Bottom Feeder Page 3

  This drink says a lot about Cordell. Whether that is good or bad is up for debate.

  “What exactly do you do, son?”

  I recite the textbook description of an Explosive Ordnance Disposal soldier. “Our typical role deals with locating, identifying, and disposing of unexploded ordnance, improvised explosive devices, chemical, biological, and nuclear ordnance and weapons of mass destruction. My job includes intelligence gathering, supporting, and escorting VIP missions for different government agencies.” I blow out a puff of air. “Not as exciting as the movie, you see.”

  Cordell’s lips curl into a smirk. “Government agencies, huh?”

  I nod, unwilling to go into detail. The server, again, replaces Cordell’s empty bourbon glass, shooting a smile my way before disappearing into the crowd.

  I am so getting her number.

  “Violet tells me you’re in the market for a car?”

  “Yes, sir. I plan on purchasing one before I leave next Sunday.”

  “You lookin’ for a new one?”

  “I’m hoping to get my hands on a classic.” Subtle, I am not.

  Cordell laughs and sips his bourbon.

  “I’ve got a few classic cars myself.” I nod. I’ve dreamed about those cars since I was fifteen. He finishes off the bourbon with one tilt of his head. The server, seeming to appear out of thin air, replaces the drink immediately. “You interested?”

  It takes every ounce of self-restraint to refrain from jumping up and down like a kid in a bouncy house. “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Come on down to the dock, son.” Cordell slaps me on the shoulder. “We’ll talk business.”

  The diamond-encrusted horseshoe ring on his pinky finger glistens off the crystal teardrop chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling above us. Its luster blinds me momentarily.

  I have a feeling this is one of those moments I will later come to realize is a metaphor. Like a backwards sort of déjà vu.

  Maddy

  What is it about a party thrown by Cordell Carrington that makes people come running like a moth to flame?

  Or maybe stink to a landfill is the better cliché.

  The invitation described a graduation party, not just for me, but for all the seniors of Coastal High. Every student was invited, including their families. They all checked “ATTENDING” on the RSVP.

  This is not a graduation party. It’s another event for Daddy to show off what he has. What I hate.

  I twirl in front of the three-way mirror in my over-sized closest, cringing at the awful ensemble I am forced to wear. Or rather, it is wearing me. My only goal for tonight is to make sure the fabric stays down—and up—in all the right places.

  Daddy owns Couture Debutante, a boutique in Savannah whose designer makes handmade concoctions such as the atrocity I am wearing now. Nomi Bradford’s dresses are very popular on the pageant circuit. Trust me when I say I am not a pageant girl.

  This particular dress is extremely short and full-skirted in hues of the Triple P and Double G: peach, pink, primrose, and gold glitter. I would sparkle in a darkened room in this dress. I sigh in exasperation when the fabric inches down on the second twirl. I adhere half a roll of fashion tape to my skin and dress, slapping the two together with as much force as I can manage.

  A rhythmic knock raps on my bedroom door. Knock knock knockity knock knock knockity.

  “I’m decent!”

  Dixon struts dramatically into the room, giving two half-turns to show off his pinstriped three-button blazer with matching vest and a neutral-striped button-up underneath. His blonde locks are arranged in intentional gelled disarray. He is absolutely stunning as usual.

  That is, until he opens his mouth.

  “Uh-uh,” he shakes his head in disgust. “That dress is anything but decent. More like a crime of fashion.”

  I roll my eyes at the corny joke, but nod in agreement. “You know how Daddy is about these things.”

  After a few model struts in front of the mirror, Dixon pats his moussed and gelled hair to make sure it doesn’t move under hostile circumstances. Like walking, for example.

  “You do everything he tells you to do.” He plops on the desk chair and scrolls through my iPod. “I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to join his mafia or demonstrated how to clean up evidence.”

  A week after I returned from Atlanta, Daddy’s paranoia meter suddenly went off the charts. He upped the security, adding cameras outside and inside the house, including at my bedroom door. My room is also bugged. I can’t remove the tiny chip from beneath my lampshade because whoever put it there would know. I cover the lamp with a scarf to muffle my conversations with Dixon.

