Bottom Feeder Page 10

  “Because,” he says taking a gulp of tea, “Chris wants to kick your cornbread-eatin’ ass all the way back to Bragg.”

  I raise my eyebrows and laugh. “The last time I saw Chris he was five-five and a buck fifty, soaking wet. He’s not kicking anybody’s ass.”

  Lamont shakes his head. “He had a growth spurt a couple years ago. I think he could take you.”

  “Kiss my cornbread-eatin' ass, ‘Mont.” So that was the guy on the beach sending me death glares. I guess Little Chris isn’t so little anymore.

  He laughs and snatches my uneaten sandwich. “According to Chris’s description, it seems your taste in the ladies has changed. You used to like ‘em stick-skinny.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t stray.”

  “Ass is ass, JB.”

  “That’s deep, ‘Mont,” I note matter-of-factly. “Is that Plato you’re quoting? Maybe Anselm? Tupac?”

  “Whatever, you sarcastic bastard. I’m saying go for it if you like her, you know?” Changing the subject, he says, “Ahmad is back for the summer. His little brother just graduated. They have a kick ass party going on tonight. A lot of people we know are going to be there, mostly Ahmad’s friends since Emil never really had any other than those Trekkie dudes.”

  Ahmad has been known for his parties since freshman year. His parents moved into a larger home on Tybee Island and their small two-story house on the outskirts of Savannah was meant to be used for the family law firm. When Mr. Miller found a space in one of Cordell’s larger office buildings in Savannah, the unused house became party central.

  It is considered a sin to miss an Ahmad Miller bash.

  Lamont pulls behind a long line of cars in Ahmad’s dirt driveway, a half-mile from the house. A red cup filled with beer is thrust into my hand when I walk through the door. Lamont aims for the kitchen while I get comfy on a couch and finish the first beer.

  I spot Chris in the middle of the floor, dancing with Maddy. By the look in his eyes, he is definitely into her.

  Maddy is wearing a black form-fitting shirt with “These Four Walls”—the name of my favorite band—written across the chest in cracked white letters. Her sun-kissed legs show beautifully in a pair of dark washed cut-offs that are long enough to be classy and short enough to be sexy.

  Shit. Did I really just refer to her as sexy?

  Chris’s arms snake around Maddy. He pulls her close as they dance in unison to the thumpthumpthump of the music. Her face flinches, like his touch is hurting her. I stand to intervene when Maddy swings her head around and smiles.

  Someone hands me another beer. My eyes circle the room a few times, always landing on Maddy. That is, until Lamont calls for Chris and he disappears into the crowd. She continues dancing like no one is watching her move.

  I make my way around the house, talking to anyone who talks to me. Then, as if a switch is turned on, the feeling of entrapment secures itself inside my brain. Fight or flight panic, mixed with a weird sense of calm, rises inside me. Blood pounds behind my ears in rhythm with my erratic breathing.

  Air. I need air.

  I trail my way around the large crowd at a snail’s pace until I am swirled into an embrace with a girl I kind of recognize. Five-seven. Tan. White-blonde hair with pink streaks. Familiar brown eyes.

  “Heyyyyyyyyy, Jackson,” Blonde Girl slurs. The voice triggers a memory. A bad memory. She wraps her arms around me and nuzzles into the hollow of my neck.

  Well okay. I’ll play along.

  “Really, Libby?” another familiar voice calls out. My eyes shoot open to see Maddy glaring like I just committed a crime. Or is it Libby’s back she’s searing a hole into?

  Oh. My. God. Libby? Libby! I am hugging a no-longer dark haired and pale Libby Jarrett. My hands fall limp. I picture a knife raised to my back.

  I silently plead for help.

  Grabbing Libby gently by the waist, Maddy peels her away. “Libby, honey,” she soothes, “Derek is out back waiting for you.”

  “Derek?” Libby sits haphazardly on a barstool. “What about Jackson?”

  Maddy smiles and swings the stool away from me. She tucks a stray hair behind Libby’s ear. “Jackson’s not here, sweetie. Let’s go out back and look for your fiancé, okay?”

  I sit down on the stool and bang my head against the counter.

