Bottom Feeder Page 23

  God, please don’t let him see this.

  After a few more knocks, Dom finally stops. Good. Maybe he thinks he has the wrong apartment.

  Larry slaps me with his left hand and wraps his right hand around my neck. I still my body, storing my energy for an opportunity to fight. He pops the buttons off my dress. The leggings are now held to my body by only frayed threads.

  Larry’s head dips toward mine. I prepare to slam my head against his.

  “You’re not gonna forget me aft—” Cutoff mid-threat, Larry spews out an agonizing groan and falls to his side.

  I turn to see Dom’s foot resting on Larry’s neck. “I’m calling the police.”

  I cannot explain to the cops who Larry is. Why he is here. “No.”

  Although I am quite complacent lying on the floor, a splitting headache is dancing a little jig behind my eyelids, desperately calling for an aspirin or two. Or five.

  Dom grabs Larry by the neck and stands him up. Larry tries to swing, but Dom ducks and slams his face onto the cooking grate of the gas stove. His hand rests on the knob, ready to turn it on.

  “What do you want me to do?” I look at Dom. I look down at my tattered clothes. I watch as a stream of blood from my nasal cavity drips on the hardwood. “Maddy?”

  “Make him leave.”

  “You will not come near her again.” Dom lowers his head to Larry’s face. “You hear me?” Larry groans. Dom smashes his head on the grate again, causing a deeper gash in Larry’s temple. “I said, do you fucking hear me?”

  He nods.

  “I swear I will not hesitate to burn your face off if I find you anywhere near this building again. I will hunt you down, cut you open, gut you and feed your fucking liver to the fish in the Hudson while your blood is still warm. You got me? I’m going to escort you out of the building myself.” Dom turns to me. “I’ll be right back, baby.”

  “You doin’ him now, whore?” A trickle of blood runs down Larry’s chin.

  His head makes a dent when Dom slams him against the wall. “You don’t have the privilege to talk to her. Move!”

  The last bruise from Larry has been healed for forty-eight days. He’s like a dog marking his territory. Me being the territory.

  When Dom returns, I am vigorously scrubbing every surface free of blood. He removes the sponge from my hand, scoops me up, and hauls me into the bathroom. He gently places me on the side of the garden tub.

  “Do you need a hospital?” I shake my head. “I’m going to clean you up, okay? Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

  He dampens a few washcloths from the linen closet. A single tear rolls down my cheek as he dabs at various places on my face.

  The skin beneath my eyes is the angry violet hue only a repeated-impact bruise can create. Larry’s handprint displays like a relic around my neck. I catch a glance of my tattered clothes in the mirror.

  “He ripped my dress,” I note quietly. Larry’s face is embedded behind my closed eyelids with the same angry, enraged look I’ve seen hundreds of times before. The smell of his sweat lingers on my skin. The feel of his breath against my ear and the sickness I felt when my hands were bound and my mouth covered.

  I open my eyes, enveloped in filth.

  Dom furrows his brow. “You can get a new one tomorrow.”

  I don’t have the voice to tell him it’s not about the dress. I raise my trembling hands to the remaining buttons. “I gotta get this off. Now.” My voice is staggered as I fumble with the rest of the stupid buttons. Tears stream down my face when my clumsy fingers cannot get them unfastened.

  “Let me help,” Dom offers.

  I shrug out of the dress quickly. Dom tosses it in the hallway, out of sight. My body trembles uncontrollably. What would he have done if Dom hadn’t been here? Has he graduated to teenage girls now? Should I feel thankful it’s only me he has such hatred for? No one else should be subjected to him.

  “Shower,” I manage to say. There is not enough water in the world to remove Larry Duvall’s slime from my body. But that will not stop me from trying.

  Dom bends to kiss the cut above my eye. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  “N-n-n-n-o,” I stutter. I don’t want to be left alone. I’ve spent too much of my life alone. Pathetic. “Will you stay? Please. Is that okay? You don’t ha—you don’t have to.”

  My legs buckle when I try to stand. Dom catches me. I hate feeling weak. I am not weak. I am not fragile.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises and helps me tug out of what is left of the leggings.

