Bottom Feeder Read online

  The outline of a plan flashes in my head like a neon sign. I will fix this and leave. Alone.

  First I have to find out what happened to Jackson because of me. I will make right whatever trouble I have caused.

  No matter what.

  My phone rings. Violet.

  “Is Jackson with you?” she asks after my greeting.

  “No, he’s uh, I don’t know where he is.” Is she crying? “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

  “I’ve got some bad news.”

  Jackson

  The cell phone rings in my pocket.

  “Mama, I’m busy right now. Can I call you back?”

  “Lamont’s been in an accident,” she sniffles.

  I pause outside Sergeant Wotley’s office. “What kind of accident?”

  “A car accident,” she says. “I let him borrow my car to move Chris into the dorms yesterday. Chris and Jeremiah were in the Galant, and Lamont was driving the Civic. Jeremiah is awake. He said Lamont was in front of them on a stretch of I-16 when, out of nowhere, a dually truck cut half-way in between the two cars and performed a PIT maneuver on the Civic. Lamont lost control, hit the median, flipped several times and landed upside down.”

  “Are you at the hospital?”

  “Yes, I just stepped out to call you.”

  “If the truck only hit Lamont, how did Chris and Jeremiah end up in the hospital, too?”

  “Chris sped up to get to Lamont while Jeremiah dialed 911. The driver of the dually did a U-turn in the median to come back. Only, instead of stopping to help, he rammed into the driver’s side of the Galant and pushed it about twenty yards away from Lamont’s accident. They’re both in critical condition, Jackson. Jeremiah’s leg is broken and he has a few bruises, but nothing serious.”

  Never in my life have I felt the amount of pain I’m feeling right now. “I’m coming home.”

  “No,” Mama says firmly. “This was a hit-and-run, but it was no accident. Someone did this on purpose, and I have a feeling just who is responsible.”

  “Are you going to tell the police?”

  “Most of their pockets are lined with his filth,” she says. “I’ll prove it my own way. Keep yourself up there. I mean it. I’ll call if anything changes.”

  I step into Sergeant Wotley’s office. After that, it’s all black.

  Pain. Pain everywhere.

  The explosion echoes across the mountain range. A split second of confusion. Disorder. Adrenaline. Organized chaos. The sounds of bedlam surround me.

  Bodies of men dressed in typical Afghan payraan tumbaans, pakol hats and shemagh scarves wrapped around their faces begin dropping out of the sky, landing at my feet. I run toward the voices of my fellow soldiers.

  “Friendly!” I yell, low crawling into the barricade. Bullets whistle above my head. A hand pulls me the rest of the way to safety. I pick myself up and glance around. The soldiers change into unarmed men with empty eyes and shemagh scarves covering their faces.

  My gun disintegrates into thin air. The pieces turn to a dust cloud that wraps around my head.

  I want to see the faces of the men who will kill me. I unwrap the shemagh of the man in front of me, the man in charge. Oddly enough, he allows this. I pull the material from his face slowly. Looking back at me is Cordell. With a methodical, urgent quickness, I repeat this procedure with the unending bodies inside the barricade.

  Each unveiling reveals a soldier on my team and in my unit who was killed in action. They all crumble to dust as I move to the next. And the next.

  A searing pain burns inside my head. I remove the last scarf from the statue-like body.

  Maddy.

  She, like the others, crumbles to dust. I drop to my knees and try picking up the granules. The sky opens up and droplets of warm water graze my head. I think of angels of crying.

  Cordell’s breath is on my neck. “Keep the things you heard today a well-guarded secret, as if your life depended on it. And believe me, son, it does.”

  I wake with a jolt.

  Fingers are combing through my hair.

  “Jackson, please,” Maddy pleads through broken sobs. “I’m so sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” More warm water drips on my face. Tears. She quickly wipes them away.

  I try sitting up.

  “Not yet.” Maddy tugs gently on my arm.

  I slump back, glancing into her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Maddy,” I begin.

