Bottom Feeder Read online

  “Grace’s parents were very traditional southerners. They would have disowned her for having a child without a husband. I presented her with a solution: marry me and I would take care of her and the baby. It took some of the old Carrington charm, but eventually she agreed. I knew she loved me before she realized it herself. Call me an arrogant son of a bitch, but I had—have—that influence on women.” The sound of his chuckle makes my skin crawl. I shiver against the warm leather.

  “The wedding came only two days after I presented the idea of a storybook life. Grace’s daddy disapproved of our marriage from the beginning. The old man tried to make my life nothing short of hell, and damn near succeeded. He passed away after Maddy was born. Unfortunate for him. Fortunate for me.” He smirks at the memory.

  “Now don’t get me wrong, I was never a one-woman-man. If Grace didn’t know this when we married, she learned quickly. It took its toll on her when I came home at night with the smell of another woman on my clothes. But she was my wife, not the other women. The money, house, clothes and jewelry were enough to suffice.” He stares intently at the ceiling. “I thought they were, anyway.”

  “Shortly before Maddy’s eleventh birthday I began seeing another woman regularly. She was younger than me—about twenty—but already a widower. Her husband had been killed in some sort of boating accident. Months later when I found out the other woman was pregnant with my child, I realized I loved her. I loved Grace, too, but this other woman was a pursuit of something that someone told me I could never have. Plus, attaining her almost ruined me. Sometimes the thrill of the chase is just as good as the capture.” No, I don’t like this story at all.

  “Grace knew about her from the beginning. She wanted to leave. I refused to ruin the Carrington reputation by divorcing Grace and admitting to everyone that I wasn’t Maddy’s real father. Including Maddy. Up until that year she was always such a sweet, obedient child but I just . . . stopped liking her.” Cordell shrugs at this, like it’s completely okay to stop liking the child you raised from birth. Maybe that’s what happened with my father: he just stopped liking me. Is it really that simple?

  “All was going well in my life. Grace, being the sensible woman she was, stopped eating at the restaurant where my new girlfriend waitressed. She went back to her usual routine of being my wife. One Monday evening, after a business weekend in Hilton Head, I came home to an empty house. A note from Grace was posted on the kitchen counter stating Maddy was at the Jarrett’s house after her dance recital and dinner was in the oven. I didn’t even know Maddy had a recital that night. I wasn’t paying much attention to her at that time. She was acting so strangely, distancing herself from everyone except that Jarrett kid. Besides, I was preparing to have my own daughter and didn’t care much about the one that wasn’t mine. Anyway, I ate dinner and went upstairs where I discovered Grace’s limp, lifeless body in the tub. Her hair was fixed in an intricate up-do. Her eye makeup was done in rich, dark browns and a fire engine red shone brightly on her lips, making her porcelain skin appear glossy. All that makeup on her face, yet her body was completely naked aside from every piece of jewelry I had given her over the years scattered on top of her. This note was in her hand.” He passes me the folded piece of paper he retrieved from the fireproof box.

  The lies come so easily that I am in a constant state of shame, draped in jewels of deception. Underneath it all I am clothed in the grace God has given me. The pursuit to buy my silence was not done in vain, as you will never hear from me again after today.

  As I read Grace Carrington’s words, the realization of why he is telling me the details of his family’s history settles in. This is Cordell’s way of reeling me into a deal I cannot back away from. I have been set up to be part of something I should have never known about. He is showing me details of his life and his home to trap me into silence.

  I fold the letter carefully, handing it back without making eye contact.

  “I called the sheriff personally. I wanted to keep things quiet so Grace could avoid embarrassment. The sheriff brought the coroner with him to pronounce her official death. A handful of pills and a bottle of Tennessee’s Finest apparently did the job. Hell, I didn’t even know she drank. Because Grace took her own life and this little incident would raise too many questions about me, I asked the coroner to make it look like she had a heart attack. We cleaned up the bathroom and cleaned up Grace, even put clothes on her.” Cordell shrugs like it’s no big deal to have a sheriff and coroner in your back pocket.