  Maddy

  I like to think of myself as a professional at hiding emotions. However, all traces of being tactful flew out the window when my phone lit up with Jackson’s number a few hours ago.

  Why would he spend the day with Laney then call me? I’m not jealous. I don’t like games.

  Do I sound bitter? Dern skippy, I’m bitter. On the bright side I’m worth a pretty expensive car. On the crap side is, well, everything else. Optimism is obviously my strong point.

  Which is exactly why I’m at this party trying not to look the way I feel: tired and defeated.

  This infatuation with him needs to end. Yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, I saw a glimpse of the real Jackson last night as he talked about the army and Violet. I didn’t miss the inflection of pain in his voice when the conversation somehow drifted to his father. There was nothing arrogant about him at all.

  But I am only a job for him, a task to complete.

  “I luff you, Maddy,” Libby slurs. “You’re sushagoodperson.”

  With all of Libby’s weight shifted on me, it takes fifteen minutes to plant her next to Derek by the pool. My ribs and back scream with pain. I danced with Chris earlier and when his hands grazed across fresh bruises, I almost fell to my knees. I feel like a corset is being pulled too tightly around my midsection.

  I pass Dixon and Matt talking in the living room, laughing and smiling like they’re having the time of their lives. I hope they are.

  “Maddy!” Chris calls across the room. “Wait up!”

  Chris Washington is—was—one of the most popular guys in school. He is the guy people gravitate to. The guy who acknowledges everyone, regardless of social status. Chris was also our valedictorian and has a full academic scholarship to the University of Georgia.

  He leads me to the middle of the floor. Someone else calls for him. Again. The woes of being popular, I guess.

  “It’s my cousin,” he says, “I’ll be back in a minute. We’re not done yet.” He flashes his perfect, bright white smile then fades into the crowd.

  I straighten my slumped shoulders and plop on an empty sofa. I close my eyes.

  All right, Carrington, pull your big girl panties on and stop pouting. Suck it up. Move on. When you open your eyes you will stop being emo.

  For now my eyes remain closed.

  The seat concaves next to me. “You can sleep through this?”

  Without opening my eyes I reply, “Hey, Jackson.”

  “I thought you were supposed to teach me how to dance, not Chris.” He tries to make his voice sound hurt. I’m not in the mood to humor his ego. My father and his security cameras are nowhere around.

  That’s enough feeling sorry for yourself. Suck it up. Shake it off.

  I open my eyes and sneak a glance at him. My eyes linger on his lips. I try for another mental pep talk. Nope. I got nothing. “There’s plenty of room for me to teach you. You ready?”

  “You know what?” Jackson scans the room. “Yeah.”

  Jackson

  “Follow whatever I do,” Maddy says as we make our way to the center of the room.

  The music speeds up to an intricate, fast-paced tempo. Maddy moves skillfully, hitting each strike of the complicated beats with her feet and hips. She spins to see if I’m following.

  “Thought you couldn’t dance.”

  I shrug. “I lie sometimes.”

  She rolls her eyes and spins around again. I loosen up and move closer, placing my hands on her waist. She freezes for a moment and continues dancing without looking back. The song fades to the next.

  Since I’ve been a little weirded out for the last half hour, and Maddy seems to be my dose of anti
-depressant, I gently tighten my grip before she tries to pull away.

  Our bodies touch, sending a bizarre rush through my veins. Our movements cause the bottom of her shirt to raise a little, and my fingers brush against bare skin. No one and nothing matters as I rest my cheek on hers. Maddy closes her eyes and leans her head against my chest. The feeling of being next to her is damn near euphoric.

  Something tells me this is the way it should be. She is where I belong.

  I back away when the song ends. “Thanks for the lesson,” I murmur. We make our way back to the sofa. “And, uh, thanks for the . . . you know, with Libby.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And Laney.”

  “Really, Jackson, don’t mention it. You’re not the first.” She closes her eyes and rests her head on the back of the couch.

  “Say what?”

  Maddy opens her eyes and looks at me. Her eyes never move, but I know she is studying me. I let her.

  “Anyone I know?”

  I follow her eyes to a guy with long, white-tipped black hair sitting on the stairs. Sitting on the stair below him is Dixon. “No way.”

