Bottom Feeder Page 21

  I enter the address for my apartment on the GPS and drive in the direction of I-95.

  Jackson

  The feel of her soft lips lingers on mine. I know she kissed me out of spite. She could kiss me every day out of spite and I would not mind at all.

  I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s the hangover talking.

  “You just let her go?” Dominguez questions as if it’s the worst thing I could’ve done. Trust me, I’ve done worse. Much worse. “¡Idiota estúpido!”

  I wanted to stop her from leaving. I didn’t because I’m tired of being selfish.

  “She liked me better, anyway,” Dominguez grins and swipes my last Twizzler. The vine hits the floor with an ominous thud when I slap it from his hand.

  “Hands off!”

  “I don’t think we’re talking candy, bro,” he notes after blowing dirt off the candy’s surface. He chews on the Twizzler like a piece of hay. I’m tempted to slap it out of his mouth. “I saw the way you looked at her last night. Or maybe you’re just pissed that Dom is gonna hit it and not you.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not like that.”

  What if Beraz does get to her? He left my room in a hurry when he saw she wasn’t here.

  “Keep lying to yourself. You might be the only person within a five room radius that doesn’t seem to think she’s sexy as hell. I don’t know why you like those stick-skinny chicks, anyway. Only a dog wants a bone. You need a woman with curves. Oh, and some sense. Unlike Vanessa, the beautiful pre-law stripper with no ass and no sense.”

  I push myself off the desk, preparing to toss Dominguez out on his ass when Beraz walks through my open door.

  “Dom,” Dominguez says, taking the Twizzler out of his mouth and pointing it at me. “Tell this dude about real women.”

  Beraz doesn’t move. The look on his face tells me he’s having some kind of internal debate. Great. This is not a good sign I’m going to sleep any time soon.

  “Did you see the way she moved last night?” Dominguez continues. “Mami can grind on—”

  “Don’t talk about her like that!” Beraz and I yell simultaneously. Dominguez throws his hands up in surrender.

  “She’s not your girlfriend,” Beraz states.

  “I never said she was,” I reply. “She’s not my type, anyway.”

  “I’ve known brands of assholes like you all my life, Monroe,” Beraz carries on, ignoring my response. “Every girl you come across is shit to you—just someone to fuck around with and toss out when you’re bored. You’re not going to do that with her.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” I cross the room and stand toe-to-toe with Beraz. “You’re just some gangbanging piece of shit who had to join up or his weak ass would’ve gotten killed on the streets.”

  A right hook lands on my left jaw. I lose balance and hit the ground. Fresh hell. Twice in one day.

  Note to self: Stop talking shit to former gangbangers.

  I struggle to get to my feet. With two hits in the span of a few hours combined with a massive hangover? Yeah, not happening. Dominguez shuffles to block a second punch from Beraz.

  “You don’t know anything about that girl!” I manage to shout.

  “But I will. Guaranteed.”

  Intertwining my right foot below his ankle, I take Beraz to the floor. Lifting quickly to my knees, I wrap my arms around his neck in a sleeper hold. Dominguez attempts to pry my fingers loose. His efforts are made in vain.

  “Both of you listen to me,” I announce calmly. “I had a job to do. I got what I wanted, and as of the moment she walked out my door I am through with Maddy Carrington. Understand? Through! You can have her if she wants you Beraz. I don’t want her mentioned to me or around me ever fucking again. Now get out of my room before I have both your sorry asses on Wotley’s radar starting Monday.”

  I lock my door and crawl beneath the thin blanket. I attempt to sleep away the ache in my chest.

  Maddy

  Ballet. Modern Dance. Lunch. Partnering. Home. Ballet. Modern. Lunch. Partner. Home. Ballet. Blah. Lunch. Blah. Home. Blah. Repeat. Blah.

  Dancing is a chore. The atmosphere is so serious at school, it’s depressing. Since I started classes during a summer session, there are not many students here. Work, class, and volunteering at a youth center keep me busy. If I’m not constantly moving, I think too much and cry too often.

