Free Mike's Wager: Short Story (The Camerons of Tide's Way #3.5) by Skye Taylor Page A

town. “He’d be more likely to offer him a bed at the sheriff’s office. The cells there don’t get used all that much.”
    “And hang out with Otis? You sure this place isn’t called Mayberry?” The entire group hooted with laughter.
    “I’m serious,” Mike sat forward and dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor.
    Kirk pulled his wallet out and slapped a fifty dollar bill on the table. “Fifty bucks says you get someone to play the homeless bum for a week and no one pays any attention.”
    Troy glanced at Mike, then drew his wallet out and matched Kirk’s bet. “I’m in.”
    There was a shuffle as everyone at the table dug into their pockets and added to the growing pile of bills.
    Mike wondered where on earth he was going to find anyone willing to play the bum. But town pride blossomed in his chest. Or maybe it was the beer coursing through his veins. But whatever, he was going to prove these guys wrong. He whistled to get attention and called the owner of the bar over to the table. When the man arrived, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband, Mike scooped up the money, counted it out and then handed it to the bartender.
    Murphy looked at the thick wad of bills in his hand, then at Mike. “What’s this for?”
    “It’s a bet, and you get to be the keeper of the pot until I either win or lose it.”
    Murphy grinned as he folded the bills in half and shoved them into his pocket. “So, what’s the bet?”
    MIKE HELD THE tattered jacket with a broken zipper closed and willed his body to stop shivering. Winning the bet was looking more and more unlikely. He’d been so sure the residents of Tide’s Way would have done something before now. Even if it was only a complaint to Sheriff Nicholson that ended up with Mike getting kicked out of town or recognized. Mike wasn’t sure which would be more embarrassing.
    He must have been drunker than he’d thought to get involved in such a stupid wager. But even when the next morning came and he’d woken up sober, it had seemed like an easy bet to win.
    With Spring break on the way, he could find some homeless guy desperate enough to go along with the caper, fly the man down to North Carolina and set him up in a likely location. Then Mike could watch the progress of his experiment from the comfort and warmth of his parent’s home.
    But no one had been that desperate. The few men he’d convinced to even talk to him had preferred to stay where they were. Close to their regular round of soup kitchens and emergency shelters that opened when the temperatures really plummeted. Close to the familiar colony of homeless men and women they’d come to trust. They had not trusted Mike. No matter how easy he’d made the job sound.
    So, here he was, shivering under an old tarp draped over the railing of the bandstand on Tide’s Way’s small common with barely enough food to keep a kitten alive. Some spring break this was turning out to be. And if something didn’t happen in the next two days, he’d lose his bet. It wasn’t the seven hundred and fifty bucks he’d have to fork over to cover all the bets that bothered him though. It was the fact that his hometown was apparently not what he’d thought it was. The people of Tide’s Way had continued to go about their business without one person approaching him, or even offering a cup of hot coffee. Where was their compassion?
    With nothing else to do, Mike pulled the frayed and stinking sleeping bag he’d traded for his L.L.Bean fleece-lined, winter-weight, good-down-to-minus-5-degree bag up to his neck and curled into a tight ball. He pictured the haunted, skeletal veteran this bag had belonged to, comfortably cozy in his bag, probably still on top of that rusted grating with the laundry steam warming his backside.
    When Mike woke, it was dark. Good thing. He had to pee. He stood up as much as was possibly inside his damp and drafty lean-to and let the sleeping bag drop into a stinking puddle