  “Shhh!” I throw the roll of fashion tape at his head. It bounces off one of the gelled pieces, resting with a silent thud on my desk. “I think your hair just cracked under pressure.”

  “Sorry,” he mouths. I bend to give him a quick peck on the forehead to show his apology is accepted—and to give the fashion tape a trial run.

  He smiles and tugs at my dress. “We may need duct tape for these things.” I grumble in resentment as he ushers me into the closet.

  My body is not made for dresses like this. For one thing, my boobs are way too big for a strapless with a sweetheart neckline. Two, I’ve been called fat on more than one occasion. Sometimes I feel self-conscious about that. And three, it’s hard to hide the scars on my back and upper arms with this dress style. That’s why I don’t allow Nomi to alter this dress with me in it. My hair is long but it doesn’t hide everything. I learned a little trick with foundation primer, red lipstick, and a camouflage used to conceal tattoos. The combination of the three helps cover my scars and the occasional visible bruise. Dixon helps with the application, but doesn’t question about the injuries. Not anymore. I tell him they are from my Krav Maga class.

  Anyway. Dixon compares my body to Marilyn or Bettie. Sometimes I like to agree with him. In truth, I like my curves. They make me feel, I don’t know, feminine.

  My hourglass shape was inherited from my mother, who definitely resembled a Marilyn or Bettie. My stomach is flat, but thicker than hers had been. I love my legs. Not because of their appearance, but because of their strength. I can kick with the intensity of someone twice my size. I can run faster and jump higher than most people my height, which is barely five-one.

  “All taped up,” Dixon announces. “Now let’s get this over with. Quickly.” He presses his lips in a hard line. Any party thrown by my father makes Dixon nervous, like a firing squad will be called on the attendees at any moment.

  I used to think this was silly. He’s intense, yes. But hurt people? No way.

  These days things are a little different.

  I tug on his arm. “I would never let anything happen to you, DJ. I promise.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he replies grimly.

  The rooms are already crowded with guests, ranging in age from newborn to eighty-nine. The event planner designed the ball room to mimic a nightclub, suited with a top DJ from the Atlanta club scene. Neon colors streak across the room in an elaborate light show, glinting off the chandeliers and bouncing off the walls to the sea of faces. Dixon immediately moves to the center of the floor to show off his skills.

  The kitchen is busy with the catering company and its servers bussing in and out like worker bees. I fight the compulsion to help them. Daddy would frown on that, I’m sure.

  Mindful of my manners, I greet and thank each guest for attending.

  I finally spot Daddy talking to Violet Monroe, the woman who has been like a mother to me the past two years. Her strained smile and tense posture tells me she’d rather be anywhere than speaking with him.

  About two years ago, Dixon and I were walking by her flower shop when Tommy Crenshaw—Dixon’s resident bully—came out of The Candy Kitchen and kicked over a large terra cotta flower pot. Dixon tripped and took me down with him. I covered Dixon with my body when Tommy took the first swing. My face met his fist wi
th the sickening thud of bone against bone. Tommy has always hated my best friend. I believe the hate is stemmed from questioning his own sexuality. Dixon thinks he’s just a tool.

  Anyway, my head bounced off the pavement like a ping pong ball. There was a small scrape on my face and some bruising, but nothing more. Tommy jumped in his truck and raced off. Violet rushed out of her shop to help me. I wouldn’t let her take me to the hospital so she closed the shop and drove me home. Violet went along with my story when I told Daddy I tripped over something on the sidewalk. He tried to thank her with money. Violet did not accept a dime of what he offered. I liked her immediately.

  Money and greed float around me like oxygen. I’d never seen anyone refuse payment from him.

  I think Daddy sort of has a thing for Violet. Most of Savannah’s bachelors have a thing for her, actually. She never has to wear makeup. She has the type of skin women her age—don’t ask, she will never admit this age—pay a lot of money for. Her flawless skin, combined with waist-length honey blonde hair that swirls in waves down her back, and almond-shaped eyes the color of peat moss make her one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

  Since her husband left almost fifteen years ago, she has not given anyone else the time of day. Violet shot Daddy down with only the grace and poise of someone having great skill in doing so. Cordell Carrington didn’t know if he should be angry or impressed. I, for one, was impressed.