  Nights are still the worst. I sit around waiting, preparing for something to happen. A phone call. Text. Email. An attack on the street while I’m walking home from work.

  I changed the locks, added a few extra and reset the alarm system’s security code and password the day I moved in. The door brace is shoved beneath the knob as soon as I step through the front door. My bedroom door is closed and locked at night, with a brace shoved beneath the door knob. I sleep with a composite Louisville Slugger next to me and a Taser beneath my pillow. I hate living in a constant state of paranoia. Because I am not living at all; I am surviving. I guess if I want to see tomorrow, surviving is a necessity.

  Anyway.

  The city is always awake with something to do. Not that I do any of it, but at least the option is there. Right? Despite its reputation, people here are not extremely rude. Nice? Ehhh . . . notsomuch. If I need directions, most are willing to help. Everyone seems to be in a hurry all the time. Sometimes I wonder if they really have some place that important to be or if they want people to think so. I make up stories about them: where they’re going, where they’ve been, who they love, who loves them. I give them all happily ever afters.

  I miss Georgia something fierce. A fast-paced lifestyle is not for me. I need open spaces. I need to stop and think. This city seems to swallow me whole. Besides, there are too many people to notice if anyone is following or watching me.

  The only thing that fills the emptiness is Dom. His texts and emails are the fuel that gets me through the day. His phone calls help me fall asleep at night. Sometimes we video chat. Not often, though, since he rarely has privacy. I usually end up talking to him and Terrance. Or whoever else is in the room.

  Dixon emails every day, calls twice a week. The calls are alternated on one of the two burner phones. I told him everything. In true Dixon fashion, he was angry but not surprised. He only asked if I wanted to live with him when his year in Europe is up. I’m thinking about it.

  The regular cell is used for information calls and weekly calls to Cordell’s main warehouse in Savannah. It goes to a voicemail each time.

  Violet calls every other night. She is oblivious that anything bad happened between Jackson and me. I plan on keeping it that way. Mostly she keeps me updated on the accident. Chris and Jeremiah are out of the hospital, but Chris will not play football this season. Lamont has been transferred to the Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton. As of yesterday, he was still in a coma.

  I’m doing everything I can to go about business as usual while learning to pick up the pieces and put them together, leaving out the bits I do not need in my life.

  “Mizzzz Caddington,” the ballet instructor calls. “Seeence ju do not vant to pay attenshun, I suggest ju and jor short legs pay me feefty spleet leaps. Now!”

  Did I mention I was popular here? No? Probably because I’m not. My partner in the, well, partnering class hates me because I’m so short and weigh fifteen pounds more than the other girls in the class. I often fantasize about farting in his face when he slides under my legs in our “Role Reversal” number.

  Hey, I never claimed to be a lady.

  After a short evening shift at my new job at Milk and Sugar, a locally-owned Fair Trade coffee shop, I swiftly walk the two blocks to my apartment. One of the things I like about the City is that I don’t even need a car. I walk or ride the subway—which scared the bejeezus out of me the first time—wherever I need to go. Hailing a cab is not yet one of my strong suits.

  “Hey, Mr. Sonny,” I call to the building’s doorman. “Another good day, huh?”

  “Good evening,
Maddy,” the stout doorman replies cheerfully. “Every day’s a good day as long as my ticker’s kickin’!”

  Sonny might just be the happiest person on the planet. I give him a high-five. “Amen to that.”

  My phone rings as soon as I walk in the apartment. At just over a thousand square feet, I am told this space is large for the City. For me, the size is a nice downgrade from all the unused space at Cordell’s house. The apartment has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an open floor plan. My favorite part is the floor-to-ceiling windows that proudly display amazing views of the City.

  “Dom!” I smile into the phone.

  “Hi, baby,” he says, mimicking my excitement. “You home yet?”

  “Yep,” I say, putting my sweaty dance clothes in the hamper.

