Bottom Feeder Page 22

  When I’m alone, I think too much about Lamont. About revenge. During more moments than I’d like to admit, I also think of her.

  There were endless questions about “the girl in Monroe’s room” for a week after she left. I avoided them like an STD. Dominguez handled most of the questions with his customary tactless technique. Beraz finally told them to mind their own business. That is the only thing Beraz and I have agreed on in the past two months.

  Beraz. I can’t even look at him without getting angry. While cleaning Sergeant Wotley’s office, I came across an Official Leave Form, stating Beraz will be traveling to New York City on August 1st. The ache in my chest was almost unbearable.

  I bet she will cook for him and bake cinnamon rolls and kiss him and f—and do all that girlfriend shit. Those should be my cinnamon rolls.

  But I screwed up. I cannot fix what I have broken because I’m too broken myself. Pride and general dumbassness keep me from admitting that Mama was right: I am the spitting image of Michael Benton.

  I wipe the thought from my mind immediately.

  With an upcoming deployment—not mine, thank goodness—Sergeant Wotley has our Company working weekends until the last plane leaves the ground. At least we are working indoors and not in the torrential downpours of Eastern North Carolina’s hurricane season.

  “Monroe!” Morris calls. “You better get to the back before Wotley sees you sitting down.”

  Since my actual work has been finished for over an hour, I am outlining the final research paper for my Western Civ class. Or trying to, at least.

  The dream I had last night keeps floating to the surface of my thoughts, vividly mapping out events that feel more like a premonition than a dream.

  It was about her, of course. The same, recurring reverie that plagues most of my nights. Sometimes she is running away from Larry or Cordell, pleading for me to help. This is usually when the scene changes to an Afghanistan mountain range.

  Other nights the dreams are, well, let’s just say for adult audiences only.

  She’s everywhere I go: the movies, the mall, the gym. Every girl with chocolate-brown hair is her. I’m jonesing for a fix like a crackhead during the first week of rehab. It’s driving me insane.

  In case you haven’t noticed, I try not to say her name.

  I begin to reminisce over the latest adults-only dream when my computer flickers and begins to restart itself. Maybe I should have taken a chunk out of the ten thousand and bought a new laptop.

  I can’t bring myself to spend a dime of Cordell’s money.

  Good thing I saved my work, but this ancient piece of crap usually takes at least twenty minutes to start up. I glance around to see if anyone has a free workspace, and notice Beraz leaving his desk.

  “You finished?” I yell from across the room. He raises an incredulous eyebrow when I speak to him.

  Since the day he punched me, we only speak about work-related issues. Being the good United States soldiers that we are, personal stuff is left on personal time and work hours are not personal time. Yes, I repeat this to myself more often than not. Especially when I’m having daydreams about a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed girl that isn’t my type, knowing he will be in her apartment. Alone. Eating cinnamon rolls.

  “I’m going on a food run,” he replies. “You can use it until I come back.”

  “Bring me back a taco,” I say.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Backatcha.”

  Beraz’s email inbox is open on the screen. I begin to minimize the window when I notice a folder labeled Maddy. I peek around the room to make sure Beraz is out of sight. Knowing his eating habits, he will surely be gone for a while. I click on a random email, dated a few days ago.

  Dom,

  Five more days! I’m so excited about your visit. Class was boring as usual yesterday, but work was great. I made $90 in tips! Hohyeah, who has mad latte-making skills? That’s right, this girl. :D

  I will be free for your entire visit since my manager, Peggy, approved the days I requested. Her husband is a retired Marine so she sympathizes with our long distance relationship. I am scheduled to get off work at 1900, so call me whenever. See? I’m learning military time. I will take my brownie points in large denominations, thankyouverymuch. Call me later so I can hear about a day in the life of Dominic Beraz. I like hearing about your day because I just like hearing you. How’s that for corny? You like that, huh? Oh, the t-shirt in the pic is from the local army recruiters. They are in my Krav Maga class.

  Can’t wait to see you!

  Maddy

  The temptation to click on Beraz’s reply is too much to resist. Yes, even after all that has happened, I’m still an asshole.

  Hey, baby!

  You know I like it when you talk corny to me. Haha I think I might have topped the Corny-Quota for the month with that one. It always makes my day when a picture is involved, so I’m cashing in my points for more pics. I will be sending your brownie points in the form of car wash coins. That should suffice, right? These last few days before I see you are the longest of my life. I can’t seem to get you out of my head. That’s okay, though. I like you being there. BTW, I got the info from Wotley. I’ll tell you later.

  Unlimited points if you decipher this:

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

  --Dom

  Why does it feel as if I’m losing a race I didn’t even know I was running?

  I click on the link for her picture. The attachment opens to Maddy in Central Park, wearing a fitting U.S. Army t-shirt, skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Her reluctant smile is even more striking than I remember.

  Hell. Did I really just say striking?

  Beraz walks into the room before I can find more pictures. I haven’t even inserted my flash drive. Quickly pulling up a blank document, I tell him I need ten more minutes. When he is out of sight, I grab a sticky note and scribble her email address.

