Bottom Feeder Read online

  I am uncomfortable talking about him, even if the conversation is something as simple as the weather. If given the opportunity I’m sure he would try to control that, too.

  “Are you staying for the entire show tomorrow night?”

  Dixon plays Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the local theatre. Tomorrow night is the last performance of the season. The house is always packed for the final show since the director, Mr. Lipinksi, does something unconventional. Last season Dracula was uprooted to a seedy side of Memphis where he became a pacifist recluse after a nasty hoarding incident. It was pretty classic. Tomorrow night’s show has been transformed into a hip-hop musical, with some characters in drag. It’s hilarious and controversial. But Lipinski makes it work.

  “Of course. I’m the certified minion, remember?”

  “You could’ve been in the show. You only had to sing for Lipinski and you would have played Maggie instead of Laney Minks. That girl is a dreadful, atrocious beast.”

  I roll my eyes. “What eighteen year old says things like, ‘dreadful, atrocious beast?’”

  “This one.”

  The remainder of our drive into Savannah is a one-Dixon show ranting about how awful Laney acts, and how he resents me for having to spend so much time with her.

  “I’ll see you after rehearsal!” I shout, slamming his door.

  “Don’t slam my door!”

  Slamming his door is only the beginning of my revenge for the glob of butter in my dance shoes this morning.

  My job at Just Dance began a couple of years ago when Ms. Peavy, the owner, asked me to work as an assistant. I was her student but hated performing. Now I work with her seven to twelve year olds who want to hone their skills. I also give private ballroom and hip-hop lessons in my free time for extra money.

  Today’s session, one of my last, is bittersweet. The more I think about how much I do not want to go to New York makes it more bitter than sweet.

  I change into my uniform of black capri leggings, black tank top with Just Dance written in silver block letters on the front, and lightweight sneakers designed especially for dancers.

  I call the class to order by turning on a hip-hop mix. The rhythmic beats get the group excited to begin. The kids could perform the routines in their sleep, so this practice is strictly for polishing. After three hours and countless bathroom and water breaks, I switch the music to Chopin’s Nocturnes to bring the class to an end.

  I gather cleaning supplies after everyone has left and clean my way through the studio. Some might say I have obsessive-compulsive disorder because of my fanatical cleaning binges. Cleaning helps me relieve stress. I tend to grasp on to any activity that is all about controlling an outcome. If it calms me to have my clothes folded to look like a display table at Gap or if the floors are vacuumed daily because the sound of the vacuum clears my thoughts doesn’t mean I have a disorder. It means I need some semblance of control.

  When the studio is spotless I turn up the music, turn off the lights, open the blinds and kick off my shoes.

  I hate performing, but I love to dance. Nothing can replace the freedom of dancing. Ballet, jazz, tap, hip-hop, salsa, krumping and break dancing are my escape. Especially krumping and breaking, where no structure or reason to any of the moves exists. I move where the beat leads me to move. The feeling is unlike anything else.

  My audition for the performing arts school was a mixed piece called Metaphor that combined breaking with belly dancing with ballet with pop-locking, and a little bit of krumping. If Daddy knew the entire audition was freestyle, he would have been furious.

  “Never go into anything unprepared, Maddy. Never. You will fail in the long run.”

  Not to sound conceited, but I really can dance well. Whether or not I am good enough to be accepted into the school on my own, I’ll never know. Daddy’s money goes a long way . . . from Georgia to New York City, apparently.

  Someone begins applauding behind me. I turn to face my spectator, fearing the worst.

  “Wow! You are amazing,” Jackson says. I exhale with relief as he steps further into the studio. “You should teach me sometime.”

  “Thanks.” I back away casually as he steps closer. “I’d be glad to teach you. Can you dance?”

  He shakes his head. “Not a bit.”

  I try ignoring the frantic pounding of my heart. I chalk the reaction up to the surprise of someone sneaking up on me, not the nearness of Jackson Monroe. I’m not that pathetic. Right? “What can I do for you?”

  Jackson shuffles his feet. “You mentioned working here. Since my house is close by, I thought I’d stop in.”