  When Miles turned down Dom’s request for leave, I was crushed. But it turned out to be a good thing since I’ve gotten to know him much better over the past two months. But my secrets are still secrets, and I have no plan to reveal them anytime soon. I feel bad, but I’m not exactly lying to Dom. I’m . . . withholding information.

  I disinfect my gym bag and turn it inside out to dry while Dom tells me about his day. Then, as I’m heating leftover cacciatore, he clears his throat like he’s preparing to make a speech.

  “I, uh, actually want to talk to you about something.”

  “What’s up?” I try to stay calm, though my heart is racing.

  “It’s about . . .” he pauses. “I want to get some things out in the open before I come to New York.”

  “You have kids, huh? A wife back in Oklahoma?”

  He snorts. “None of the above. But I should have told you two months ago. You might not want me to come after this.”

  Remember that stupid, silly little girl that made an appearance at Fort Bragg? When it comes to Dom, I always feel like that. I’ve only known him a short time, but our connection is undeniably intense. He’s the sugar to my Kool-Aid.

  I brace myself for the worst.

  “Do you remember at the car wash when you were talking about baggage and I said I had some of my own?”

  I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yes.” With my own hidden skeletons, I never asked him to elaborate.

  “There are things in my past I’m not proud of. Things I can’t change. Things that define who I am. Who I was. I never imagined getting this close to someone in such a short amount of time, especially over the phone, but—” He groans in frustration.

  “Lay it on me, Dom. I can take it. I’ve got my big girl panties on and everything.”

  “What color?” He laughs. “No, I’m sorry. Never mind. You’re distracting me.”

  I giggle because, well, he makes me giggle. Gah! Cut a girl some slack.

  “I used to be in a gang. Back home.”

  “I know.”

  He does not mask his surprise. “You do? How?”

  “Well, I didn’t know about the ‘used to be’ part, and I might be from small-town Georgia, but I know a gang tat when I see it.” I did research on some of the symbols and saw they were affiliated with the OKC Disciples.

  “You knew and didn’t say anything?” Dom asks with incredulity. “That’s usually the first thing people want to talk about. I had some of the more obvious ones covered because I couldn’t join the army with them. The one with the fig tree and quote from The Bell Jar used to be a three-pronged crown.”

  “Look, Dom, I understand that some things should only be talked about when all people involved are ready to talk. I asked you about them that night in your room, remember?” I have a brief flashback of Dom without his shirt on. My body tingles.

  “Do you want to ask questions now?”

  I would like to ask if he’s wearing a shirt.

  Inappropriate, Carrington.

  “Did you ever hurt anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you sell?”

  “No.”

  “Enforce?” Silence. Silence speaks loudly sometimes, doesn’t it? “How much enforcing did you do?”

  “Enough to get by without physically harming someone.” Dom releases a disgusted sigh. “And enough to know that the lifestyle wasn’t me. I fought for those assholes—sorry, I know you don’t like that—to get rich while people were getting hooked on coke and meth and killing one another. The movies have it all wrong. It’s not a turf thing; the struggle is about money and power. It’s always about money and power. But all I had to do was scare a few people and collect money, sometimes drugs. That’s how I made money for my family. There were fights. I carried a piece every now and then, but I never used it. Ever. I swear to you, Maddy, I never—”

  “Dom,” I say, cutting him off before he has an aneurysm. “I understand. Sometimes we have to fight and make sacrifices we’re not proud of to keep the ones we love safe. To keep ourselves safe. We don’t always get to choose how we survive, we just do it.”

  “This isn’t the response I expected,” he says quietly.

  “You expected me to flip out and tell you to cash in your plane ticket?” I ask, taking the last bite of cacciatore. Mr. Sonny’s wife sent me an entire Pyrex casserole dish of this delciousness. I look at the empty plate sadly.

  “Something like that.”

  “Then you don’t know me very well.”

  I stretch out on the living room floor, mesmerized by the City lights while we spend the next two hours talking nothing about everything. The peanut butter to my jelly.

  Before hanging up Dom asks, “Did you get the email I sent this morning?”