  I try to cover myself, but every movement feels like my limbs are being ripped from their sockets.

  Dom helps me inside the shower and slides down the wall beside the tub. I pull the semi-frosted door closed, and try to take my bra off with trembling hands. I curse myself for not owning any with a front closure. My shoulder screams in agony when I try tugging the stupid thing over my head. I bite my arm to keep from crying out.

  Finally, I open the door slightly. Dom’s head is back against the wall, his eyes closed. Something inside me breaks. I am going to lose him and there’s nothing I can do about it. Jackson was right. I am an omen.

  “Dom?” I whisper.

  “Hmm?”

  “Can you help me?” As if he hasn’t helped me enough today.

  “My hands are too . . . and my shoulders . . .” I’ve never felt so weak in my life. “My bra,” I sigh and look at him in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I don’t. . .” I swipe a few runaway tears. “I understand if you want to leave.”

  Dom stands in front me. “You do not have to apologize for anything.” He tilts my chin until I look at him. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I nod and turn around.

  I keep myself covered while he removes my bra with a certain degree of expertise. His breath hitches. His fingers trace over scars left by Larry’s college ring, his Georgia flag belt buckle, and whatever else he could find that cut deep into my skin when yanked across my back.

  The constant state of shame I’ve lived in for so long washes over me. My scars are Larry’s private trophies. Each one like a contract of possession. Ownership.

  The scalding water runs until it turns lukewarm. Cold. Freezing. I wrap the towel around me before stepping out of the stall. Dom is sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  “I owe you an explanation,” I begin.

  “You don’t . . .”

  I put a hand up. “It’s time for me to tell you about my baggage. After, you can decide if you want to stay.” I lead him to sit on the bed while I tell him everything about my past. I leave Cordell, for the most part, out of it.

  “So the man who was he here, he caused the scars?” he asks after a long pause. I nod.

  “He is my problem,” I remind him. “He’s always been my problem. That’s not going to change now.”

  “My girlfriend’s problems are my problems, Maddy.” He pushes up from the bed, pissed off. “I let him leave! If I would have known . . .”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want you involved in any of this. Promise me.”

  “I can only make that promise if he doesn’t return.”

  Larry will be back. Of this, I am absolutely sure. I cannot mention this to Dom. He doesn’t have to be caught up in my mess. I only wish he hadn’t been here to witness Larry at work.

  When he first began hurting me, I didn’t understand why. The worry over the “why” used to keep me up at night. I thought if I obeyed my parents more or did more chores at his house or even ritualized everything like turning the hot water on before the cold and praying six times a day that he would stop. But then the other stuff started. I would close my eyes and remind myself it would be over soon. If I could just live through that episode, I could go back to normal for a little while. The only time I prayed during that time was to ask God to let me die. Later I learned to take the pain in silence. I stopped crying, stopped talking. But I alway
s said no.

  “You’re shaking,” Dom says.

  The weekend with him is not turning out as planned. I have to fix this. “You hungry?”

  His sad smile is a gesture of agreement to put this incident on a backburner. For now, at least. “Pizza?”

  I show him which remote orders movies before changing into a hoodie and pajama shorts. Dom helps me clean up the rest of the mess while we wait for the pizza. He disappears into the bedroom, reappearing in black pajama pants that hang low on his hips. And nothing else.

  Even through aches and swollen eyes, I can appreciate his beauty.

  I pretend to be interested in a paper towel pattern so my eyes stay on anything but him and his tattoos that I still have a million questions about. His body is perfect: not lanky, not too skinny, not too muscular. Just perfect.

  When the delivery guy rings the doorbell, Dom grabs his wallet and the Louisville Slugger. He props it by the door while he counts out the money, his hand always hovering at the ready to grab the bat. He shoves the brace beneath the knob and brings the Slugger and pizza to the living room.

  Great. Now he’s as paranoid as I am.

  I don’t think this is how you start a relationship, Carrington.

  Yeah, no kidding.

