Bottom Feeder Page 15

  Maddy is quiet while I mull that over. She’s right. I cannot deny any of it.

  She stares blankly out the window, watching the lines of the interstate pass by.

  Again when she speaks, she is void of emotion. “I took over the duties of Larry’s wife: cleaning, cooking and other things. Details aren’t important. Those memories are suppressed in places I have no reason to explore. If I think about them too hard, they resurface. The other stuff stopped when my body began to change. After that I became his personal punching bag. He hit me before, of course, but everything seemed to escalate. Like getting older was something I could help. I can never get back what he has taken from me. But that’s okay. I’m strong enough now to take this burden.”

  “Is that who gave you the bruises?”

  She focuses on her clenched hands. “I will take getting hit over the other stuff any day. Those wounds heal.”

  “No one noticed the injuries?”

  “I started taking boxing lessons and Krav Maga to explain the injuries that clothes could not cover. I grappled in class and ran into punches on purpose. That way, if anyone inquired about the visible injuries, no one would know where they came from. I could explain the first few black eyes or injuries as accidents. I learned quickly that people ask too many questions. I fixed it before it became an issue.”

  “Dixon must have noticed.”

  “Dixon noticed because he’s Dixon and Dixon notices everything. He never told anyone because he’s Dixon and Dixon is trustworthy. Besides, this is my battle to fight. Not his or anyone else’s.” She sighs heavily. “Larry threatened the people I love the most. I would rather die than have other people hurt—or worse—because of me. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut and take a few kicks and punches. I have to protect them. You are a soldier, Jackson. I hope you can understand the need to protect.”

  “The people you love? Cordell and Dixon can take care of themselves.”

  “Daddy?” She laughs without humor. “I’m not even sure I like him very much.”

  The sinking feeling bottoms out around my feet. “Who?”

  Silence speaks measure sometimes, doesn’t it?

  I pull to the shoulder. “That bastard raped you, beat you, and told you to keep your mouth shut or he would kill Dixon. And Mama. Am I right?”

  “I swear I never told anyone. I didn’t mean to get her mixed up in this. Dixon figured it out, but I never told him details. I beg Violet to triple lock everything, to be vigilant. She thinks I’m paranoid. Larry is a jealous sociopath. He did not like the time I spent with her. When her name was mentioned in his threats, it was just another way to intimidate me. But there was no need because I never told. Please understand that I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  “Will he hurt her?” Maddy slumps in the seat and looks away. “Look at me,” I plead.

  “I talked her into taking self-defense classes. A few months ago she added deadbolts and an alarm system. I ordered a Taser for her birthday.”

  Mama with a Taser? She doesn’t even kill spiders.

  “I had to take every precaution,” Maddy says in response to my raised brow. “I went to her house before school to make sure the doors were locked. Some nights I slept over.”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “Your stuff is in my duffel bag.”

  Maddy closes her eyes. “So embarrassing.”

  “It’s not that serious. I’ve seen plenty.”

  “Not mine.”

  I shrug. “Now I have.” Yes, I’m an asshole.

  She kicks off her flip flops and pulls her feet onto the seat, touching her head to her knees. With a heavy sigh, I pull back onto I-95. The next half hour is spent in silence. I am angry and starving. Not a good combination.

  Maddy disappears into the bathroom of a truck stop while I grab a Dr. Pepper, Doritos, Skittles and three Little Debbie’s. I pull out my cell phone.

  “Jeremiah needs a job,” I say when Lamont answers.

  “Huh?”

  “Tell your little brother he wants to work for Mama. And to walk her home at night.”

  “All right, J. I’ll tell him today.” No questions asked.

  The Doritos and Skittles are a distant memory when Maddy approaches the cashier. I stand beside her in order to pay for the water, package of baby carrots and pre-sliced apples she places on the counter.

  Three guys, dressed in construction gear walk through the door, coming to a halt when they spot Maddy. My defenses are instantly on alert.