  “I’m sorry for hurting you,” she interrupts. “You have every right to be mad. I’ve caused so many problems, just . . . I deserve whatever you feel is necessary. Please know I’m sorry. For everything. I will fix everything.” She closes her eyes and sucks in a few breaths of air. “I have to.”

  I raise my hand to touch her face. She winces, bracing herself for me to hit her.

  I wipe the tears from her cheek. “I would never hit you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “You don’t have to apolo—“

  She raises her hand to cut me off. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “I can’t believe I said those things. I’m sor—”

  “Don’t,” she interrupts. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. My life has been filled with nothing but lies and false apologies.”

  I attempt to stand.

  “Let me help.” Maddy stands, drapes my arm over her shoulder. “You’ll have to help. Move to the bed first. Ready? One . . . two . . . three.”

  I flop across the bed. “You have a bump.”

  “Bump?” I ask, confused. I raise my hand to feel the small protrusion. The massive headache makes it seem much bigger than it is.

  “Do you want to go the hospital?”

  “No,” I reply. “I’ll just take some aspirin.”

  She pulls out a bottle of water from the compact refrigerator and retrieves aspirin from the bathroom. The cold water feels good going down my throat, ending with a chilly splash at the bottom of my empty stomach.

  “Here, take this,” she demands, thrusting a makeshift icepack into my hands.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Humor me,” she insists. I sigh and shove the icepack to my head—a little too hard—and keel over in pain.

  “Carefully!” she asserts, pulling the pack out of my hand and taking over.

  She motions for me to rest my head on her lap. She presses the ice to my head and begins humming a slow melody that almost drifts me to sleep.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” she snaps.

  “Dammit, you are so stubborn. Please, just let me .”

  “You don’t owe me a thing,” she interrupts, her voice softer. “Granted, your delivery was terrible. But everything you said would have kept me in the dark. It seems strange, I guess, but now—” She pauses to toss the melted icepack in the garbage. “Now my life makes sense in areas that never seemed to make any sense.”

  She begins to hum again, but stops abruptly. “I’m not going to tell him.”

  “What?”

  “My fath—Cordell. I’m not telling him.”

  “What do you mean?” I shift my head so she doesn’t see the relief on my face. The swift move makes me feel dizzy. I slowly turn on my side, my cheek rests on the bare skin of her upper thigh. The sweet scent of her fills my nose. When she runs her soft fingers across the bump on my head again, I feel helpless. Vulnerable. And oddly turned on.

  “You were talking while you were out, saying ‘He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me.’ I know Cordell doesn’t make fair business deals.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry,” she sighs. “You will get your car. I’m not saying anything to him or anyone else. I’ll do what it takes to make this right for Lamont, Jeremiah, Chris and you. How much trouble are you in?”

  “Extra duty and a cut in pay.” I think. I don’t really remember. Wotley also talked about reducing my rank back to Private.

  “Are they always so
unforgiving?”

  “No. They are only this harsh if the person in the room is underage. I was stupid to bring you here. I wasn’t thinking.” Well, I was thinking. Just not about getting caught.

  “I’m not underage.”

  “Seventeen is underage, Maddy.”

  “Yesterday was my birthday.” Oh. Yeah. “As soon as you’re better, I’m leaving,” she continues.

  “If you drive the first part, I can handle the second part of the trip.”

  “Alone, Jackson.” She releases a hard, angry breath. “You don’t have to babysit anymore.”

  “Maddy, please.” I manage to sit upright. “God, I just don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t want you to go alone. To leave. There’s something that I feel for you that I can’t explain.”

  She snorts. “I’d like to forget about the last fourteen days and begin picking up the pieces.”

  I wince. “You want to forget about me?”

  She looks at me, deadpan. "Yes. Yes, I would." Before I have time to process this, she continues, "I'm will fix this. You'll have your money back, with interest. Then you will never hear from me again. I promise." She scoots off the bed. “Do you have anything I can change into temporarily? My things are still in Dom’s room.”