  The carefully chosen movie is a classic comedy that has us laughing in unison. It feels forced, but I am thankful for his effort to put a smile on my face. I try not to focus on Dom’s perfectly sculpted body sitting at the end of my couch like a tattooed Greek statue, demanding to be gawked at. But I do focus. I will focus on anything to help me forget this day.

  After finishing his fifth piece, Dom sits back, patting his stomach. I toss the remains of my unfinished slice in the garbage. He reclines on the couch. I sit down stiffly, my back facing him.

  “Come here,” he whispers. His long legs wrap around me. I revel in the warmth radiating from him through my thin shorts and thick hoodie.

  “I feel safe,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

  “Good.” He kisses the top of my head. “Because I am content to hold you like this forever.”

  Exhausted, I fall asleep with his body wrapped around me like a shield.

  Jackson

  The cursor has been blinking back at me for the past half hour.

  Type. Backspace. Type. Backspace.

  Repeat this process ninety-seven times and you will have my agenda since I left school tonight at eight o’clock.

  Although I’ve been thinking about this all day, the words are not forming easily. Not at all, really.

  Type.

  A knock on my door breaks my over-concentrated concentration.

  Backspace.

  “Dude, take the uniform off already,” Morris, the medic attached to our unit, says. I open the door for him to step inside. “Did you see the Psych today?”

  “I don’t see him again until next Friday,” I reply. I’ve avoided the sessions since before I left for Georgia by volunteering for every bullshit thing Sergeant Wotley comes up with. I can’t face the Doc right now. I just can’t.

  “He tried to push meds on me.” He runs his fingers absently through non-existent hair.

  Morris is having a hard time reconnecting to everyday life since we came back home. During our deployment, he saved the limbs and lives of dozens of soldiers. Those he couldn’t save are the ones that haunt him. Private Samuel Trakt, eighteen years old and fresh out of Airborne training, died in Morris’s arms. They were best friends since daycare. Morris loved him more than a fellow soldier, more than a brother, and definitely more than a friend.

  That day—the type of day you wish you could do over, but would never want to live through again—is carved with a chainsaw in all our memories. Wounds heal, but these scars are deep. Morris’s wound will never heal.

  “Don’t tell anybody, Monroe,” he says, finishing up the replay of what happened in the psych’s office. “I’m struggling. Maybe I’m not cut out for this shit without Sam, you know? I’m messing up so much. I fly off at every little thing. I suspect everybody’s got a weapon tucked somewhere on them. A baby was crying inside the gas station the other day and I wanted to hurt the dad for not making her shut the hell up. What kind of shit is that? Yesterday I worked in the clinic. The doctor dropped his clipboard while we were working with a patient and I dove beneath the desk. I can’t be like everyone else and go back to normal.”

  I nod in understanding, allowing him to vent what he could never vent in the psych’s office because he would be labeled suicidal, or even homicidal, before they know the entire story. Morris doesn’t want to harm himself or anyone else. He just wants his friend back.

  “Can I sleep here?”

  I toss him the extra pillow from my locker. He curls up on my roommate’s bare mattress and cries himself to sleep. Some people would judge him for this. I don’t. I think that’s why he comes to my room after every psych visit.

  I stare at the screen on my laptop. The cursor teases me with its ominous blink blink blink.

  All right. Nothing else to lose.

  Dear Maddy . . .

  Maddy

  I bury my aching head in a pillow. Stiff shoulders and tender-to-the-touch face is a quick reminder that moving this way is really stupid.

  Somehow I ended up in my bed last night. I’m not sure if I walked, or if Dom carried or dragged me in here. I finally roll out of bed and search the apartment for him.

  It appears as if he has disappeared without a trace. His backpack and suitcase aren’t in the bedroom or living room. He probably caught the first flight back to North Carolina. I don’t blame him for bailing. He’d be crazy to stay.

  I allow fresh tears to fall, vowing these will be the last.

  You’re stronger than this, Carrington. You cannot afford a single moment of weakness.