  She has a son stationed at an army base in North Carolina. He returned from Afghanistan about a month ago, but has been unable to visit since his homecoming.

  Jackson Monroe is the guy everyone knows. I was a freshman when he was a senior, but he went to Savannah High and I went to Coastal. He joined the army the day he turned seventeen and graduated a semester early in order to start Basic Training.

  His deployment hit Violet like a Hulk Smash to the gut. Hoping to lessen the loneliness, I stayed with her a few times a week while Jackson finished up his year-long tour. She helped me remember what it’s like to have a mother. I helped her remember to lock the doors at night.

  I spot a tall, vaguely familiar guy step through the entryway. Oh, he’s pretty. Wait. No. Wrong word. Handsome? Beautiful? Breathtaking? Whatever he is, he is definitely something. His combination light brown-sandy blonde hair is cropped very short, giving off the hue known only in the south as No Color. Lucid green eyes. Lips you just want to—oh God, that smile. Dimples! I close my eyes. Open them slowly.

  No crushes, Carrington. Get yourself together.

  He looks too young to be a Carrington goon business associate. I study him. The tense shoulders, stiff back, the tightness at the corners of his mouth and slight twitch in his right eye show he is barely holding himself together. Like he can snap or run at any moment. Possibly both. I step closer to read the words on his lips. Escort.

  Missing. Emission. No, that’s not right. Mission. Gov—

  “Madelyn, the dress looks great!” I spin to see Nomi Bradford’s slender face beaming with pleasure.

  Always the human billboard, Nomi is dressed in one of her own creations of chiffon and tulle layers that flow in brown and cream stripes, coming to an end just below the knee. With her ketchup-red hair, she almost resembles a meatloaf.

  “Yes, Nomi,” I say with a smile. “It’s one of a kind.”

  She nods. “Has your daddy seen it? I want to know what he thinks.”

  I look over my shoulder. Daddy and the sexy fellow guy are gone. “No, ma’am. I’m looking for him now.”

  “Is Mr. Duvall here tonight?” Nomi straightens her dress and fluffs her perfectly coifed hair. Her disappointment is obvious when I tell her Larry is in Houston until tomorrow. I shudder at her attraction to him. “Be sure to mention I asked about him.”

  I will not. “Yes ma’am, I sure will.”

  I begin the search for my father. He will be upset if he thought I enjoyed myself before he has a chance to parade me around to his associates. I look in all the open rooms downstairs before spotting Violet again.

  “Violet,” I smile. “Did you see where Daddy went?”

  “Oh, he ran off with Jackson,” she replies, not bothering to hide her unease.

  I am only a little ashamed that the guy I was previously drooling over is her son. That’s why he looked so familiar. The pictures in her living room do the real life version no justice. I almost thank her for bringing someone so beautiful into the world.

  Hold down your creeper status, Carrington. No crushes.

  “Jackson’s home!” I hug her. “I’m so happy for you.”

  The worried expression is not hidden well on her face. “He and Cordell were talking cars. I think they went down to the dock.”

  I take the hint. “I’m going down to show him Nomi’s latest creating.”

  She exhales a sigh of relief.

  I make my way outside, hoping to interrupt the conversation before Jackson makes a life-changing deal with Cordell Carrington.

  Jackson

  Sweat pops out on the nape of my neck as Cordell chauffeurs me through the endless flock of guests. He greets each person with a handshake, pat on the back, or playful punch on the shoulder. He even kisses a few babies along the way.

  His walk is as unsteady as I feel. Probably all the bourbon floating in his bloodstream. We push through a set of French doors, maneuver around the massive pool area, down a stone pathway, ending on the rounded end of a dock overlooking the marsh. A large party boat is anchored to my right, floating lazily on the water. Four jet skis are attached to the left side.