  I pull out my wallet as one of the guys, let’s name him Tall and Scruffy, reaches over to hand the cashier a ten. He jerks his head toward me. “Since her brother here doesn’t want to be a gentleman.”

  Brother?

  “That’s sweet,” Maddy smiles. “Thank you.”

  He looks at her like she’s his next meal; a look in which Maddy is oblivious.

  I remain beside her with my mouth pressed in a hard line. I’m not her brother. He saved me five dollars and eighty-six cents.

  Why am I so angry?

  Maddy thanks him again before exiting the store. Tall and Scruffy follows, introducing himself as Junior.

  Of course his name is Junior.

  In his South Carolina drawl Junior says, “Lehmehtaykyewtasuppah.”

  Translation: Let me take you to supper.

  “If it’s okay with your brother,” he smirks.

  “Oh, he’s not my brother,” Maddy replies. “He’s a friend. Thank you for the invite, Junior, but we’re only passing through.” Regret and hurt flash across his face.

  Ha! Take that, you scruffy bastard.

  “Look, Jackson,” Maddy says when we settle in the car. “I’ve done what I can to make sure nothing happens to Violet. Someone is looking out for her. I can’t tell you who, but he’s . . . official.”

  “Does this have something to do with the black sedan?”

  Her eyes lock with mine, distracting me from the road. My eyes shift to her mouth. I quickly look away. She kicks off her flip flops and props her feet on the dash with one leg bent, the other straightened. I cut my eyes to her again. My gaze travels from her thighs to her calves to her feet—where her toes are painted in a rainbow of colors—and back up again.

  A familiar stirring beings in my stomach and works its way south.

  Eyes back on the road. Time for a change of subject. “Favorite book?”

  “Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes.”

  “A Crutcher fan, huh?” I ask. “Mine is Whale Talk.”

  She smiles. “A guy after my own heart.”

  “First kiss?”

  She looks as if I should know the answer. “Dixon. But it’s not like that, you know? I think of it as practice for something greater.”

  “Like me?” Smooth, Monroe.

  She shakes her head and mimics good ‘ol boy, Junior. “Can’t kiss my brother.”

  “Funny. Birthday?”

  Maddy’s eighteenth birthday is Friday. I promise her we will celebrate together. I instantly regret the promise, unsure as to why I made it in the first place.

  “You should take the car,” she offers once we arrive in Fayetteville.

  “Taxi service sucks here. Buses are practically nonexistent. You can’t sit in the room all week.”

  Although it would be nice to have this car for the next week, I’m not that selfish. Private Dominguez or his roommate, Private Beraz, usually drives me where I need to go. It’s a pain in the ass, but most of what I need is on the army base anyway. If my roommate had given me the keys to his car when he deployed a week ago, I would have something to drive. Instead he gave them to Beraz. I guess he thought my mental instability was too much to handle something on four wheels.

  At Maddy’s insistence, I check her into a hotel that is practically sitting in the mall parking lot.

  “If you need anything, call me,” I remind her for the eighth time. The room isn’t exactly luxury, but it’s clean and the area is safe.

>   Maddy wraps her arms around my waist. I hesitantly return the hug. Her hair smells good. Wow. Random.

  Maddy pulls back and looks into my eyes. “You really are beautiful,” she whispers absently. “Um, you know, no weirdo.”

  I laugh. Before I am ready to let go, she drops her arms. I lean back. Yep, flushed cheeks.

  I do like that.

  Maddy

  Monday

  Is it possible for cabin fever to set in within the first twenty-four hours?

  After sending an email to Dixon and responding to a short one from Chris, I read through Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes for the 28th time. The binding is worn from overuse and pages are falling out. I relate with Sarah on so many levels. Namely, our Daddy Issues.

  But stories like Stotan! and Deadline help me cope through tough days. I used to wonder if Mr. Crutcher would consider adopting me.

  Sad, I know.

