t worry, I took notes for you.”
    He searched around for the remote, found it lodged under her ass, and yanked it out. He switched off the television, wondering why in hell she had been watching the news. What did she care about current events? He glared hard at her undeniably pretty face, hardly the worse for all its wear, as if he could burn an answer from her. Her features were smooth and serene in a dream state and he had the urge to stab his fingers up both nostrils to wake her up. Wake up, Mom. You spend your whole life in a fucking dream.
    “Oh hey, I know you were interested,” he said, now feeling entitled and sorry for himself. “That PTA meeting you were looking forward to is next week. Start my senior year with a bang, right? Don’t worry, I’ll get the Bimmer all shined up for you, so you can roll in looking hot.”
    Sam glanced toward a window that he knew looked out over their corroded, beat-up car, permanently parked next to the trailer. He remembered how desperately she had wailed when the Oldsmobile died for good, only days after they had moved to Shirley County. She had talked about a new start, something about better disability laws here, and getting help for her Fibromyalgia. The memory of her perky, hopeful face, describing the ‘quaint little mountain town’ gave Sam’s guts a twist. It had only taken him a few minutes upon arriving in Shirley to realize they wouldn’t be living in the quaint section.
    Whatever, who cares? He wasn’t some rich little shit, who had to have crisp lacey linens on a damn porcelain washstand every morning and five-course fucking dinners every night. They were doing alright even if they couldn’t afford a lot. He picked her fallen hand up off the carpet, and held it, watching her sleep.
    Afford…
    Suspicion flickered.
    How the hell could she afford that bottle of—
    He leaned over to read the factory label on the empty bottle.
    “Grey Goose. Terry’s favorite. If he never showed up, where did you get the money to pay for a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, Mom?”
    Sam shot to his feet and stomped through the center room, blasting through his bedroom door in a fury. Scanning his shelves, he quickly confirmed that another of his mint condition Star Wars action figures—still in the box—was missing, and he knew exactly where it had disappeared to.
    “Damn it, Mom.”
    The figures had been purchased by his maternal grandmother, right after the trouble with Sam’s dad, the rare characters painstakingly sought out and bargained for. Grandma was an eccentric old lady, and had the crazy idea that the figures could be worth a fortune in years to come, and she had stored them away for Sam’s college fund. Her will entrusted them to his care, and she made a last written request that they be saved for “his future.” Sam doubted they could actually help pay for college, but they were from her, so they were precious to him.
    Then, a couple years back, his mom cajoled him to take the boxes out of storage,