  “People are easily bought, Jackson. You see, son, I acquire money like other people acquire junk mail. Toss out a few thousand here and there, invite them to a few parties and people are clay in your hands, waiting to be molded into anything you need them to be.”

  Cordell’s solemn, controlled voice rises to an excited pitch in his next breath. “I’m getting married, Jackson. My future wife had a beautiful baby girl just a few months after Grace died. She is everything Maddy could never be. We are moving away from Savannah as soon as Maddy is out of my life for good. That child has been a thorn in my side since the day she was born. I’ve given her everything she could ever want but the girl is . . . strange. She handled Grace’s death like it was another day in her pathetic life. She was already shut down by that time anyway. Stopped talking. Stopped wearing what I needed her to wear and acting how I needed her to act in order to keep up appearances. Maddy became the opposite of everything I needed her to do in order to keep up with what a Carrington should be. She’s useless; a bottom feeder, at best.”

  I wince as he talks about this girl like she is nothing more than dirt beneath his overpriced Ferragamo’s. What have I gotten myself caught up in? Is it too late to refuse his offer?

  “Important people in charge of certain prestigious performing arts schools look well upon generous monetary donations from fathers who want their daughter enrolled. With that said, this is where you come in. Take Maddy to New York City on the scenic route. Everything is ready for her there. Tuition and car are paid in full. The apartment is, too. It’s a nice high-rise with views overlooking the city. The building is under renovation so I only dropped four point two million. I’m guaranteed double on my investment when Maddy is gone. Money will be deposited into her bank account each week. She’ll have everything she needs to stay out of my hair. This house sold two months ago. Everything will be cleared out, shut down and shut off within two weeks. All calls will be directed to my business partner, Larry Duvall. He agreed to communicate with her so I don’t have to. Eventually Maddy will get the hint that she is not wanted.”

  I don’t know whether to be frustrated, outraged, or thankful he didn’t ask me to commit a felony.

  I put on my best poker face and look him in the eyes. “So you’re saying, sir, that if I take her to New York City—scenic route—you will give me this car and ten thousand dollars? Deliver her, go back to Fort Bragg and get on with my life? Nothing more?”

  He nods. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll transfer everything to you today. A plane ticket will be waiting at La Guardia to fly you directly into Fayetteville. The Barracuda will be waiting at the airport. You will not have to spend a single dime of your money.”

  “I won’t be driving the Barracuda?”

  “You’ll be taking her car.” He points to the far corner of the garage. My knees buckle at the sight of a brand spankin’ new metallic Monaco blue BMW 550i.

  I went with a friend to look at one of these a few weeks ago. Let’s just say the test drive was suh-weet. The speeding ticket he acquired during the test drive wasn’t sweet, but we—everyone in the car plus the officer who issued the ticket—agreed it was well worth it.

  Cordell slithers over to Maddy’s car. “She never drives it,” he says, disgusted. “She prefers that damn bicycle.”

  He opens the door and gestures for me to sit.

  “Why doesn’t she drive it?” My male brain cannot fathom anyone not wanting to drive a 550i.

  �
��I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with her. Maddy shies away from attention. Although that works out great in some aspects of my lifestyle, it’s a nuisance in others. I’m a very public man for private reasons, Jackson.”

  I shift my attention to the interior of the BMW. Black leather seats, dark poplar wood trim, and an HD radio with surround sound. I breathe in the new car smell, basking in all its glory.

  The Barracuda. The money. The chance to drive this BMW for eight hundred miles up the east coast.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Let’s get that paperwork.”

  I follow Cordell into a kitchen that I’m sure cost more than Mama’s entire house. My stomach growls in neglected fury. The last time I ate was yesterday morning. I should have taken Maddy up on her food offer.

  “You hungry, son?” Cordell asks in a tone that doesn’t suggest he revealed dirty family secrets to practically a stranger only minutes ago.

