Bottom Feeder Read online

  Close the drawer.

  Open it.

  Peek further inside.

  Yep. Still there.

  I gape at the lacey material as if it will suddenly answer my questions.

  “Drool much?” Mama asks from the hallway.

  “Please tell me these aren’t yours.”

  “And if they are?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips. “I can rock that just as good as the next fort—er, thirty-something.”

  I stare at her in horror. “Too much information is just too much information.”

  Another eye roll. “Maddy sleeps here sometimes. On the couch.”

  “Maddy?”

  “Be careful. Your eyes are liable to bug outta your head if you stare too hard.”

  I hold them up to her.

  Mama raises her hands in surrender. “She doesn’t get to enjoy much in life, Jackson. That girl has been broken down so much that I’m afraid she’ll never see how beautiful she is.”

  After Mama goes to work, I drift into a restless sleep until after seven.

  So many questions come to mind while driving to Hettie’s.

  Is this a date? She probably considers this a date. Does it matter if it’s a date?

  Should I kiss her? No, probably not. Kissing is nice. Maybe.

  Do I report back to Cordell when the assigned task is complete? Why am I thinking of a human being as an assigned task?

  The most important question: why am I nervous?

  Maddy

  The movie Dixon picked justsohappened to be about a mythical species that preys on unsuspecting people by taking advantage of and sucking the lives from them.

  Not a coincidence.

  Jackson pulls into a parking space as I am locking my bicycle at the rack. He is clad in the standard attire for Hettie’s: linen khaki shorts, flip flops, and a white long sleeve button-down with the sleeves rolled up to slightly below his elbows, displaying the impressive cords of muscles in his forearms.

  “God almighty Jesus in a crumb cake,” I mumble under my breath.

  Dixon scowls, cutting a sideways glare at me.

  “Play nice,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

  Jackson smiles. “You look pretty.”

  Even though the line isn’t genuine, darnnit if he doesn’t look good delivering it. He could recite the alphabet and I would probably swoon. Pathetic.

  “She always looks beautiful,” Dixon snaps, crossing his arms and widening his stance.

  Oh, he cannot be serious.

  The look on Jackson’s face is a mix of incredulous amusement with a hint of anger. Not a good start for my first . . . wait . . . is this a date?

  No. Maybe. No, probably not. Definitely not.

  “Thank you.” I turn to Dixon. “Thanks for the movie and dropping me off. I’ll get my duffle tomorrow.”

  Giving me one last scowl, Dixon drops his arms and huffs away to his truck. He has decided not to stay at the beach. He refuses to be, and I quote, “within a mile of the incubus glamouring unsuspecting victims.”

  “Two dates in one day?” Jackson asks, opening the door to Hettie’s.

  I laugh at the thought of considering Dixon my date.

  “What’s so funny?”

  We walk up a set of stairs to the outdoor balcony that overlooks the beach. Jackson pulls out my chair like a gentleman. I smile. I’m a sucker for good manners.

  “I’ve never thought of anyone looking at the time Dixon and I spend together as a date.”

  “Is he gay?” His tone is conversational, but my defenses go on alert.

  CC, my usual server, takes our order of the surf and turf special for Jackson and a steamed vegetable plate and fried okra for me.

  I absolutely love this place. The wooden picnic tables with checkered tablecloths and tiny jukeboxes on the tabletops give such a relaxed atmosphere to this little piece of paradise on Tybee Island. Everyone comes here, locals and tourist alike. If you want to see and be seen in this town, come to Hettie’s.

  “Friendships between men and women are difficult without some form of attraction,” Jackson says. “Dixon seems very, ah, territorial. The only logical reason you never dated is that he’s gay.”

  CC places our drinks on the table, shooting me a wink and a sideways smile that says good job on the hot fellow.

  “Dixon isn’t territorial,” I reply. “Just concerned.”

  Crap. I could kick myself for saying that out loud. It’s going to be a long night.

  “Concerned?” Jackson shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Libby?”

  “Libby,” I confirm. One hard sigh lets me know just how much he remembers about Dixon’s older sister. “I am not Libby,” I remind him. “No need to worry about me climbing in Violet’s window.”

  A smile of relief spreads across his face.

  “I’m buying the Barracuda,” he states after CC places our food on the table. He frowns at my vegetable plate.

  “Really?” The Barracuda is one of Daddy’s all-time favorites. Someone once leaned against it and I thought he was going to have a stroke. Jackson escorting me to New York City must be one of the stipulations to get the car. There’s probably cash involved, too.

  I close my eyes to remove the anger that is trying to appear on my face. Daddy and his stupid business deals.

  “I’ve been eyeing Myrtle since the first time I saw it at the car show a few years ago.”

  “Myrtle?” I laugh. Jackson smiles as the slightest hint of crimson touches his cheeks. If hearts could melt, mine just did. Man he’s good. “I like it. Classic, yet different.”

  “Exactly!” Jackson exclaims, a look of respect crossing his beautiful face.

  An uneasy tension radiates from across the table while I try to think of something to say. I want to tell him to run as far away from Cordell Carrington as possible. But how do I do that when it’s hard to formulate a sentence around him?