  I give Maddy a white undershirt and a pair of my roommate’s basketball shorts. I want to tell her I’m an idiot, that I’m sorry for messing up. I don’t. Pride and stupidity weigh me down.

  “Maybe you should shower in Beraz’s room. Mine is . . .”

  “I cleaned it,” she says through the closed door.

  I plop down on the bed and drift to sleep.

  “How are you feeling?” Maddy asks some time later. Her face is full of concern, but her beautiful sapphire eyes are distant.

  “Healthy as a horse,” I answer with a low groan.

  A smile twitches on her lips. “You may smell like a horse—one that’s been in a brewery instead of a stable—but you certainly aren’t as healthy as one.”

  Maybe that’s why Sergeant Wotley kept backing away every time I tried to speak. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “Stay where you are for now. I’m going to get my things from Dom’s room and you can shower when I come back.” My memory floats to last night, how Beraz kissed her. Then I hear Dominguez echo, ‘I walked in just as Beraz was about to get it.’

  “You let him, didn’t you? I saw him kiss you. A lot. I can’t believe you let—”

  The look on her face goes from pain to anger.

  “I’m glad you think so highly of my character.” Turning on her heel, Maddy walks to the door.

  “You know,” she says without turning around. “What I do is not your business. You have made it very clear I am nothing to you or anyone else.” Taking a step into the hallway, Maddy turns to me. “But to answer your question—or rather, respond to your allegation—no, I did not ‘let’ him. He didn’t even try. He was a gentleman who has left me with a night of good memories and lessons learned. You cannot break me, Jackson. I was broken long before I met you. I may be weak and I may be hurting, but I am still—and will always remain—on my feet. Cordell nor Larry nor you can take that away from me. Remember that.”

  Maddy

  Televisions and music blare from several of the rooms. I pass each open door without looking inside. In the room before Dom’s, they are arguing over a game of Madden and discussing something about DUIs, along with several unrepeatable expletives about Sergeant Wotley.

  A sudden, ominous silence ensues when I pass this room. Any other day I might feel self-conscious. Today I’m too tired to care.

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming,” the voice grumbles when I tap on Dom’s door. The stench of stale alcohol slaps me in the face when Terrance swings open the door, clad in only a pair of ripped Superman boxers.

  “Um, sorry to bother you,” I say nervously. “I have to get my things.”

  Terrance lifts his head, shifts his weight against the door and pulls his face together to what is supposed to be, I think, a smile. “Mad-day,” he says. “Entre, mami.”

  “He ain’t here.” Terrance spreads out on his bed and throws an arm behind his neck. “But I am.”

  I enter the room and breathe a sigh of relief and disappointment. What would I have said if he were here, anyway?

  “Even with a hangover, you’re still running those weak lines?”

  He snorts. “Girl, I got the strongest game in the building.”

  “If it inflates your ego, I’ll allow you to believe such lies.”

  “You’ll see how attracted you are to me if you just allow the natural to happen.”

  Placing a hand over my heart and fanning my face with the other, I answer in my best Southern Belle dialect, “Well I declare, Mr. Dominguez, keep talkin’ that sweet talk and you are gonna sweep me right offa my feet.”

  “You got jokes,” he laughs.

  When I lift the tote bag from Dom’s chair, my gift falls on the seat with a light thump.

  Take it? Leave it? He put so much time and effort into this for me, and I do love it. Take it.

  I pause beside Terrance’s bed. “How do I contact Sergeant Wotley?”

  His face scrunches up like I force-fed him spoiled food. “Why would you wanna talk to that mamabicho?”

  I come up short on the excuse-front. “I just need to. Please? I’d owe you.”

  He grunts and pushes himself off the bed. “Yes, you would.”

  “I wouldn’t owe you that much,” I say, and motion to his hole-infused boxers. “I’ll buy you new boxers, but that’s as close to your underwear as I’m getting.”

  “I can’t even be mad at that,” Terrance laughs. “Wotley is probably still in his office.” He tosses his cell to me. “It’s under Sergeant A-Dot-Hole in the contact list.”

