Bottom Feeder Read online

  “Sounds good,” I reply with a smile, relaxing even further in the sand.

  My head rests near her midsection. Absently, she begins running her fingers through my hair. I groan in satisfaction. Maddy mistakes this for a bad thing and jerks her hand away quickly.

  “Maddy . . .”

  “It’s getting late. You should get home.”

  I jump to my feet and offer my hand.

  “Thanks.” She brushes off the dress and flips her hair to shake out the sand before trudging over to the beach cruiser.

  “Maddy!” a guy’s voice yells from behind us. He runs to catch up. The guy looks vaguely familiar. He wraps Maddy in a hug and kisses the top of her head.

  “Hey,” she beams. “I thought you left already.”

  Hmph. I am with her tonight because Cordell paid me, but this kid is already pissing me off.

  Wait. Why does he piss me off?

  Dude gives me a once over before focusing his attention back to Maddy. He whispers something in her ear. She smiles and nods. He hugs her again, shooting a look of death at me over her shoulder.

  I have to shake off the urge to punch him in the face. The psychs would say this anger stems from PTSD. Right now, my anger stems from this asshole disrespecting me.

  I snatch up her bike with more force than necessary and push it to my car. Aside from the bar crowd, the street is mostly empty.

  “Thanks again, Jackson. I had a nice time.”

  “Of course you did. I was the best part of your day, remember?”

  Her cheeks flush a bright shade of pink and she focuses on the ground. I find myself placing a hand underneath her chin. Her sapphire eyes meet mine.

  “It’s ridiculous how easy it is for me to make you blush,” I tease. “But I do like it.”

  “You’re the only one,” she replies, hopping on her bike. “It gives me away every time.”

  “Wait,” I demand, grabbing the handle bars. “What are you doing?”

  “Going home?”

  “It’s not safe for you to be out this late on a bicycle.”

  “I make this trip all the time.”

  A group of men exit a restaurant across the street, obviously drunk. Maddy cuts her eyes to the crowd.

  “Your bike will fit in the back, Maddy,” I say cautiously.

  She peels her eyes from the group of men and swings her leg over the side of the beach cruiser.

  “Leave it,” she says. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  The group walks to their vehicles with goodbyes and laughter that, for some reason, makes my skin crawl.

  “Stop!” a brassy voice yells. Maddy’s shoulders slump as if she’s hearing the worst news in the world. The man’s slow, careful footsteps turn to a brisk, staggered walk as he approaches the car. “Where do you think you’re headed with him, young lady?”

  “I’m Jackson Monroe, sir.” I extend my hand to give one hard, brief shake. There’s something off about this guy. I feel like I’m attempting to defuse a situation that’s already been triggered.

  “Larry Duvall,” he slurs, returning the handshake. “You’re Violet’s boy! Cordell told me you are gonna be taking our little Maddy here to the Big City.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well I hope you’ll take care of her as well as we have.” Larry winks at Maddy and chuckles. The sound is nauseating. He touches her arm. She begins to pull away, but stops herself. “Would you rather me take you home, darlin’?”

  “N-n-no, thank you, Mr. Duvall,” Maddy stutters. As if trying to make it work right, she shakes her head quickly. She continues in a clear voice, “Daddy has requested that I get acquainted with Jackson before we leave next Sunday. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Duvall, but Daddy is expecting Jackson to drop me off.”

  “Well, all right,” he shrugs. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got a nice farewell gift for you.” He laughs, reaches out to touch her shoulder, winks again and staggers to his truck.

  Whoa. What a creepy son of a bitch.

  Maddy hurriedly sits in the car, locking the door as soon as it closes. I slide behind the wheel.

  “What was that about?”

  Maddy

  My body trembles. I search my jumbled brain for an answer. A lie.

  Jackson grabs a jacket from the backseat and drapes it across my arms.

  “Thank you.” It smells like him. Not cologne, but a woodsy, citrusy, boy smell.

  If I were alone tonight, Larry would not have taken no for an answer. There will be consequences for refusing the ride. I will deal with that when the time comes. For now, Jackson has temporarily spared me from having to spend time with that animal.

  I am not afraid of Larry. I’ve learned to deal with him on my own. What I am afraid of is someone discovering my secrets.

  I close my eyes, wishing everything would disappear.

  “So . . .” Jackson presses, starting the car.

  “Do you think evil is subjective?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “Evil. Do you think it is subjective? As in, what may be evil to some may not be evil to you. Or to me.”

  “Evil is pretty black and white.”

  I open my eyes, kicking myself for wasting precious time not looking at him. I know, I know. I’m becoming one of those girls. I’ll deal with that later.

  “Did you answer my question with a question?”

  “He manages Carrington Enterprise.”

  Jackson abruptly stops and pulls to the shoulder. He stares intently into my eyes, his own seemingly elsewhere

  “I don’t think that’s it. You’re hiding something.” It’s not a question.

  My stomach begins performing cartwheels. Back handsprings. Somersaults. “What? Why would you say that?”

  A cold sweat pops out everywhere on my body. Does he know? Can he see that Larry Duvall is my personal monster? The type of creature that hides in the closets of children and underneath their bed. Or in this case, in their bed.