  I sit on a high stool at the breakfast bar and spot cinnamon rolls. Dammit, I love cinnamon rolls. “Starved, sir.”

  “Maddy isn’t good at much, but she can cook. Help yourself.” He lifts a platter filled with pastries and places a napkin on the bar. I grab a cinnamon roll and a few triangle biscuit-looking things. The cinnamon roll disappears in three bites.

  “Mmmmm-mmm,” I muffle, taking a bite of a something that tastes like maple and sugared pecans. I take another bite before swallowing the first. I have no idea what I am eating, but it’s tasty.

  Cordell laughs and tosses me a single-serve carton of milk.

  “She learned from Grace. She makes my breakfast every morning after her run. Violet said she brought you something yesterday?”

  I salivate at the memory of gooey butter cake. Maddy made that? “Four o’clock run?” I ask, stuffing my mouth with another pastry.

  “Crazy, isn’t it? You would think she’d be a little smaller in the waist with all the runnin’ and dancin’ and that Krav Maga shit she begged me to let her take. She eats all that organic crap but she’s always been a fat one.” He shakes his head in disgust.

  I think back to last night. Sweet smile. Kind of curvy. Not the slimmest girl I’ve ever met, but definitely not fat. Not my type. But not fat.

  I cram another pastry in my mouth.

  “Let me get those papers, son. Then we’ll discuss some things further.”

  I sneak a cinnamon roll and a few more pastries on my napkin, stuffing the last one in my mouth seconds before Cordell returns.

  He places a pen and the papers on the counter. “Just sign. I’ll deal with the rest.”

  I wipe crumbs from my mouth and gulp down the carton of milk. As the ink from the pen flows over the paper I can’t help but wonder if I’m signing over my soul.

  “Now on with the rest of it.” I stare at the plate of pastries longingly before following Cordell out of the kitchen.

  Claustrophobia settles in as the heavy oak door to his office closes behind me.

  Cordell walks to the east side of the large room and punches in another keypad code, like in the garage. Again the wall slides back to expose a cutout in the secondary wall. Only this time there are no security cameras. The hidden compartment reveals an arsenal. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, rifles and several small arms decorate the concealed wall.

  What the hell? Is he planning anarchy or forming a coup against the government or something?

  He removes a Smith & Wesson .38 Special DK pistol from the wall. I tense when the magazine shoves into place with an ominous click. There are two options if he points that thing in my direction: him or me. I guarantee it will be him.

  How will I explain something like this to my First Sergeant? “Oh, I was just having a meeting with a mob boss, Sergeant Wotley. Just a day in the life of Specialist Jackson Monroe. No big.”

  Before I formulate an escape plan to a foreign country without extradition, Cordell tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband underneath his jacket.

  “Wow. That’s um, some collection you got there, sir.”

  “You can never be too careful or too aware, son. I’m sure with your line of work you can relate.”

  I nod.

  “I need you to be interested in her,” Cordell sighs, sitting in the oversized leather chair behind the desk. His face is solemn, as if he is sorry I have to do this.

  Wait. What am I doing?

  “Excuse me?” I try to fix my face so it’s not mimicking his.

  I know what you might be thinking: this is one of those stories where the guy falls for the girl and they live happily ever after despite her crazy father and blah blah blah. Uh, no. I do not do relationships.

  Even if I did, Maddy is not my type.

  “She has to trust you. I need you to pretend to like her so she doesn’t throw a fit that you are driving her. Maddy was looking forward to driving alone.”

  I sit down before my knees buckle. “And how should I go about doing that, Mr. Carrington?”

  “Hell, son, I don’t know. What do you normally do to let a girl know you’re interested? Throw some charm at her. Take her to dinner. A movie. Go for ice cream. Go to church. Something. I don’t care how you do it. Just get her in public, let the town see you out so it doesn’t appear that I set this up. I understand she’s not your type. But just like there are rumors about me, son, this town has rumors about you, too. Maddy is a bottom feeder, I know, but from what I hear you aren’t exactly choosy when it comes to who you get in the bedroom.”