  Maddy

  Krav Maga is not a traditional martial art. It is not based on rituals or the choreography of katas. The movements are principles and instincts. Krav Maga is a defensive fighting technique developed for Israeli defense and Special Forces as a form of hand-to-hand combat. The design is for counter-attack, striking, grappling, and even wrestling. It teaches me to utilize my body in order to keep safe and weaken my attacker by any means necessary.

  Back home I took the self-defense version of Krav Maga. When I came to New York I began street fighting classes. I train in attack, defense, timing, feints, tactic, movement and vision. Since there are no rules in street fighting, the instructors teach dirty techniques in order to succeed in a street attack. Today’s emphasis is on ground fighting against opponents of all sizes.

  Which is why I am now being full-on “attacked” by six-two, two hundred-sixty pounds worth of United States Army Sergeant.

  “Your boyfriend here yet?” Sergeant Davis asks. His ebony skin glistens with sweat underneath the harsh lighting, illuminating the faint scar that travels from his forehead to chin on the right side of his face.

  Sergeant Davis is a local recruiter I met the first day of class. He laughed at my southern accent, which I tend to get a lot of here. I had a nice snappy comeback, which then led to a conversation that led to the mention of my boyfriend.

  A few days later, Sergeant Davis introduced me to Sergeants Sanchez and Tuan, the other recruiters who work in his office. They teach me military stuff that helps in conversations with Dom and, in return, I bake cookies for them.

  “His flight lands at five.” I’m lying on my back, my head locked in Sergeant Davis’s python-sized arms. I do not try to move from this position. Saving energy is crucial in defensive fighting. I want to defend myself but need my attacker to wane first.

  Using my flexibility—courtesy of gymnastics and years of dancing—I bring my leg around to the front of Sergeant Davis’s neck and push, forcing him back to the ground. I jump into attack position.

  “Nice job, G-A
,” he says, referring to me by my home state. I grab his arm and pull up.

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I’m getting better, I think.” He faces me in a fighting stance, searching for an opening to strike.

  “You are allowed to call me by my first name. That is, unless you want to become my new enlistee.”

  “Yes, sir, Sergeant Tony, sir.”

  “Smartass.” He shakes his head and goes for a side-strike. I weave in time for him to get a handful of air. “The army’ll take that attitude right out of you.”

  Truth is, I have been thinking about the military. A lot. The ability to start over in a place where no one knows me is extremely appealing. Some place that, unlike my setup in New York City, is not tied to Cordell. No one would know me or my past. Cordell wouldn’t be able to find me. I would never have to worry about Larry, who has been the star of some really crazy nightmares lately. Nightmares that feel so real, sometimes I wake up fighting. Intuition tells me these nightmares are a precursor of things to come.

  Sergeant Davis catches me off guard and sweeps my legs from beneath me.

  Dom’s plane lands in an hour. I am standing in the middle of my bedroom, draped in a Hello Kitty bath wrap with a towel wrapped around my head. I’m debating on several outfits displayed around my room. Casual? Cute? Sexy? I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard. But I don’t want to look as if I see him every day.

  In addition to the fashion battle, I am also having a pep talk with my hormones. I don’t want to jump the guy in the middle of the airport.

  Dom and I have talked about sex a few times. Minds out of the gutter, it really was only talk. He’s not a virgin. I don’t know what I am. How do I handle being touched intimately by someone who I want to touch me? He doesn’t know my history because I’m afraid to tell him. Each time I try, the memories force their way to forefront of my thoughts and I freeze.

  The last thing I want is to explain my hesitation. Or freeze up when he is here. What if I freak out when his hands touch my bare skin? What if I freak out when my hands touch his? Am I moving too fast? Thinking too much?

  My additional fear is that things will be different. What if he doesn’t love me after we spend time together?

  Dom says we will move at whatever pace I’m comfortable with. I cannot afford anymore regrets in my life. I’m just not sure if I trust myself enough to hold out.

  Pathetic.

  I pace like a crazy person between arrival/departure screens, patting myself on the back for wearing ballet flats instead of heels with my button-down shirt dress. When the screen reads the flight from Raleigh-Durham has landed, the butterflies in my stomach release in a flurry of anticipation.

  Calm down, Carrington. He’s just a guy.

  Right. A guy I talk to every day for hours about every miniscule thing in the universe. A guy that is staying in my apartment, possibly even sleeping in my bed, for the next few nights. A guy who . . . you know, this pep talk to calm down is totally not helping.

  Dom is a full head taller than most of the crowd. He is wearing a plain white tee and dark jeans with classic white-on-black Adidas Superstars. I picture my fingers running through his raven hair. It has grown out several inches, which only ups his sexy factor a few more notches.

  He flashes a nervous smile. I gnaw on my lip, attempting to hold back the overwhelming feelings of happiness, excitement and fear. It’s a bit unsettling that I find myself running to him like one of those corny romantic comedies. But I keep on truckin’ forward, nonetheless. The faster my feet move, the sooner I can be near him.

  I leap into Dom’s waiting arms. Good thing I wore leggings, otherwise I’d be flashing my undies to the entire population of La Guardia.