  The look that spreads across Jackson’s face is a mixture of shock and disgust. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  My head spins. More sweat forms at the nape of my neck.

  Oh no!

  I remove my seatbelt and throw open the door. I lean out of the car to heave the remnants of dinner on the pavement.

  Way to be attractive, Carrington.

  Through my retching, I hear Jackson exit the car. He squats beside my slumped body and pulls my hair back.

  “You okay?” I nod weakly. “I’m sorry I said that. It’s just . . . he’s pretty foul. The man is old enough to be your granddaddy.”

  I try to muster enough strength to rebuke his accusation. Instead I hang out of the car like an idiot until Jackson helps straighten me in the seat.

  After the initial shock and humiliation, a sense of relief washes over me.

  My secret is still a secret.

  Jackson grabs an unopened bottle of water from Violet’s stash in the trunk. “I’m sure you want to rinse,” he teases, the corners of his mouth turning up.

  “This is so embarrassing.” I rinse until the last drop of water is gone, then scrounge in my purse for Wisps and travel bottle of mouthwash.

  “You always carry those?”

  “Bad breath is not an option.”

  “Good to know,” he laughs.

  I like making him laugh.

  Completely irrelevant to your situation, Carrington! Get it together.

  Jackson reaches around to buckle my seatbelt. My heart stutters as his arm brushes my lips.

  I hate that I like him so much.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks, pulling to a stop in front of the gate.

  Another move for my father, I am sure. Regardless, I want to see Jackson again. Soon.

  Oh, God. This is unsettling.

  “I work tomorrow afternoon. It’s the final show of the season, so . . .”

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” he insists, opening my door.

  “Always the gentleman
.”

  “Mama raised me right.” He scoops my bicycle out of the trunk and props it against the stone pillars.

  He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand and leans in so his mouth is centimeters from my ear.

  “Goodnight, Maddy,” his lips brush against my earlobe. “I do like that,” he says, leaning back to see the blush on my cheeks.

  Daddy bombards me with questions before my feet cross the threshold.

  “You have a nice time, sugar?” His salt and pepper hair is disheveled, like his fingers have run through it one too many times today. The usual crisp, pristine suit is slightly wrinkled, his tie loose and Prada loafers scuffed.

  This signifies a bad day.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “You be good to that boy. You hear me, girl?” He takes a long swig of bourbon before adding, “He’s doing both of us a favor.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “That’s a nice dress. You didn’t put any makeup on for him? Hell, girl, you need all the help you can get with a boy like that. At least look like you care.”

  “I didn’t have any with me, Daddy.”

  And now begins his Appearance is Everything speech.

  Half an hour and forty-seven questions later, I finally make it upstairs. I wash my face, brush my teeth, put on PJs, and double lock my bedroom door.

  Today was exhausting, but nights have been the worst time for me since before Mama died. The problem is not falling asleep, it’s staying asleep. Sleeping is a nightmare. Literally.

  As usual that awful day in February replays. Everything is the same, down to the smell of jambalaya cooking on the stove. Only this time when the camera focuses on the man’s face I glimpse emerald eyes through the misshapen features. Jackson.

  My eyes pop open. The clock reads 2:47. I crawl into my closet, settling in my private spot behind the mirror. I rest my head on the wooden planks.

  Before Mama died she cut a very neat, well hidden hole in the floor back here. It holds a secret stash of money that includes eighty percent of every paycheck from Just Dance, plus every last cent from private lessons.

  Information for a bank account Mama started for me before I was born is also in one of the slim boxes. It’s like she knew I was going to need an escape one day. Like she knew I was going to hold these secrets. The second box holds photos, a hair brush, a bottle of perfume and other small items that belonged to her. Daddy burned everything else.

  I drift to sleep. My nightmare immediately begins again. I force myself awake and sit with my back against the wall.

  I think of the FBI agent I met the day Dixon and I drove to Atlanta. Alexander Mace. He is working things from his end without involving me directly. However grateful I should be, I know I am still involved. I know Agent Mace is going to need a favor someday and I will have to deliver.

  Sometimes I think I’m a horrible daughter for turning Daddy over to the FBI.

  What was I supposed to do? Sit around while he murders people? I can take whatever Larry dishes out to me, but knowing others are hurt—or worse—at the command of my father is unbearable. I have this constant ache in the pit of my stomach that I have not done enough to stop him.

  I’ve done what I can to stop Larry from hurting anyone else. Isn’t it funny that my personal monster agreed to make a deal with me? If I take whatever he does to me, he doesn’t hurt anyone else. So far he’s held up his end of the deal.

  Dixon is my only friend because I’ve always kept everyone else at bay. Friends of the female variety are especially off limits. I would never want them to be in Larry’s crosshairs. I tried to push Dixon away years ago. He knew what I was doing and stuck by me.

  The problem is, the day we drove to Atlanta was a mistake.

  I am a planner. An obsessive planner who writes down every step of every plan I’ve ever had, have, or plan to have. I have plans of plans. Except for that one. I was in such a rush to get those disks out of my possession that I skipped over making a complete plan. All common sense flew out the window.