  “Nice. Very mature.” I cross to Dom’s side of the room and sit at the desk. My heart is racing. Taking two deep breaths, I press TALK.

  “Sergeant Wotely,” the shaky, high-pitched voice answers. “What, Dominguez?”

  “Hello, Sergeant Wotley,” I respond quietly. “My name is Madelyn Carrington. Do you have a moment to speak with me?”

  “You’re speaking now,” he replies harshly.

  Oooo-kay. “I want to talk about Specialist Jackson Monroe. Would it be possible to speak with you face-to-face?”

  “You’re the female in the room, I take it?”

  I’m trying hard to ignore his tone. Tears threaten to spill. Get a grip, Carrington. Do not cry.

  “Your actions are not that of anyone respectable, Madelyn Carrington, and you best be glad I didn’t call your parents to let them know their underage daughter was in a barracks room all night with a nineteen-year-old soldier.”

  I shake myself, mentally and physically. So much for keeping a grip on the waterworks. Years of pent-up emotions are coming out in one day—in the form of tears.

  And here is this man on the other end of the phone, who does not know me at all, speaking like I’m some random skank. Well I got a little something for Sergeant A-Dot-Hole.

  The words drift out of my mouth slowly, my Georgia accent flowing thicker than Crisco. “Now you listen to me, Sergeant. My mama raised me to be a lady, but she also taught me not to tolerate crap. I really hope you don’t speak to your wife and kids, or even your own mama in this manner. You know what you need, Sergeant? You need the ugly slapped right out of your mouth.” Terrance peeks around the wall locker, his eyes wide and incredulous.

  “I am not one of your soldiers; I will not tolerate you speaking to me like this. All I’m asking is for you to take two minutes out of your day to listen to someone—other than yourself—speak. Besides, if you want to insult me and accuse me of things, the least you could do is grow a pair and say them to my face.”

  “I’ll meet with you, Miss Carrington,” he finally answers, his voice solemn. “Back parking lot of the barracks. Fifteen minutes.”

  Terrance is propped against the wall, mo
uth open and bug-eyed. I wipe the moisture from the phone with the bottom of my shirt and place it in his hand.

  “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he breathes, shaking his head. “No one talks to Wotley like that.”

  I take a few steps to the door before turning back to him. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Terrance squeezes a tight hug around my shoulders. “The pleasure has been all mine.”

  I drop my bags in Jackson’s room and change into a pair of black cropped sweats and a purple boyfriend tee. Jackson is asleep. I check his breathing and grab the key from his nightstand.

  I scan for Dom’s car in the parking lot and quickly chastise myself for doing so.

  I wonder what kind of car Sergeant Wotley drives. I picture him in a Hummer or monster truck with The Crusher written across the doors.

  A black, 1980-something Ford Escort pulls into the parking lot, steering toward me.

  So much for The Crusher.

  “Sergeant Wotley,” I greet with my hand extended. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

  Miss Maddy Formal, that’s me.

  “Call me Miles. After all,” he smiles, accepting my handshake. “You’re not one of my soldiers.”

  Any other day, I’d have the decency to feel ashamed of my rant. Today is not the day.

  Miles listens while I inform him that I am not, in fact, underage. Leaving out the extra dramatics, I explain about New York City and how Jackson is doing a favor for my . . . I struggle to use the word father when speaking of Cordell.

  I stretch the truth a bit when I explain my purpose for being in the room. I tried to make Jackson appear responsible by telling Miles that he arranged a designated driver (me), and my reason for being in the room was to keep an eye on him in case he needed help getting to the bathroom—or garbage can. To protect the soldiers at the front desk, I added that I signed out and left the building but not before placing a rock in the side door to sneak back in.

  Great, Carrington. Fake-confess you broke into a government building. A-plus work on that one, Genius.

  Miles raises his eyebrows at my confession. Rivulets of sweat bead at the edges of his maroon beret. I rock from side-to-side as the pavement scorches my feet through my thin flip flops.