Bottom Feeder Page 4

  Sometimes I wondered if she ever got lonely. Not that she ever complained or anything. As far as I know, I was the only person in her life since Michael left.

  I drag my feet to the end of the hall and knock lightly on the third door.

  Maddy seems confused to find me standing outside her bedroom. Blood rushes to her cheeks as she tries to inconspicuously hide behind the door. I want to tell her I’ve seen girls in much less than a tank top and pajama shorts, but I kind of like the shyness.

  “Mama said this blanket is yours. I swear I didn’t take it or anything, I woke up and it was draped around me.”

  She smiles and takes the soft fabric from my hand. “Your skin looked a little purple underneath the air vent.”

  “I’m sorry. I had overnight duty before getting on the plane. I’ve been up almost forty-eight hours and couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain.

  “No need to apologize.”

  A new wave of tiredness comes over me and I stagger on my feet. Maddy drops the blanket and reaches out to steady me.

  Even through my half-asleep state, my gaze travels down her body. She has a curvy, athletic build like a dancer or short distance runner. Private Dominguez would like her. He’d call her “thick” and try every line in the book to get in those black pajama shorts.

  Personally I prefer slim model-types. And I don’t stray from that. Ever.

  My eyes travel up to her face, to vivid blue eyes the color of dark sapphire. Suddenly nothing else in the world matters except those eyes.

  Maddy shifts uncomfortably. “You should get home and get some sleep.”

  “G’night.”

  “Jackson?” I turn back to Maddy’s smile. It’s a nice, sweet smile that lights up those dark sapphire eyes. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be home.”

  I lumber my way to the car with a thick blanket of sleep and unease floating over me.

  Maddy

  “Who was that?”

  Since Dixon practically lives here, Daddy gave him a bedroom in this section of the house. He usually sleeps on the guest bed in mine, though.

  I hesitate before answering, “Jackson Monroe.”

  “Excuse me?” He ignores my you heard me look and rolls out of bed. After an exaggerated stretch he heads into the bathroom. “What was that asshat doing here?”

  Dixon’s sister, Libby, had a huge crush on Jackson a few years ago. I’m talking hearts with their initials on her notebooks and children’s names already chosen. The engagement ring she would hint him to buy her was already picked out.

  Not that they ever dated, so to speak.

  Jackson finally gave Libby the time of day their sophomore year and she gave it up to him on the first date. Yes, it. Libby has a bit of an addictive nature. She happened to choose Jackson as her drug of choice during that time. Yeah, she’s about five pounds of crazy in a two pound sack. He avoided her like a zombie contagion while she stalked him until he left for boot camp.

  Dixon told me about the situation between Libby and Jackson. I got the other side of the drama from Violet. According to her, Jackson liked Libby. At least until after their first date when she began stalking him with phone calls at all hours, constant text messaging and showing up at Violet’s flower shop where Jackson worked after school. Libby would sit outside for hours watching him work. If a female customer entered the shop, Libby entered behind her to make sure Jackson was only talking business. During baseball season she attended every practice, every game, and stood outside the locker room until he finished.

  The last straw was the morning Violet found Libby outside her house at two a.m. trying to climb in Jackson’s window. Only it was Violet’s window. Needless to say, Dixon only knows Libby’s half of the story. Of course he’s going to hate the guy his sister still lusts over. There are rumors that Libby is the reason Jackson joined the army.

  “Maddy!”

  “Please don’t talk to me while you’re peeing. Weirdo.”

  Dixon laughs and washes his hands. “Seriously, what was he doing here?”

  “He was with Violet.”

  He grabs my laptop and spreads out on the chaise. “I hate that kid.”

  “Go to sleep, DJ.”

  “Take my advice: don’t try anything with Jackson Sucks-At-Life Monroe. Please. He’s like a proclamation of death or something really dramatic like that.”

  The next morning I go for a run at four a.m. The methodical pounding of sneakers against pavement is one of my only comforts since graduating last week.