  I work out to an online CrossFit program. I sprawl on the floor afterwards, wondering why I would choose a CrossFit program.

  Jackson calls to check on me at five thirty, says he will call again tomorrow.

  I prop the desk chair beneath the doorknob and double-check that the windows do not raise before crawling beneath the sheets.

  I do not sleep.

  Tuesday

  I peek out the window at five a.m. Beneath the streetlamps I notice two joggers circling the mall, followed by several others a few seconds later.

  I throw on my running gear and head outside. By the fifth lap my pace is quick, my breathing steady. My legs feel as if they could run forever. I wish they could. I wish I could. I return to the room on a runner’s high, sad there is no one to share it with. Maybe I should make friendly with one of the housekeepers.

  After stretching and showering, I walk to the coffee shop next door for breakfast. It’s nice to sit in public for hours without worrying about creepsters watching your every move and fathers telling you whom you should talk to and what you should eat and wear.

  I buy a chocolate chip cookie to prove my independence.

  Back in the room, I go through the same routine as yesterday, except this time I begin reading an early birthday gifts from Dixon, Spanking Shakespeare. By page three, I cannot stop laughing long enough to read any faster. It feels good to laugh without being chastised.

  I read through the first three pages again to prove it.

  Jackson calls at five thirty.

  Again, just checking in.

  Wednesday

  Deciding to change up my exciting schedule, I bought random crap at the mall I didn’t need. The salesgirl suckered me in with, “That color looks sooooo good on you!” and “Oh, honey, I wish I had your hourglass figure!”

  I blame it on the boredom.

  I replied to an email from Dixon. He loves Paris already. Good. He deserves to be happy. I wrote him back with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  Jackson calls at five thirty and blah blah blah.

  Thursday

  There are approximately 1,434 speckles in the old spackled-over holes in the ceiling at the far left corner of the room.

  You’re welcome.

  Jackson

  Tonight should consist of resting for the trip to New York City tomorrow. Instead I’m going to Club Pacific with Vanessa, a girl I met at Lackey’s nightclub on Wednesday.

  And let me tell you, she is hot.

  Private Dominguez came up with a brilliant plan so I can stay out late. If I bring Maddy to my room, I don’t have to wake up early. Sneaking her past the barracks’ sign-in desk without anyone else seeing should not be a problem.

  Our Staff Sergeant—Sergeant Wotley—plans to keep us late after work again today.

  This is a problem.

  I’m meeting Vanessa as soon as I can get out of here, and that very well needs to be sooner than later. My goal is to slide out quietly and quickly with some made-up bullshit assignment before Wotley comes back to the work site.

  I scan the large open field for possible candidates to retrieve Maddy’s luggage. If I cannot find someone, I will have to leave Vanessa early. And she is not the type of girl one leaves early.

  Hmmmm . . .

  Dominguez? No. I respect her enough to spare any interaction with him. Plus, he has a big mouth and I don’t want anyone to think I’m with her.

  Morris? No. He’s . . . well, Morris. Wynan? No. She’s a little scary, even for me.

  Private Beraz saunters into view with an armload of Burger King and Taco Bell bags. As the youngest Private in our Company, he usually gets stuck with the food runs and the crap weekend jobs, like picking weeds from cracks in the sidewalks and painting parking space lines. We like to call this type of cheap labor “character building”.

  Beraz has a rough background, but he does whatever anyone asks, no questions asked. Most importantly, he’s quiet and keeps to himself.

  “Beraz,” I say as he places a chalupa and crunchy taco at my feet. “Sit down for a minute. I’ve got a job for you.”

  He whips out his own king-sized BK meal and milkshake and begins eating like someone is going to take it from him.

  “I need you to go to Skibo Road to pick up something.”

  He arches his brow. “Work stuff?”

  I shake my head. “You know the car I’m driving?”

  Beraz finishes off the last bite of his triple whopper. “The Beemer?”