  I should have called the FBI from a prepaid disposable cell phone. I should have gone to the FBI office by bus or taxi, being let out a few blocks away and walking the rest. Maybe I should have even worn a disguise—sunglasses, wig, shoes with hidden platforms to make me taller . . . something. Anything.

  I took none of these precautions. I used one of the few payphones left on Tybee Island and drove that stupid BMW with its stupid navigation system that I didn’t think to erase until later that night.

  My father seems to know everything that goes on in this town. I cannot help wondering if he knows I turned him in to the Feds.

  Jackson

  Finally alone in the confines of my tiny bedroom, I sit on the edge of my bed and think about the longest damn day of my life.

  What have I gotten myself into with Cordell? Was he looking at his security screens when I told Maddy goodnight?

  After an hour of staring at the ceiling, I attempt to sleep. The effort is futile, as it is interrupted throughout the night by vivid nightmares. Always the same, but different. I wake up with my sheets drenched in sweat. It’s no use to try and sleep anymore. I lie on my bare mattress, thinking about Maddy’s fingers running through my hair.

  Mama is having her first cup of coffee by the time I come back from my morning run. Insisting coffee is a bad habit to kick, she offers me juice.

  “What are your plans today?” she asks, opening up a book of Sudoku.

  “Lamont is in town from Pendleton.” I hesitate before adding, “I’m going to see Maddy in a little bit.”

  She places the book on the table and drops her pen on top, glaring at me over her reading glasses. “Jackson Benton-Monroe, you most certainly will not. I mean it. I mean it through every ounce of my soul.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “She’s a good girl, Jackson. A good girl. She’s not like those other . . .” Mama pauses to search for the right words, taking her glasses off in frustration. Every time she does this I know I’m in for a verbal lashing.

  “Mama . . .”

  “She’s not like the others.”

  I stare at her, horrified that she seems to know more about my past than I’d like anyone to know.

  “You’re too much like your daddy, JB.” I stare at my empty glass of orange juice. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  I’m nothing like him. Nothing.

  “You don’t think I know about all the other ones? I don’t care about them. They made their choices. Maddy is like a daughter to me. She’s had a rough life but still manages to keep a smile on her face through everything.”

  I can’t imagine how rough her life could be living in a mansion and receiving BMWs as gifts. “But Mama . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing or what you think you’re going to do, but Maddy is not falling for your crap. She’s the type of girl I’d like to see you end up with, to settle you down a little, but she’s too smart to fall for a single line that comes out of your mouth.”

  Should I be offended or ashamed at this declaration?

  “We went out last night,” I say, my voice level and matter-of-fact. “We went to Hettie’s. She had vegetables. I had steak, shrimp, red velvet cake and some of her okra. We went for a walk on the beach. I took her home.”

  A look of shocked awareness crosses her face. “What is he asking of you?”

  Mama is not buying the look of innocence. Her eyes look fiercely into mine until I give in. “The Barracuda.”

  “For?”

  “To make sure she gets to New York safely.” I tell her the ins and outs of the plan and why Cordell wants me to drive Maddy. It’s mostly a lie. I hate lying to her, but I’m too deep in this now. I have no other choice.

  “He sure is hasty to get her out of here. She’s only been out of high school for a few days. There’s something more to this and I don’t like it.” Mama pushes up from the table. “I’m going to miss her. She was here for me on the h
ard days when you were over there.”

  Mama never refers to Afghanistan as its namesake, only “over there.” She swipes a tear from her cheek. I want to console her, but she’s pissed right now. I can almost feel the wooden spoon slapping across the back of my head if I make any sudden moves.

  “She reminded me that God was watching over you no matter what happened, no matter what was going on, no matter what scenarios I conjured up in my mind. She also reminded me I needed to be strong for you. She let me cry on her shoulder more times than I’m willing to admit. Can you believe a woman my age crying on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old? But she’s a beautiful girl, inside and out.” Mama looks at me sharply before adding, “I never believed she could be born of somebody as wretched as Cordell Carrington.”

  Her gaze is penetrating. Does she know their family secrets? I don’t ask. I finish off another glass of orange juice and take a long, mostly cold shower.

  The heavy rain is preventing me from going to the beach, so I call Maddy to ask what time I should come over.

  “Any time before two is fine,” she replies.

  Maddy

  “What are you making?” Larry asks.

  “Cinnamon rolls,” I answer, gently punching down the proofed dough. In order for the rolls to turn out just right, the dough cannot be over-worked or it will be tough and chewy.

  There aren’t many things I can control in my life. Controlling the outcome of food is therapy. Delicious therapy. Especially baking, where all the measurements have to be precise or your product will turn out badly. Everything has to be just right: the ingredients, the oven temperature, the type of oven, even the weather.

  “For who?” His hands grind into my back. He is upset that I was with someone that took attention away from him.

  I should lie. What would it matter? His response will be the same regardless of what I say. “Daddy suggested I make them for Jackson.”

  “You doin’ him?” Larry drives his knuckles into my spine.

  I do not flinch. Never let them see you flinch.