  Everything is happening so fast.

  High school is over. My job as an assistant to Mrs. Peavy, my dance instructor, ends Friday. Dixon leaves for some schmancy school in Paris in less than two weeks. His dream is to be a stage actor, which is the reason for his upcoming year studying theatre thousands of miles away from me. Parting from him will be like losing a limb.

  I leave for New York City next Sunday. Not by choice, might I add.

  I was accepted into Duke for a double major in Neuroscience and Psychology. My love of wanting to understand how the mind and body work stems from Daddy's constant pressures to learn about human reaction and interaction. All the hours he spent teaching me how to read body language, lips, and facial expressions—not to forget the books on how the brain and body react to sorrow, happiness, fear, pain and any other emotion you can think of—taught me more about human nature than reaction and interaction.

  The point of going to Duke was to learn everything I could and do something good with it, something to help people who need help. The point of leaving Georgia for North Carolina was to get away from Larry.

  Daddy, however, made other plans for my life. I cannot fight what he tells me to do. He gets what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. No matter the price.

  I’ll never see him again. He doesn’t want me. This much I know. I will not miss him when I leave.

  I have only been out of Georgia a few times, but never any further north than Kentucky. I hate airplanes. Loathe would be a better word, actually. My first and last flight to Houston began with me hyperventilating and passing out twice before I made it to my seat.

  The only time I’ve ever said no to Daddy was when commanded I fly to New York. Okay, so I didn’t say no, per se. I simply reminded him of the Houston flight. So next week at this time I will be on my way to New York in the BMW. Alone.

  I prefer things that way.

  An hour later I pad quietly into my bedroom.

  “Want breakfast?”

  “No, thanks,” Dixon replies. “I’m going home. Dad needs help with a job before I go to the theatre today.”

  I take my hair down and grab my work clothes. “Let’s meet at your house. I’ve got to bake some stuff for the guys at the warehouse.”

  Dixon opens his mouth, closes it. “You know what my suggestion is.”

  He thinks I should add what he likes to call “special” ingredients to the food I make for the staff at the main warehouse. These ingredients come in the form of bodily fluids. Um, no.

  “Later,” he says, a slow smile creeping across his face. His I’m scheming look.

  Great. I’ll have to be on guard the rest of the day.

  Jackson

  My feet hit the pavement at a slow but steady pace. It’s 5 a.m. I’m tired. As usual, I did not sleep. I pass the time thinking about the Barracuda, imagining the surplus of women who will take their turn in the passenger seat. Arm candy is a must. Yes I am cocky enough to admit I think these things.

  What? I don’t say it out loud. Cut me some slack.

  Halfway through the ten-miler, the heat screams down unrelenting. I want nothing more than to be home, showered, clothed and standing in Cordell’s mansion.

  As I turn on my street, I spot an elderly lady stumble on the curb. I rush over to help her.

  “You okay, ma’am?” I ask, picking up the contents of her purse.

  “Ja
ckson Monroe!” She throws her arms around me. The familiar scent of lilac perfume wafts into my nose. Mrs. Elaine Brenner: widow, Southern Belle, certified ball breaker. “I’m all right, darlin’. Old ladies drop stuff all the time.”

  “I don’t see any old ladies around here, Mrs. B.” I smile and hand over her purse.

  “You were always such a charmer. Now stand back and let me look atcha.” She looks me over. “Oh, dear.”

  I shift uncomfortably.

  “Your eyes are different, darlin’.” I wonder if she’s going senile. “Now don’t give me that look. I ain’t senile. That God-forsaken war changed you. I saw it in my own husband. We all saw it in your daddy when he came back. Now it’s in you. The way you look at life, at people, at the world. You got more hatred and anger and confusion coursin’ through your body than you know what to do with.”

  “I have to go, Mrs. B.”

  Mrs. Brenner pats my face. “You come by and see me before you leave again, sweetie pie. I got some chores for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I sprint until my lungs feel as if they will burst. I let the pain in my ribs overtake me. Whatever it takes to get Mrs. Brenner’s words out of my head.