  I nod. “It belongs to the girl I’m taking to New York tomorrow. She’s at the hotel beside the mall. I need you to get her luggage and bring it back. She’s staying with me tonight.”

  Over a mouthful of fries, he begins a protest.

  “Come on, Beraz.” I lower my voice. “I have to get out of here early. Goodness, do you eat like that all the time?”

  “I like food.” He shrugs, finishes off his milkshake and pulls an apple pie from the bag. “Name? Room number?”

  “Maddy Carrington. Two-oh-two. Tell her I sent you.”

  Finishing off the apple pie, he rises.

  “One more thing,” I say before he walks away. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want people thinking she and I are . . . whatever.”

  Maddy

  Friday. Beautiful, beautiful Friday.

  My last day trapped in this dull, generic room.

  And.

  Wait for it—waiiiit forrr iiiiit . . . It’s my eighteenth birthday!

  Since I’m pretty sure Jackson isn’t going to make good on his promise, I plan to dress up, find a nice restaurant and treat myself to a movie.

  Boring, I know. But I can do boring things if I choose because I’m independent. Or something.

  As I’m getting ready to shower after my CrossFit workout (burpees suck), there is a low tap on the door. I pull my workout shorts on in a hurry and climb on the desk chair to glance out the peephole. The distinct pattern of an army uniform stares back at me.

  My heart races as I open the door, pitifully excited.

  I look up. And up. And up. “Oh!”

  “Six-five,” he answers my unspoken question.

  “Oh.”

  Really, Carrington? This is all you can say?

  “Maddy, right? Monroe sent me,” he finally says, amused at whatever reaction is on my face. He introduces himself as Dominic Beraz. “You can call me Dom.”

  “Excuse my manners.” I open the door a little wider and motion for him to come in.

  He removes the maroon beret from his head, revealing a mound of coal black hair, slightly longer than Jackson’s. I don’t realize how uncomfortable I am having a strange guy here until the door ominously closes behind him. The never answer the door to strangers thing is still accepted past childhood, right?

  “Why did Jackson send someone?”

  “He asked me to get your luggage, and to let you know you’ll be staying with him in the barracks tonight. His roommate is deployed. He mentioned something about leaving early tomorrow. I don’t know . . .” he trails off, bored.

  “Early?” I
perk up instantly. “Sweet baby Jesus in a crumb cake, thank you! I’m getting cabin fever in here.”

  Wait. The barracks? I vaguely recall communal showers in movies I’ve seen. The thought makes me cringe.

  Dom chuckles and steps further into the room. “Did you just say ‘Baby Jesus in a crumb cake’?”

  I smile sheepishly. “Obviously.”

  He laughs again and I look at him. Really look at him. My breath hitches a notch. He must have heard, because he flashes a sweet, pearly-white smile that glistens beautifully against his bronzed skin.

  His face is chiseled into a perfect oval shape with dark, deep-set eyes. His bottom lip pouts a little more than the top, the top arching into a perfect cupid’s bow.

  I notice all of these features in slow motion, not caring one bit that I’m gawking at my messenger like a museum exhibit. I’m indep—

  No, Carrington. You’re not independent. You’re a creeper.

  “What bags should I take?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer, flustered. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure.” He makes himself comfortable on the desk chair.

  Dom begins asking random questions to keep a conversation going. Oddly enough, I am very at ease with him.

  “Tell me about you,” I finally say after my ramblings about home and how much I love Tybee Island and Savannah. It really is too bad I’m never going back. “Age, where you’re from, brothers and sisters . . . anything you want to share.”

  “Um, well,” Dom hesitates, appearing to be in shock that I asked about him. “I’m nineteen. Kiowa, from Oklahoma City. Six brothers and sisters. I have the same job as Monroe, Explosive Ordinance. I’ve only been at Bragg a few months.”

  “And when you’re not working?”

  “Art,” he replies. “Mostly sketch. I paint when I have the space. I thought about getting my degree in art, but I think if I’m forced to do what I love, I’d hate it.”