  “Everyone knows about Dixon and Laney. He was her trial-and-error for Sift and Snatch. It’s not a big secret.”

  Great. There’s a name for Laney’s game. “Who else?”

  “I’m not in the business of divulging secrets.”

  Maddy

  I know. It’s weird that I reclaim personal belongings from Laney’s sexual feats. I should let the guys get their own crap, right?

  I’m going to tell you something that I would never admit out loud. I do not like Laney one bit. Her personality is the consistency of dirty dishwater: nice and sudsy on top, greasy on the next layer and filthy right down to the bottom.

  I don’t like games and hers particularly irritates me. She acts butt-hurt when no one wants to put up with her antics. More times than not she goes for guys who are in relationships. I do not help them.

  Daddy cheated on Mama plenty of times before she died. She knew, and although I was just a kid, I was aware of everything.

  She was in so much pain from his deception, his infidelities. Still she stayed. From what I know now she probably did not have much of a choice. I remember hearing quiet sobs muffled through her bedroom door. As awful as it sounds she probably welcomed her death. God she was so miserable. Daddy’s way of consolation was to indulge her with jewelry and material things Mama never wanted.

  One of the many lessons I learned from Grace Carrington is that material possessions do not amount to someone’s worth. Handmade dresses worth thousands and seventy thousand dollar cars will never make me happy.

  I am broken from my too-serious-for-any-party thoughts when the DJ spins an old school hip hop mix. You can’t exactly sulk when Run DMC is telling you it's tricky to rock a rhyme that's right on time.

  Someone jumps over the back of the couch.

  “Dude, do you hear that? Find me somebody to dance with!” He clutches Jackson’s shoulders, shaking them like it’s an urgent matter. I stand to make my way to the center of the floor.

  “Maddy, wait.” Jackson grabs my hand. “Dance with Lamont?”

  Great. Someone else my presence is being forced upon.

  He yells by Lamont’s ear, “This is Maddy Carrington.”

  Lamont turns and narrows his eyes. “Damn.”

  My heart crashes to the pit of my stomach. I don’t know this guy and he’s already passing judgment? I turn my head away so whatever emotion is written on my face is hidden.

  Jackson’s hand is replaced by Lamont’s. The pounding of the music makes me forget that I should pull away from this guy and tell him where he can go and what he can do with his crap attitude. Okay, so I wouldn’t really tell him that. I’m totally thinking it.

  The floor is crammed with enthusiastic people trying to start a dance off. Heat radiates from the close proximity of bodies, making the room seem small and claustrophobic.

  A pair of hands wrap around my waist from behind. The bruises will have bruises by tomorrow morning if I don’t leave this party soon. I turn my head and am face-to-face with a grin that has surely caused better women to swoon. Lamont bends to my ear, “JB might not want to be seen with you because you’re not his type, but I think you’re sexy as hell and will take his place any time.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I reply. “Such a charmer.”

  “Damn right, I am.”

  Good to know. Seriously, can a girl catch a break today? I never knew it was possible to pay a compliment and insult someone in the same sentence. That is either a trademarked skill or an intense case of douche baggery. Yes, baggery is a word. In my dictionary anyway.

  I continue dancing. If there’s one thing I have learned in my deranged life, it is to never let anyone see you hurting. Ever. Pain is a useless emotion. It helps nothing, it fuels everything.

  But Lamont’s words seep into me like hundreds of tiny bees stinging inside my chest.

  I glance up to see Jackson scanning the room. Our eyes lock. He begins to stand. Janelle Briston, our class Salutatorian, sits on his lap.

  Being here tonight and seeing him with Janelle is my reminder of why my crush on him is unnecessary and pathetic. Not to mention he was with Laney only a few hours ago. No need for a pep talk. It is officially time to leave.

  Since Dixon is finally talking to Matt, my only other option is to walk halfway to Savannah and call a taxi since none of the companies will come this far out for less than $100.

  “Finally,” I look up to see Chris smile and take my hand. “Let’s serve it up.”