  “Oh,” is all the intelligence my mouth can handle. Genius.

  My cell phone rings. “Excuse me for a second.”

  “Hey, Daddy.” I walk back to the main floor and mouth just a minute to Jackson.

  I sit with my legs stretched in front of me. Jackson mimics my position. He studies my face. I bend to touch my head to my knees and stretch out the kinks from hours of dancing. Not because his shameless staring is making me nervous. Pffft. Not at all.

  Daddy is explaining that Jackson will drive me to New York City. Something about a planned trip and requesting my father’s permission to “escort” me. Yeah, right.

  I rise from my stretch to raise an eyebrow at Jackson, who is smiling like someone with a secret to tell. I bend for another stretch while Daddy goes on to say I will spend a week in Fayetteville, the town connected to Fort Bragg.

  “I’ll be in Korea for forty-five days. If you stay in Fayetteville, Jackson will not have to drive down to Savannah then back up to New York. It’ll be best for you. Make me happy and do this, won’t you?”

  “Daddy . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me, you ungrateful child! You’ll do as I say and will damn well like it. You got me? Selfish, bottom feeding brat.”

  I was only going to ask when we were leaving. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “You didn’t want to go with me?” Jackson questions after I end the call.

  I push myself up from the floor. Jackson follows and places a hand on the wall behind me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not sure you want to stand so close right now. I’ve been dancing for hours in this studio without air cond . . .”

  Did he just sniff the air? What is he doing?

  He drops his hand and shrugs. “You smell like coconut. Kind of reminds me of summer.”

  Of course I blush, which amuses him, which embarrasses me, which amuses him more. A vicious cycle.

  “Thank you . . . I think?”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he begins after one last, low chuckle. Can a chuckle be sexy? No. Stop thinking he’s sexy. “I think we should. . .”

  “Maddy! Where are you?” Dixon calls out from the front of the studio. “Lipinski needs you.”

  Jackson’s brow creases in frustration.

  “I swear if you’re showering, I’m coming in!” Dixon yells.

  Remembering the squishy butter in my sneakers, I press a finger to my lips, signaling Jackson to be quiet. He follows silently as I tiptoe to the entrance.

  “Come on, hussy!” Dixon’s voice inches closer. “It’s hot and I want to get to the beach.”

  Jackson leans into me. “Did he just call you a hussy?”

  I roll my eyes and nod.

  “Seriously, Maddy, it’ll just be a few . . .”

  I blindside Dixon as he steps through the entrance, bringing him to the floor with a grunt.

  Hey, I never said I was a lady. Well, there was this one time. I swear it was the worst twenty minutes of my life. Besides, I can’t pass up a good tackle.

  “Dammit, beesh!” Dixon grunts. “That was dirty.”

  He tries to get off the floor, but I have a control grip wrapped around both his wrists. I’ve been practicing Krav Maga for two years. Much to his amusement and dismay, I often practice my training on Dixon.

  My palms are swe
aty so he quickly loosens the grip and manages to stand. He shuffles like he’s in a boxing match and motions for me to get up. I sweep my leg around his feet, bringing him down on his back. In one swift move, I straddle his waist and pin his arms to the floor.

  “Say it and I’ll let you up,” I tell him.

  “Never!”

  “Say it and I’ll let you up,” I repeat.

  “Fine,” he grumbles and begins his best Muhammad Ali. “Maddy is the best. Maddy floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee. Maddy is not the greatest, she’s the double greatest. Not only does she knock 'em out, she picks the round.”

  I kiss his cheek and help him up. Dixon charges at me again, but comes to a halt when his eyes land on Jackson, who is pressed against the wall stifling a laugh.

  After an awkward introduction the two stubbornly nod once and look in opposite directions.

  Dixon begins a long speech about his co-star. Apparently Laney has intentionally ripped several gaping holes in one of her dresses.

  “. . . I told you that beast was dreadful,” Dixon complains, bringing his rant to a close. “She’s a shitty excuse for a human.”