  I don’t date. I would not know how to date if given a manual with pictures and step-by-step instructions. This is definitely going to be a long night.

  “What was the worst part of your day?” I ask, popping a piece of okra in my mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “The worst part of your day. What was it?”

  “Why?” He creases his brow in confusion.

  I shrug. “Conversation.”

  Jackson leans back in the chair. “The worst part would have to be Cordell allowing me to buy the Barracuda.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Definitely,” he laughs without humor. “But I’m not sure if I can afford the . . .” He hesitates, “The payment plan.”

  “If I know my father, I’m sure a small piece of your soul went into that payment plan.”

  Crap! I did not mean to say that out loud. I really have to get this under control.

  Jackson’s face sets into a grimace, telling me I am not far off the mark. I quickly change the subject. “What has been the best part of your day?”

  “Hmm. . .” He opens his mouth and closes it, quickly changing his original answer. Trust me, I know these things.

  “The best part is being with you, of course.” He smiles triumphantly at his weak attempt.

  “Liar,” I chuckle and shake my head. “I sure hope you don’t use that line to win over the ladies.” I laugh again and toss a piece of broccoli in my mouth. He laughs with me and leans forward to take a handful of okra. I smack his hand. “Nobody touches the okra, Hoss.”

  “Okay, okay,” he laughs with a mouthful of deliciously fried goodness. “I guess the best part of my day would have to be Cordell allowing me to buy the Barracuda.”

  I am officially confused.

  “Catch Twenty-Two,” he shrugs. “I’ve been eyeing that car since I was fifteen, Maddy. Something as insignificant as a small piece of my soul isn’t going to keep me from having what I want.”

  I look down to focus on my plate of food, reigning in my temper. Jackson has no idea how far in over h
is head he is. From what I’ve learned over the past few months, no one goes into a deal with Cordell Carrington and comes out intact.

  For the remainder of dinner, the only sounds are forks scraping against plates and the low murmur from surrounding tables. A few people approach to greet Jackson, slapping him on the back and thanking him for serving our country.

  In between those times, Jackson eats through another plate of food and dessert like someone is about to steal his food. Suddenly, as if on cue, his utensils clang against the plate and he stands to leave.

  Like I am not even there.

  His shift with me must be over. I quickly dab the napkin to my mouth and stand.

  “Oh.” He stares at my half-eaten plate. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’m pretty full.”

  Jackson digs into his pocket and throws down money for the bill and a tip. The twenty percent is generous enough, but when his back is turned I slip a fifty on the table for CC.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I say.

  “Sure. No problem. Anytime.”

  I wave goodbye and proceed reluctantly to my beach cruiser. I am not in the mood to make the five-mile bike ride home. Okay, the problem is not the five miles. A snowball has more of a chance in hell than I do with Jackson. A girl can pretend, right? Looking at his beautiful face a little while longer would undoubtedly be the best part of my day.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Jackson calls out.

  “Um, home?”

  “How about we take a walk?”

  My mouth pops open and quickly snaps shut. Maybe his shift is over at midnight or something.

  “I’ve got some packing to do,” I lie. The bulk of my stuff was sent to New York days ago.

  I usually prefer to be around people who want to be around me. You know, those who are not responding to threats fulfilling favors for my father.

  Jackson shifts uncomfortably. Yep, threats were absolutely involved.

  I sigh. “You don’t have to do this. I assume Daddy thinks I will not trust you. I may not know you very well—at all, really—but I know Violet and that’s enough.” I smile to hide my shame. Years of fake enthusiasm and hiding what I really feel pay off during moments like this. “I’ll tell him we spent plenty of time together.”

  His face locks in a grimace.

  “Have fun while you’re home,” I say and mean it. “I’m sure you had plans before he made them for you.”

  “I only planned on sleeping.” Jackson looks at the ground and kicks absently at nothing. “I was hoping you want to spend more time with me. But if you don’t want to . . .” He pauses, peeking at me from underneath his lashes, his malachite eyes sullen. “Please?”

  Crap. Dixon was right. Jackson really is an incubus. “Well I guess you found my Kryptonite.” I hop off my bike and push it to the beach entrance.

  “What do you mean?” he asks innocently.

  Tonight the beach is mostly ours, aside from a small group at the far end and a few couples spread out here and there. Since it is nesting season for turtles, the beach is relatively dark. The law prevents any disturbance to the turtles and hatchlings, so any use of light after nine o’clock is prohibited on parts of the beach where there may be nests.

  The lack of light is an advantage. Maybe I will not say stupid things if I can’t see his face.

  I prop my cruiser against a wooden post and kick off my sandals.

  “So tell me,” Jackson grins, “What has been the worst part of your day?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet,” I answer, walking closer to the water. The moon glitters on white-capped waves. I curl my toes into the fine grains of sand, still warm from the day’s hot sun.

  “Oh really? Are you anticipating something bad?”

  “No,” I lie. I always anticipate something bad. Does that make me an optimistic pessimist? Or a pessimistic optimist?

  He smiles and inches closer. My heart thrums against my chest when his fingers brush my hand. “The best part of your day?”

  You have been the best part of my day.