  Fresh air dissolves the cloudiness in my head. The profuse sweating comes to a halt. The psych says reactions like this are normal.

  Normal. Funny. When I asked him to define the term, he was unable to give a straight answer.

  “Son, I think we can work out a deal. You have a specific car in mind?”

  Wait . . . what? I get to choose?

  “The Barracuda.”

  Cordell doesn’t balk at the mention of his seventy thousand dollar automobile.

  He takes a sip of bourbon, regarding me over the rim of his glass. He is reading me: my face, my stance, my body language. Without changing the stony expression he says, “Come back tomorrow. Do not tell anyone. I don’t want folks around here thinkin’ they’re all up for sale.”

  “It’s not for sale?” I ask, deflated.

  “No.” He finishes off his drink and turns his back to me. “We can work out a deal if you can keep your mouth shut and don’t ask too many questions. Sleep on that and come back tomorrow.”

  I want that car. I need that car. “What time?”

  “Nine. Maddy should be gone to work by then.”

  “What does she . . .?”

  Cordell puts his hand up in the universal signal for shut the hell up. “No questions.”

  “Daddy?” a low, sweet voice calls out. A dark-haired girl steps into the dim light. She moves gracefully in stiletto peep-toes on the wooden dock. Yes I know what peep-toes are. What can I say? I like nice feet. I don’t have a fetish or anything. It’s just—wow, this thought process is completely out of hand.

  “Come over here, sugar!” Cordell beams. “Let me see your dress.”

  Cordell’s daughter glances up to meet my eyes but quickly looks away.

  Is she afraid of me? I do tower over her by more than a foot.

  Maddy walks into Cordell’s open arms. He embraces her like she’s the greatest thing since gooey butter cake. My stomach growls at the thought. She breaks the embrace, keeping her left arm around his waist to help his unsteady movements.

  “Maddy,” Cordell says. “Meet Jackson Monroe, Violet’s boy. He’s come down from Fort Bragg to see his mama and asked to come along with her to your party.”

  Cordell winks and pats me on the back. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. Seems like her bullshit meter is pinging on high.

  “Nice to meet you, Jackson Monroe. Thank you for coming to the party. I hope you are having a
nice time.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Maddy.”

  “Come on, darlin’,” Cordell says. “Let’s go up there and show ‘em how the Carringtons do things around here.”

  Maddy shifts her weight to hold Cordell upright. “Oh, I’m sure they know plenty about how we do things, Daddy.”

  He releases a shrill belly laugh and nods, “Damn right they do.”

  She glances over her shoulder with a nod of goodbye. Blood rushes to her cheeks when I smile. I do like that.

  With Maddy’s short stature, holding up a staggering Cordell is a feat in and of itself. I would offer to help but something tells me this girl doesn’t accept help from anyone. At the edge of the pool area, she steadies and stands Cordell upright to adjust his suit before disappearing into the swarm of people.

  I find Mama in the game room playing pool. I am ready to leave, but since she is hustling some unfortunate chump out of his pride I think we will be here for a while.

  I discover an empty sofa tucked inside a nook on the upstairs catwalk. If I can close my eyes for just a minute . . .

  “Jackson Benton-Monroe, you wake up right now!” Mama shakes me until I finally give in and open one eye. “Falling asleep at someone’s party is not good manners. I raised you better than that.”

  “I’m awake,” I moan and pull back the soft blanket tucked beneath my chin.

  Where did that come from?

  The party is still going strong downstairs. I sit up and put my shoes on.

  Why are my shoes off? Good thing I wore decent socks.

  “I’m going to the car,” Mama says. “Give the blanket to Maddy and let’s go home. I expect you to apologize for sleeping through this party.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I grumble and stand to stretch.

  “Down the hall, third on the left.” She hurries down the stairs and, after giving a few people her farewell for the night, heads out the door. I do not miss the appreciative stares from some of the men as she walks away. That kind of attention used to piss me off, especially when they would blatantly stare and spit out cheap lines in order to impress her. Their shitty tactics never worked. Mama is not easily impressed.