  I twist the knob to Mama’s front door. As usual, it is not locked.

  After a lukewarm shower I dress in jeans and t-shirt then hop in Mama’s Civic and plead to whoever’s listening that the smooth leather seats of a 1971 Barracuda will be underneath my butt soon.

  Apprehension twists in my gut as I park outside the wrought-iron gates. I squash the feeling. I don’t have time for worry right now.

  I gape at the massive detached garage that, no doubt, holds the Barracuda. The gate glides smoothly open before my fingers reach the small touch screen. After a short hesitation I continue walking up the driveway.

  From the corner of my eye I see something rushing toward me. I jump back, ready to attack.

  The psychs say these jumpy reactions are related to PTSD. That might be true if I had PTSD.

  “Oh!” Maddy exclaims. Whatever she reads on my face causes a flood of insanity to come out of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I thought you might be Dixon. Not that you look like Dixon. He’s my best friend. I know what my best friend looks like. I’m sorry for startling you like that but I owe him payback for putting icky stuff in my shoes before he left and when I stuffed them in my bag all this gooey stuff fell out. . . sorry, I’m rambling.”

  I want to ask her about the gooey stuff in her shoe, but instead reply, “So you were going to attack him on your bike?”

  She plants her feet on the ground and pulls her long, chocolate brown hair into a messy ponytail.

  “Whatever works,” she smiles.

  My bunkmate—the army calls them “Battle Buddies”—in basic training knew everything about diamonds and gemstones. Instead of bringing pictures of family members with him, he brought pictures of jewels. He was a nice guy, but super weird. He never talked about anything other than jewels. Sort of like Bubba in Forrest Gump talking about shrimp.

  Anyway, he said the sapphires with the least amount of greens and purples are considered the best quality. Looking into Maddy’s intense blue eyes glistening in the sun reminds me of the pictures of sapphires he passed around like they were his kids.

  Huh. Random.

  “Well, I better go,” she continues. “I’m on my way to Dixon’s house. We ride to work together.” She bites her lip as I purposely stretch the awkward pause.

  “I think Lib—. . .” Maddy stops mid-sentence, as if she has said too much.

  Libby Jarrett. The thought of her name makes me shudder. How could I not remember her? The girl made my life hell. I was her first. She was my third. Maybe fourth. Does anyone really keep up with these things?

  She stalked me. Day and night. I didn’t know at the time, but Mama issued a restraining order against Libby. She caught her trying to break in the house one Saturday while I was away at a baseball game. I never told anyone I found Libby in my bed the night before I left for basic training. I had to call Dixon to get her to leave.

  Since I have no desire to discuss a girl I never want to see again, I quickly change the subject.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Just Dance. Dixon works at the theatre next door.”

  “Mm-hmm, I know the place.” I smile just to see if . . . yep. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Ridiculous. “Is Cordell home?”

  “He’s on the lower level, in the barber shop. I left food on the counter in case you are hungry.”

  A barber shop in the house? Really? “I’m starving, but I think I’m here on business.”

  Maddy frowns at the mention of business. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, her expression situates into a smile.

  “If you change your mind, feel free to help yourself.”

  Cordell swings open the front door. Maddy waves goodbye and pedals through the open gate. He points me to the garage and pulls a small device from his pocket. The gate closes and the garage’s five doors slide open when he presses a button on the tiny controller.

  I gasp in amazement at the car collection. A fully restored, candy pearl 1964 Mustang. A metallic black 1969 Camaro. A bumblebee-striped 1972 Charger. A burnt orange 1970 Nova SS.

  There are more cars further back, but my eyes rest on the Barracuda.

  “Son,” Cordell begins, “My life has only one predicament and I believe you are just the person to help me.” His Georgia drawl shines through so predominantly that I picture him dressed in a Colonel Sanders-style suit, carrying a bucket of original recipe. My stomach grumbles at the thought of fried chicken. “Your job in the army requires a certain amount of confidential information. Is that correct?”