  “Language, DJ!” He rolls his eyes at my mom-ness. “I’ll shower and be right over.”

  “Don’t bother. Most everyone has left.”

  After throwing a scowl at Jackson, Dixon jogs out the front door.

  “Sorry about that.” I turn to face Jackson. “What were you saying before?”

  “Wanna go somewhere later?” His tone is harsh. Maybe I made an idiot out of myself by tackling Dixon. But I do not pass up perfect opportunities for a little payback.

  “Huh? Like, together?” Honestly, could I be any more intelligent right now?

  His lips soften into a smile. “If we’re going on a road trip, I’d like to get to know you better. Just you and me.”

  Is it weird that I like the sound of that a little too much? “Um, okay.” He follows me outside to lock up the studio.

  “Hettie’s sound good?” he asks. “I’ve been craving their surf and turf for months.”

  “Sure. Dixon and I were planning to catch a movie, so he can drop me off there.”

  He slides into the driver’s seat and rolls down the window. “I have one condition.”

  “Condition?”

  He nods seriously. “If you plan on tackling me, I’d like to know ahead of time.”

  I grin. “I promise I won’t tackle you.”

  “Hmm.” His face is thoughtful. “Don’t make promises you may not want to keep.”

  Jackson laughs at my flushed cheeks. The almost-silent sound is a bit off, like he has forgotten what it’s like for his body to make that kind of noise. Still sexy, though.

  I grab Laney’s dress off the floor in front of the stage and set up the dress-form mannequin and sewing machine in the prop room.

  I begin mending the rips by hand. A few minutes later I decide reinforce the fabric with the machine in case Laney decides to throw another tantrum. Trust me, it’s inevitable.

  “She’s such a brat,” a voice behind me says. Matt, a cast member playing the role of Mae tomorrow night, stomps into the room. His black, white-tipped shoulder-length locks are tucked beneath a blonde wig. At six-two with full lips, a slightly imperfect nose and a body made for curling against, I almost wish he liked girls so I could form a realistic fantasy about him.

  “She’s . . . headstrong.”

  “Bitch on burnt toast is more like it.” Matt places his hands on his hips and impatiently taps his toe.

  “What does that even mean? You’ve been hanging out with Dixon too much.” He and Dixon have been flirting heavily for months behind the scenes. I secretly hope they finally kiss at the after-party tomorrow night.

  “I’d like to knock her perfect plastic nose out of place. That’ll teach her to act like such a bitch to everyone.”

  I continue to sew while Matt continues to rant. Dixon strolls in and throws himself on a sofa.

  “I am so aggravated with you, Madelyn Faith Carrington,” he announces.

  With a needle and thread in my mouth, and my hands full of fabric, I answer him through pressed lips. “Why? I haven’t tried to sabotage the show by ripping a hole in this dress and throwing a tantrum every twelve minutes.”

  “True,” he agrees. “But I don’t like that you’re giving in to Monroe’s charms. Or venom. Or whatever it is he’s spitting at you.”

  “Jackson Monroe?” Matt swoons, moving to sit on the edge of the sofa. “He’s back?”

  “Oh, he’s back all right,” Dixon says. “And ‘ol Maddy over there is falling ass over teakettle for him.”

  I remove the needle and thread from my mouth. “It’s not like that,” I say, knotting off the last few stitches. “And what does ‘ass over teakettle’ even mean?”

  Matt stands to leave. “Just a little advice, Maddy: Jackson Monroe? If he’s giving you attention, take it. I’d give up an entire year of future Botox injections for one night with that piece of sexiness. Most people would.”

  “That’s really creepy, Matt,” I say.

  Dixon nods in agreement, his face seething with disgust. “Slut.”

  “You wish, darlin’. You wish.” Matt turns on his heel.

  “My father asked him to take me to New York.”

  “You mean the Don is forcing him to take you to New York,” Dixon corrects. I nod. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  Knowing his sister’s experience, I have a good idea of what Jackson Monroe is capable of. Libby was not the only girl who fell for him. I refuse to ever be like that over a guy. I can’t be like that over any guy. He would never be safe.