  “Actually, I’m wondering if you could ta—”

  Behind me, Lamont yells a string of alcohol-induced profanities. I turn around, wincing from the pain in my ribs, just in time to see Lamont’s fist en route to Chris’s head. Chris ducks, pulls me to the side and plants his right fist on Lamont’s face. Lamont stumbles and falls to the floor.

  Chris apologizes to me and stands over Lamont. “You are not over there anymore, you psychotic son of a bitch!” He snatches a beer from Tommy Crenshaw’s hand before storming out of the room.

  Lamont doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s out cold. The crowd does not seem to care that someone is lying motionless behind them. I look to Jackson for help, but Janelle is straddled on his lap. Okay then.

  I cradle Lamont’s head. “Lamont?” He groans. “Lamont, open your eyes.” Another groan. Freakin’-A! Ugh. “Dude, we’re going to be trampled.”

  His eyes flutter open. Glazed, not dilated. Good. No concussion.

  “I like you,” he smiles.

  I roll my eyes. “And you’re drunk.”

  “Yuh-huh,” he nods.

  I wrap his arm around my neck and lock my hands around his waist. “When I count to three, lean your weight on me and push yourself up. One . . . two . . . three!”

  With another grunt, he stands. Outside, Lamont stops me from unraveling our arms.

  “Take me home?” he asks with a hint of sadness.

  “I didn’t drive.”

  “Can you drive a stick?”

  “Like a pro. Does Jackson have a ride home?” I may be hurt, but Jackson still needs to get home.

  “I think he’ll be occupied for the rest of the night.”

  I lead Lamont to the edge of the yard, stopping at Dixon’s Bronco to grab my purse. During the time it takes us to walk the half mile to his car Lamont slurs through a couple of horrifying war stories in a country rarely mentioned in the news. I remain quiet, allowing him to release his frustration, bitterness, and anger. Sometimes it’s best to just let someone talk about everything bottled up inside. No questions. No judgment.

  Lamont’s arms have been squeezed so tightly around my waist that by the time we reach the car the bruises throb like each have their own erratic pulse. I guide him on the passenger seat. His body slumps left. I straighten him. His body slumps right. I straighten him again, shutting the do
or quickly so he doesn’t fall out.

  “Maddy, wait!” Jackson is kicking up dust down the dirt driveway with Janelle trailing behind, a stiletto in each hand.

  “You want to drive him?” I ask.

  “I’m not drunk, but I’ve been drinking. I can’t risk a DUI. Oh, and I don’t have my license with me.”

  “JayyyyyBeeeee,” Janelle whines when she catches up, “Now my feet are all dirty.” Is her bottom lip poking out?

  I reach in my purse and pull out the pack of wet wipes I keep handy.

  “Thaaaaaanks, Maddy! Ohmahgah you’re the best ever!” Janelle is one of the smartest, sweetest girls I know, but she is pretending to be drunk to cover her actions. I’ve been around the real thing enough to know a fake drunk when I hear and see it.

  I’m not sure if I should be repulsed or impressed at the thought process behind her tactic.

  “I don’t mind taking him.”

  “He’s staying in a hotel on Tybee. I’ll show you.” Janelle takes Jackson’s hand. He sighs and opens the back door for her.

  “Fix your face and hide your crazy, Madelyn Faith,” Mama used to say. “Don’t let them see you upset. No one deserves that type of control over you.”

  I take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  I adjust the rearview mirror. Jackson meets my eyes in the mirror just as I spot Janelle nibbling on his earlobe.

  I divert my attention to the road.

  Lamont turns to the makeout session. “Didn’t you have a date with Maddy last night?”

  I glance in the mirror to horror spreading across Jackson’s face.

  Janelle squeals. “You went on a date with JB, Maddy? That’s so cute!”

  Pushing in the clutch and gearing up to fifth, I increase the speed of the Galant and pray there are no cops in sight.

  “Thanks, Maddy. I owe you one.” Jackson’s eyes do not meet mine as he helps Janelle out of the car.

  “No. You don’t.” I’m too tired not to look disappointed. “Friends help friends, right?”

  “Friends,” Jackson repeats quietly, more to himself than me. He pulls Lamont from the car and half-carries, half-drags him to the front of the hotel.