  I grimace. Now my face is definitely mimicking his. Damn. I knew all those girls were going to come back and bite me on the ass.

  “Look, it’s only for a couple of days. How you act after she’s away from me is not my business. I don’t care if you love her, drop her, or one night stand her as long as she’s not my problem.”

  Cordell rolls his chair to a writing table on the back wall, punching another code into a keypad. He slides a drawer open, removes a stack of money and tosses it to me.

  “Five grand,” he says. “I’ll be fair and say this doesn’t count as part of your ten. Use this to take your new girl out, Jackson. Her name is Maddy. Not much to look at or talk to, but just think of it as sort of a . . .” he pauses to tap his chin with his right index finger. “Mission for the greater good. You know, taking one for the team.” He laughs. I squirm.

  “Whatever you need me to do,” I say reluctantly. I grab the money from the desk and shove it in my pocket.

  “One last thing,” Cordell says. “This conversation never happened. Understand? I will explain to Maddy that you were planning a trip to New York City and asked to accompany her so she doesn’t travel alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep the things you heard today well-guarded—as if your life depended on it. And believe me, son, it does.”

  The money weighs heavily in my pocket, like a ship anchor holding down a canoe. I walk to the Civic, my legs feeling as if they are treading quicksand.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Maddy

  Jackson should be gracing the covers of fashion magazines or, you know, playing the lead role in my fantasies. He should not be talking about “business” with Daddy. I have to find a way to stop this. If not for his sake, for Violet’s.

  “Hey, skank.”

  I park my bike beside Dixon’s Bronco. “Hey, Panties,” I retort, sticking my tongue out.

  “You better be glad I love you,” Dixon points his finger, “Otherwise I’d have to cut you for that.”

  The story of how Dixon and I became friends also explains his nickname, Panties. I guess now is a good time for a flashback.

  Picture this: fifth grade gym, resident toolbox Tommy Crenshaw decides to pants Dixon, mid-serve, during a volleyball match. Embarrassing enough, right? The entire class, including Coach Gaines, points and laughs at Dixon’s cotton granny panties dotted with tiny purple flowers. Turns out he ran out of clean underwear and Mrs. Jarrett forced him to wear a pair of his si
ster’s instead.

  Anyway. Dixon stood frozen with tears streaming down his face. I ran to shield his body from the class, shaking his shoulders to snap out of his trance. Because, I mean, his pants were hugging his ankles.

  We became inseparable. The first time I walked into Dixon’s house with his dad yelling, “I will not wear women’s underwear, I am going commando!” told me the panty incident was not an uncommon occurrence in the Jarrett household

  “Ooookay Panties, whatever you say.” Dixon reaches into his duffle bag and chucks a shoe in my direction. I duck as it thuds against his truck. “Missed me.”

  “Next time, Maddy . . . next time,” he threatens with his best Scarface imitation.

  I turn around and a pair of socks smacks me in the forehead.

  Dixon raises a suspicious eyebrow when immediate revenge tactics are not applied. My smile is a silent promise of payback.

  “What have you been up to since I left this morning?” he asks, hoisting my bicycle inside the back of the Bronco.

  “Nada. Jackson arrived as I was leaving.” I try sounding nonchalant.

  “Ew.” He makes a disgusted face and climbs into the truck. “Jackson, again?”

  “The one and only.” I make an effort to leap into the passenger seat of his ogre of a truck. It’s a sad sight, really.

  “You like him, huh?”

  Of course I do. “No. Why would you say that?”

  “You just bit your lip. You, sweetness, are not a lip biter.” He rumbles the Bronco to life and backs over the cracked pavement. “You know better, Maddy. Libby still uses a picture with his eyes gouged out as a bookmark.”

  Yes, and that is not weird at all.

  “Why is he talking to Cordell?” Dixon continues. “Another ‘business’ deal for The Don?” He often refers to my father as The Don. As in mafia boss. As in The Godfather.