  I pull Dixon up from the sofa. “Come on, I need to shower.”

  His protective nature makes me feel wanted. Sometimes, though, he worries too much. I quickly decide not to mention Hettie’s.

  “I agreed to eat dinner with him tonight.” Crap. Didn’t I decide not to mention Hettie’s? Jackson seriously has me flustered. I hope I don’t say anything crazy while I’m with him tonight.

  I unlock the door to Just Dance, relocking it when Dixon is inside. “I’m nothing like those other girls.”

  So what if Jackson makes me flush bright red when he smiles, makes my heart beat erratically just by breathing near me, and makes me want to sin today and not worry about repenting because I will probably do it again tomorrow? None of that means I am going to give it up to him.

  It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. I just don’t like regrets.

  “I hope you remember that when the incubus tries to suck you in.”

  I laugh.

  “This is serious, Maddy. There are plenty of guys who like you. Despite what you think, Cordell’s money is not the reason.” Dixon straddles a bench while I gather items from my locker. “I should know. I’ve been in the locker room hearing detailed, graphic ‘what-if’ scenarios about my best friend for years.”

  Even if that were true, I do not get involved with anyone because of Daddy. What he does. What he is. I cannot have anyone sucked into his trap because I want to go on dates with someone other than my best friend.

  I love my father because loving him is what’s expected of me. But as a person, he kind of sucks.

  “You have to admit,” I say before going into the showers, “Jackson is gorgeous.”

  “Of course he’s gorgeous!” Dixon exclaims. “How do you think he gets away with so much bullshit?”

  “Out, DJ.”

  I let the hot water run over me, unknotting my tightened muscles, scorching the latest scratches and burns on my back and upper thighs. I let the pain overtake me until the water turns lukewarm. I don’t welcome the pain, but I earned it. It’s mine to do with as I please. Maybe I’m deranged, but I’ll take the hurt so no one else has to deal with it.

  I drape my favorite Hello Kitty bath wrap around me and begin my beauty routine of combing my hair, slappin
g some SPF moisturizer on my face, SPF moisturizing lip butter on my lips, and slathering SPF 25 cocoa butter on the rest of my body. What can I say? I like SPF.

  I shake out the wrinkles in my dress: a crisp-white eyelet pattern with front pintucks that fits snuggly in the bodice. The silhouette flows at the bottom, just above the knee. The straight neckline provides the perfect cover for my boobs and the cap sleeves cover my scars.

  I finish the look by sliding on my favorite pair of Grecian sandals.

  Dixon is sleeping across four chairs in the lobby. I draw my foot back to kick the chair at his feet.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he says, his eyes closed. I kick anyway. Before I can run, he jumps up and throws me in a fireman’s carry.

  “I’m wearing a dress, DJ!”

  “Boy shorts don’t count as panties. You probably have panties on underneath those. And maybe some underneath those.” Switching to an English accent, he adds, “It would be absolutely scandalous for Miss Carrington to show off those sexy knickers she wears.”

  I slap his back until he finally sits me down.

  “Come on,” he laughs. “Let’s catch a matinee before you proceed to be enamored by the incubus.”

  Jackson

  I greet Mama with a kiss on the cheek. “You have to stop leaving the door unlocked. This might be a nice neighborhood, but you can’t trust people anymore.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You sound like Maddy.”

  I don’t ask what she means. I’ve been home less than twenty-four hours and most of that time has revolved around that girl. She is becoming an involuntary obsession.

  Speaking of Maddy, I need to get out the ironing board. Just because I’m being forced to take her out doesn’t mean I have to go wrinkled.

  I had no plans of going on a date this weekend, so the only clothes in my duffle bag are jeans and t-shirts. I rummage through the closet without any luck. I open the top dresser drawer. Staring back at me are two pajama short sets, two matching bra and panty sets and a travel bag filled with toiletries.

  The bra and panties, I hope, are too risqué for Mama. I shudder at the thought. Out of curiosity, I check the bra size. Mother of God.