  “Let me check now.” I spring from the floor. It was such a pain to use public computers, so I dug into my savings and purchased a tablet from a pawn shop. It’s easier to carry than a laptop, especially if I need to leave in a hurry. My laptop is used for school and random research. Nothing else.

  He laughs uneasily. “It’s okay. You don’t have to read it just yet.”

  “Ninety seconds, Dom, promise.”

  Dom and I have this game we play to earn brownie points for tasks completed. Last week I learned military time and he learned a few southern phrases. His accent is terrible, though. His email informs me that for extra points, I must decipher these words:

  India-Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo-Yankee-Oscar-Uniform.

  “You’re quiet,” he notes.

  “Should I decrypt loudly?”

  “Need a hint?”

  “I never admit defeat, good sir.”

  He chuckles. “Let me know as soon as you figure it out. I mean, if you want to. Goodnight, baby.”

  “G’night, Dom.” I close my eyes and smile to myself, wondering if he’s too good to be true. The pen to my pocket protector.

  At three a.m., I am awakened by one of those random ah-ha! moments. I type “phonetic alphabet” into a search engine. I remember Agent Mace used this alphabet for the license plate number of his government-issued sedan the morning we met in Statesboro.

  Once I decipher the message, my first instinct is to call Dom. However, in just a few short hours he will be jumping out of an airplane with fifty pounds of gear strapped to his back. Probably not a good idea to disturb his sleep.

  I read his message again. I say it out loud. I was afraid it was too soon. But how can you stop this thing that isn’t a thing at all? It is an ethereal manifestation of a thing disguised as a feeling, a fragile emotion wrapped up in a beautiful four-letter word said by someone who isn’t afraid to put their heart on the chopping block. And that sentiment is all for you. For me, from him. I’ve never known anything like this. I hold on to his message like a lifeline, I wrap my fingers around it like they belong there. I never want to lose my grasp on this feeling. Because no one has ever loved me like this before.

  Since it’s after 9 a.m. in Paris, instead of going back to sleep, I begin a video chat with Dixon.

  “Hey, Skank,” he says.

  “Panties, you’re looking dapper as ever this morning.” He blows me a kiss that ends with a middle finger.


  I talk for twenty minutes about how I’m scared of this thing with Dom, about how he shouldn’t love me. About how I feel guilty for loving him.

  “Wow,” Dixon says. “You love this kid?”

  “Stupid, isn’t it?”

  He shakes his head. “If Dominic makes you happy, accept that happiness and embrace it for as long as you are willing. You know more than anyone that joy and love can be stripped away at any moment. Take this chance if you think he’s worth it. By the sound of things, you know he’s worth it. Not every man is a Jackson, a Cordell, or a Larry. There are some good guys out there. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. Pick up and move on. Maddy, you are strong, beautiful, resilient, and your best friend is quite the catch. Accept the love Dominic is offering. You deserve it.”

  Jackson

  Life is slowly getting back to normal.

  0600: Wake up

  0630-0745: PT (Physical Training)

  0900: Work

  1130: Lunch

  1700-2000: End of work day/Dinner somewhere between these times

  2100-0600: Sleep

  Weekends are whatever everyone else is doing: clubbing, movies, fishing, bowling, basketball. The routine sucks, but I grip it like it’s my salvation.

  The only good thing that came out of the mess I made was the Barracuda. Just as Cordell promised, the car was sitting in the airport’s extended stay parking lot. A note that read PAID IN FULL was stored in the glove compartment, along with ten thousand dollars in cash.

  I am now officially finished with Cordell Carrington. Or so I tell myself.

  Last month I went back to Savannah. No one knew, not even Mama. Dominguez drove me to the airport one Friday night after work and I spent the night in Lamont’s hospital room, talking to him about the past and laughing about all the stupid shit we got into. Lamont didn’t talk or laugh or respond in any way because he was in a coma. He still is. I like to think he could hear me. I like to think he believed me when I told him whoever put him in the hospital would pay, no matter what. The next morning I left before the doctors came to transport him back to the hospital on Camp Pendleton.