  No. I defuse explosives. I nod anyway.

  Cordell leans against the wall. “Let’s say I had a job for you. The only stipulation would be complete confidentiality about the job. The payment would be this car,” He points to the Barracuda, “And cash. This automobile is worth more than seventy thousand. An extra ten thousand should be sufficient enough for keeping quiet, wouldn’t you say so?”

  A sudden panic rises inside me. I’ve heard rumors of Cordell’s shady business deals. I never paid attention to any of them because I never had a reason to. Until now.

  I look into his beady brown eyes. “I’m not killing anyone for money, Mr. Carrington.” A steady throb pulses behind my eyes. What the hell did I just say out loud?

  Cordell cackles. “Do you really believe those silly rumors?” Another hard laugh. “All I’m asking is your word for confidentiality before I agree to hand over this car. Besides, I don’t need to hire someone to commit murder. I can do that job myself.”

  “I can keep a secret better than most, Mr. Carrington, but if there is anything illegal involved I have to refuse. Please understand, sir. I have my career to think about.” I subtly begin backing out of the garage. I can outrun him.

  Will I have to scale the gate?

  Are there attack dogs?

  Shit.

  “Now hold on just a minute,” he replies angrily. “I will tell you the reason I asked you here today, but I will not have you accuse me of wrongdoings on my own property. Where’re your manners, boy? Your mama raised you better than that!”

  Crap. He played the Mama Card. “I’m sorry, sir.” Should I stay? Or run like hell? I glance at the Barracuda. “Just tell me what I need to do,” I sigh in immediate regret.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Come have a seat in your new car. I’m going to check a little somethin’ before we talk business.” Cordell punches numbers on a small keypad on the back wall.

  I take my place in the driver’s seat. The car will need an old school name. Something classic, yet not like Betsy or Sally. No. Those names are typical, expected.

  Cordell looks over his shoulder, quickly going through the code twice. Two separate codes for the same keypad. Cautious.

  Click. Whir.

  The wall sl
ides back revealing two rows of six television screens. Security cameras pass in ten-second intervals between each room of the house and the perimeter. Paranoid.

  He opens a fireproof box beside the far left monitor and removes a piece of folded paper. The wall slides smoothly back into place.

  Helen? No.

  Louise? Maybe.

  Meryl. Ehhhh. . .

  “We’re going to think of this as quid pro quo, if you will.” Cordell smiles at his knowledge of Latin. In his line of business—whatever that may be—I’m sure he recites this line on a regular basis. “My dear, sweet Maddy has been accepted to a very prominent performing arts school in New York City. I need someone to drive her.”

  Easy enough. I place both hands on the steering wheel. It’s like the heavens opened up and rained excellence on my day.

  “I need you to understand why your silence is crucial. My reputation, my work depends on a certain level of confidentiality.” His voice is both pleading and menacing.

  Myrtle. The ‘cuda shall be called Myrtle. I run my fingers across the leather seats. Yes, whatever he needs me to do I will do.

  “Let me start from the beginning,” Cordell continues. Once those words leave his mouth, apprehension overcomes me. This is not going to be good.

  “Grace, Maddy’s mama, was beautiful. Piercing blue eyes, waist-length raspberry blonde hair with the body of a ’50s pin-up. She belonged on the covers of magazines. I had to have her. Except for the eyes, Maddy unfortunately looks nothing like her.” He spits his daughter’s name out like an expletive.

  “I pursued Grace to no end,” he chuckles. “She wanted nothing to do with me. Everyone wants something to do with me. You have to understand there aren’t many things I can’t have. I always get what I want. Grace was no different. When she finally gave in and talked to me, I learned she was leaving Savannah to start a new life on the west coast. A week before we were introduced—I already knew who she was, of course—Grace discovered she was pregnant, the father gone.” I don’t like where this story is going already.