  “You have been the best part of my day,” I say aloud.

  What. The. Hell? Did that really just roll off my tongue? Did my mouth really commit the highest form of stupid stuff to say in front of a really hot guy treason?

  I turn away from him and pray the ground will open up and swallow me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  Jackson

  “You didn’t mean it?” I am oddly disappointed by this.

  Maddy stares absently at the champagne waves moving around our feet. “My mouth seems to be conspiring against me.”

  I take a few steps back to give her space. The last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable. The night has been awkward because of me. Hettie’s was crowded as always. The walls seemed like they were closing in. I tried to finish eating as quickly as possible in order to get outside. In the process, I made myself look like an ass.

  “Maddy,” I whisper after a minute of silence. I move closer and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Oh. She smells amazing. “I’m flattered that I can be the best part of someone’s day.”

  She turns and smiles.

  “You shouldn’t be embarrassed if you meant it.”

  She is silent while I keep the conversation flowing throughout the next half hour.

  I gauge her reaction when I mention the army. Most people recoil when I talk about that aspect of my life. Maddy seems fascinated by my training stories. At the mention of jumping out of airplanes, she arches her brow and watches with skepticism when I demonstrate how to land.

  “I know it’s crazy to jump out of perfectly good airplanes,” I joke.

  “I hate planes,” Maddy replies seriously. “I think the only logical thing to do once you get in one is jump out.”

  I laugh out loud. I haven’t laughed like this in a long time. It feels strange. But good.

  Then she asks about Afghanistan. Not the usual question people like to ask: Did you kill anybody? Instead, “Were you scared?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She nods and changes the subject to military rank. I am beyond thankful she understands I do not want to discuss my time there.

  This is the first moment I realize she is different. The first moment I realize I do not want this night to end.

  “I’m doing all the talking.” I sit on the sand beside her and lean back to rest on my elbows.

  “I prefer that,” Maddy answers, matter-of-fact. She extends her legs, crossing them at the ankles and tucking the dress underneath to hold it down against the light breeze.

  “Tell me something about you.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “What do you do for fun? Music? Favorite color? Are you nervous about being in New York alone? Stuff like that.”

  “Dance. Run. Read. Cook. I listen to everything from rock to classical to hip hop to soul to country to reggaeton. My favorite color depends on the day. And no, I am not nervous about being alone in New York.”

  I continue bombarding her with questions, feeling at ease with each passing minute.

  Maddy finally relaxes. She rests back on the sand, her chocolate brown hair spreading out like a fan around her head.

  I lie next to her, casually inching closer. The distance is comfortable, nonintrusive. My hand brushes hers. Once. Twice. Maybe I’m taking this whole get-her-to-like-you thing a little too far. I interlock my pinky with hers.

  We settle into a contented silence with nothing other than the sound of the ocean and the distant voices of a small party at the other end of the beach as our soundtrack. I think of silence; the sound of how loud it can be when you’re alone. The loneliness of silence. Angry silence. The beautiful silence of a mind that never stops screaming. I have that silence right now and I’m going to enjoy it.

  A gust of wind suddenly sends the hem of Maddy’s dress flying up. She catches the fabric before anything goes on display.
Once the breeze calms she unclenches her fists. Seconds later another gust of wind attacks with a vengeance and sends the dress flying up again.

  Of course I look. I’m a guy, for goodness sake!

  I follow the length of her short, toned legs to the edge of the orange-y dotted short things and up to a variety of purplish-yellow bruises splayed across her waist.

  “Are you . . .”

  “Oh my stars,” she says, scrambling to sit up. “A girl can’t even lie down on the sand. I’m sorry, Jackson. I’m wearing boy shorts underneath. They’re like regular shorts or even a bathing suit, but I promise I had no intentions to show them off on purpose. I am really sorry. And I’m rambling because I do that when I’m nervous.”

  I chuckle. “It’s not that serious. Lie back with me.”

  She adjusts and tucks the dress underneath her before easing to rest on the sand in a weird, stiff position.

  “Let me help.” I prop myself up and extend my hand across the bottom hem of the skirt, planting it in the sand on the opposite side. “This should keep it down.”

  “Oh. Um, okay. Th—thank you. That’s very nice of you. You don’t have to do that. I mean, I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong. It’s just . . .”

  I laugh again. “It’s not a problem.”

  Another bout of contented silence follows. It’s kind of flattering when I catch her sneaking peeks at me every now and then.

  To tell you the truth, I am not seeing the girl Cordell described to me. Granted, she is not the type of girl I would go for but she just seems really . . . nice?

  Maddy sighs heavily after I cut my eyes to see her glancing at me again.

  I snort. “Bored?”

  “I think if I keep staring, you are going to call me out on my stalkery,” she sighs again and smiles. “Creeper Status, Level Six or something. And yes, ‘stalkery’ is a word. I just made it up.”

  “So that makes it real?”

  “Obviously.” She turns to me. “Can I make this even more awkward for a minute?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I know you are here because he asked you to be here. I understand that. But as long as everything is out in the open and you know where I stand and you know I know where you stand, I think we can get along the rest of the night without the awkwardness. What do you think?”