  Needing to do something other than break things—which is what I’d prefer—I grab a loose-fitting t-shirt, even looser sweatpants, the Taser, and I ease my tender body into the shower. Scalding water stings every surface of my skin. I allow the hurt. Sadistic. Psychotic.

  I step out of the shower feeling dirty.

  I don’t look in the mirror as I dress and wrap my hair in a messy bun.

  With nothing else to do, I check my email. The first message is dated last night with a “No Subject” headline and his name. My heart sinks.

  Does he know what happened? Does he want to mock me for thinking I had a chance with Dom, like I thought I had a chance at friendship with him? Or maybe he wants to scream at me because I’m the reason his best friend is in a coma.

  I’m not ready for this. I deserve it, but I’m not ready.

  After vigorously scrubbing the floors and refolding laundry—twice—I reluctantly open the message.

  Dear Maddy,

  I am a coward for sending this in an email, but I don’t know if I can handle saying it on the phone. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

  Jackson

  Oh. Well, that is not what I expec—

  My head snaps up as a key turns in one of the locks. Taser in hand, I wait patiently behind the door for the intruder to get through two more deadbolts.

  The door slowly opens. My finger is on the trigger, ready to fire at my intruder. I peek the tattoo on the back of his neck.

  “Oh!”

  Dom turns and rushes to my side. “Are you okay?”

  Deep breath. “I thought you left.” Deep breath. “And someone was breaking in.”

  “Were you going to Tase me?” Is that amusement in his voice?

  My temper flares. “It was either you or me, Hoss, and it sure wasn’t gonna be me.”

  He chuckles and kisses my cheek. Pulling out a sandwich and a bowl of fresh fruit with familiar packaging, Dom says, “Peggy said you like these.”

  “You met Peggy?” I ask, unwrapping my portabella and provolone sandwich.

  He pushes one of her tea blends across the counter. Chamomile, spearmint, and lemongrass oolong. I sip the hot beverage and allow t
he warmth to soothe my sore throat.

  “Oh, I met her all right,” he replies with a sideways glance. “And became acquainted with an hour’s worth of lectures. She says she knows what . . .”

  “‘Those military boys are like’,” I finish for him, laughing at his solemn nod.

  We finish eating in silence. There’s not much to say, and we don’t want to force anything. I finish what I can of my food and dump the rest in the garbage. I hate being wasteful, but I cannot stomach much right now.

  Dom is behind me when I turn around. I rest my head against his chest and wrap my arms around his waist.

  “Do you know how good it feels to finally be with you?” he breathes, rubbing my shoulders gently, cautiously.

  I glance up at him. “I—“

  Dom presses his mouth to mine. The tip of his tongue brushes gently against my lips, persuading my mouth to open. A low moan of satisfaction escapes. I’m not sure if it’s from him or me, but it feels good and I want nothing else in the world at this moment other than his lips connected to mine. He begins to kiss me with an urgency I’ve only read about in romance novels. My breath hitches when he places his hands on the small of my back, beneath the shirt.

  “Is that okay?” he asks, kissing the sensitive spot beneath my earlobe.

  My body is doing things I don’t feel in control of. I allow the feeling to happen. My stiff legs wrap around his body as he lifts and carries me into the bedroom. I remove his shirt, exposing his beautiful copper-toned skin.

  Dom tenderly raises my bruised arms to take my shirt off. When the fabric leaves my skin, my first instinct is to cover myself. Instead, I wait for his reaction. I allow him to stare, to be up close to all of my imperfections. I want—need—to know he is okay with me not being the skinniest or the prettiest. He needs to see the bruises and the scars to realize the danger of my baggage.

  He takes in my scars. He runs his fingers softly across the swollen, multi-colored contusions.

  “I can’t apologize for what I look like, Dom.”

  “Hey,” he says softly, tilting my chain. “You don’t have to be like that with me. I love you, Maddy. I love everything about you. There is nothing here that I see flawed.” He caresses my face, my neck, down to my sides and across the plane of my stomach. “These marks are from battles that you have fought alone for so long, and as long as you allow me to do so, from now on I will fight them with you. You do not have to do this alone anymore. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.”