  “How’s that for corny?” I whisper in his ear.

  Dom makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a deep, guttural groan. He tightens his embrace and touches his forehead to mine, staring into my eyes for an immeasurable amount of time before I realize we are attracting attention.

  “Maybe we should get your bag now,” I whisper.

  “Nuh-uh. Next time around.”

  “M’kay.”

  Finally, grudgingly, I unwrap myself from his body when his luggage makes a second turn around the belt.

  Since I was running behind, and it takes me at least half an hour to hail a cab, I drove to the airport. Driving in New York is like pulling teeth with rusty pliers, so I am thrilled when Dom offers to drive.

  Once we are settled in the car, he turns to me. “Maddy?” Is he making his voice low and seductive on purpose? My heart thrums rapidly as I lean into him. At first the kiss is slow and sweet. We are savoring each other like a rare vintage wine. Once his tongue parts my lips and a low moan escapes his throat, the frenzy begins.

  I grip his waist like he will disappear at any moment.

  “Baby, we should stop before something more is started.”

  He chuckles when I let out a pouty groan.

  Way to keep those hormones in check, Carrington.

  “Wait,” Dom pauses before stepping out of the elevator on the twenty-third floor. “I forgot my suitcase.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “I’ll just be a minute. Twenty-three oh-six, right?”

  I proceed to my apartment, casting off the sudden feeling of uneasiness.

  The first step inside the door offers a familiar blow to the center of my back. I try to force myself up to face my attacker when one foot steps on my neck while the other digs into my spine.

  Cowboy boots.

  Oh, dear God, no. Not while Dom is here.

  Jackson

  This morning I found a post office slip in my mailbox. After class I drive in anticipation of a care package from home, stuffed with pralines and saltwater taffy from The Candy Kitchen. Or bear claws from River Street Sweets. Maybe both. My mouth waters in anticipation of the sugar overload that awaits me.

  Instead of a care package, I find a medium-sized yellow envelope with no return address, postmarked in New York. I wait until I’m seated in the car to open it up.

  Inside are a letter and a thicker envelope.

  Dear Jackson,

  I was informed SGT Wotley did not take away any rank or force you to work extra duty, but you did lose some money. I know I can’t wipe it from your military record, so this is the only way I know to make it right on my part. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you do not hate me.

  Maddy

  I open the thick envelope and count out two thousand dollars.

  Sergeant Wotley wanted nothing more than to take rank away from me for being so irresponsible. I got the “I’m very disappointed in your behavior” speech before he told me everyone deserves a second chance, but not without repercussions.

  The army is taking a small amount of money from my check until the fine from my Article Fifteen is paid. But the amount is definitely not going to be two thousand dollars. I guess she really did add interest.

  Since there is no return address, and I deleted her number in a pissed off show of emotion the day after she left, I cannot send the money back right away. Mama would know her phone number or address, but the conversation that followed would be ugly.

  “Why don’t you just ask Maddy yourself?” she would ask.

  “Well, maybe because I treated her worse than the dirt stuck in the ridges of my combat boots. Thanks for asking.”

  I sigh and shake my head at my stupidity.

  Maddy

  The warning I left with him before leaving Tybee Island was not said just to hear myself speak. This man is insane if he thinks I’m going to let him hurt me again.

  Larry stumbles forward when I buck my body like a rodeo horse. He attempts to catch himself before falling face first on the corner of the breakfast bar.

  “Bitch!” He struggles to push himself off the floor.

  I jump to my feet, cursing myself for not having the Taser handy.

  Remember your training, Carrington. You didn’t take all tho
se hours of defense for a good workout. Kick him where it counts.

  So I do. Twice. Larry shrieks and slumps over. I land an uppercut beneath his chin and quickly grab the closest thing to me—a Martha Stewart cake plate—and smash it across his back.

  He goes down with a groan.

  Fight dirty.

  I kick him in the face. “That’s for Chris.”

  I turn to run, but he grabs my ankles. I fall. While going down, I have a second to be thankful no one lives on either side of me to hear what is going on. My head smacks the floor.

  Knock knock knock

  Instead of yelling for help, I remain quiet. I don’t want Dom to hear or see this.

  Larry flips me over and straddles my thighs. He punches my face. Slaps both hands on my ears.

  I try wriggling away from him, but the spots dancing around my eyes are making it hard to concentrate. He locks his ankles beneath my legs, holding me in place. My arms are pressed to the floor above my head. Larry breathes heavily into my ear, triggering heinous memories of a childhood that barely existed, even before Mama died. Images of my eleven year-old self confused about the shadows in my bedroom, padlocked backyard tool sheds with only slivers of light shining through holes in the roof, blacked-out rooms beneath staircases, and images of the hands of my father’s best friend reaching for the hem of the dress I wore to Mama’s funeral.

  Another knock at the door breaks through the vivid, painful images.

  Larry’s voice raises a pitch. “You didn’t think you were just gonna come up here and forget about me, did you?” He whips out his boot knife and rips a gaping hole in my leggings, waist to the thigh.

  “Maddy, open the door!” Dom’s voice is panicked. He wiggles the doorknob.