Bottom Feeder Page 9

  “No, sir.” I grab the rolling pin to flatten the dough.

  “Of course not.” He grabs my neck. “Nobody wants your fat ass. Except maybe the homo.”

  My temper flares, but there is no reason to argue. He wants me to be angry, to lash out. I don’t. Again, his response will be the same.

  I sprinkle cinnamon sugar across the flattened dough.

  “Bet you wanted him to,” Larry continues, shaking his head. “Whore. Nothing but a whore.”

  He stands close. Too close. I do not flinch.

  I roll the dough into a log and cut it into eight even slices.

  Larry’s hand sneaks around my waist, underneath my shirt, tugging at the front of my bra. “Bet you want me to want your fat ass, too, huh?” He grabs my hair, jerks my head back. “Too bad. You’re not my type.”

  I’m not your type because I’m not eleven years old anymore, you sick bastard.

  I place the rolls on an ungreased cookie sheet for the second proofing. The second proofing is the most important. It allows a lighter, airier finished product.

  “Maddy!” Daddy yells. Larry steps away from me. “I’ve got a meeting. I’ll be back tonight. Larry, I need you there in an hour.”

  The front door snaps closed. Here it goes.

  Larry grabs my wrist.

  Drags me to the foyer.

  Pushes me to kneel on the stairs. I stand. He pushes me down. I stand.

  “Suit yourself,” he says.

  There is no need to resist the rest. He gets off on the struggle. I do what I can to lessen his pleasure.

  I do what I have to in order to keep them safe. If it kills me, I have to keep them safe.

  The FWERP sound of his belt flying through the air and landing on my back brings me to my knees.

  I stand.

  I. Do. Not. Flinch. Never let them see you flinch.

  FWERP “Whore!” FWERP FWERP FWERP

  I stand after each hit. I wrap my fingers around the banister to steady myself. Always steady.

  The blows land mostly on my back. Sometimes my waist, when the belt wraps around like a whip. Sometimes it snags and pulls at the skin.

  The gate buzzes. Larry unnecessarily covers my mouth before pushing the button to open the gate. He pushes me away.

  I walk back to the kitchen to place the cinnamon rolls in the oven before turning to him.

  “I hope you get your fill while you can, Mr. Duvall,” I announce. “Because these are the last days you will ever put a hand on me.”

  He laughs and answers the doorbell.

  Jackson

  I pull through the heavy gates and park between a red F-150 and a white Benz.

  Larry Duvall answers the door—cinnamon roll in hand—then ushers me into the kitchen where Maddy and the pretty server from her party are perched on tall chairs at the breakfast bar.

  A lonely cinnamon roll sits on the counter. Larry notices me eyeing the pastry and swipes it off the plate. Bastard.

  Maddy frowns. I frown.

  He gives Maddy one of his creepy winks before shutting the door behind him. My stomach growls. I hope he chokes on that cinnamon roll.

  “Jackson, this is Laney Minks. Laney, Jackson.”

  “Oh, I remember you from the party,” Laney breathes. “My parents own a catering company. I had to work before I joined in. Gah, I had sooooo much fun that night! Dana wore this dress that. . . ” Her voice is kind of high-pitched and nasally, like nails on a chalkboard. “. . . and the shoes were hideous.”

  Maddy turns to me. “I have to fix Laney’s dress. I’m sorry you came all the way here.”

  “But you’re welcome to stay,” Laney chimes in.

  “Of course,” Maddy adds quickly. “Yes, definitely. If you’d like, but you don’t have to.”

  The pouring rain is preventing me from doing anything productive. Sleeping is out of the question. “I’d like to stay.”

  “I’m hungry,” Laney announces. “Maddy, you should make breakfast!”

  Without batting an eyelash, she pours orange juice for Laney and me, then begins preparing French toast and omelets like she and Julia Childs are old pals.

  Laney talks. And talks. And talks. I get the feeling she likes herself a lot.

  “Want some help?” I ask Maddy in an attempt to pause Laney’s excessive babbling. To my disappointment, she does not speak. She only shakes her head and dips a piece of crusty French bread into the cream and egg mixture.

  Cordell was right about one thing: Maddy can cook. I savor the freshly squeezed juice like those were the last oranges on the planet.

  “How’s your omelet?” Laney asks. I feed her a bite. Her tongue darts out to lick the cheese off the tines in an attempt to be seductive. It’s a damn good attempt.

  Maddy’s cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, but her eyes stay focused on the dishes she is vigorously scrubbing.

  “Mmmmm!” Laney moans. “This is so good! Maybe you should go to culinary school or something. Can I have a latte, too? Triple shot, soy, extra foam, with half a packet of stevia.”

  Instead of Maddy screaming, “Get it yourself!” she thanks Laney for the compliment, washes her hands, and begins some rigorous process on a machine with a lot of whirring and steam.

  While she assembles Laney’s drink, I take Maddy’s place at the sink and finish washing dishes. Through Laney’s continuous babbling, Maddy quietly thanks me, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  In her bedroom, Maddy whips out a professional-looking sewing case with hundreds of thread colors, needles, and small swatches of fabric. Laney disappears inside the closet to change

  I glance around the immaculate room. Solid cherry floors shine as if they are polished every day. Not a speck of dust on anything. The French doors leading out to the terrace wouldn’t dare have a smudge or fingerprint on them. Two beds sit on opposite—

  “Um, Maddy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why do you have two beds?”

  “One is for Dixon,” she answers absently, like every girl has an extra bed for a dude to sleep in.

  Laney emerges wearing a form-fitting costume dress that stops just below the knees. Maddy guides her onto a small makeshift platform to work on the massive rips.

  To discourage Laney from speaking too much, I press PLAY on the iPod docking station. As Maddy presses pins into the dress’s fabric, she mouths the words and sways her hips rhythmically to a Don Omar remix.

  “Omigod you have to teach me that!” Laney beams.

  Maddy’s head snaps up. “What?”

  “How to dance like that! Omigosh you have to teach me. Maybe you should be a choreographer.”

  “Sure, Laney.”

  Maddy seems to be content with only the sound of music filling the room. Laney, on the other hand, seems antsy.

  “Are you doing my hair and makeup, too?” she whines.

  “Of course, Laney.” Although smiling, I sense Maddy is exasperated. I know I am. No wonder Dixon referred to her as dreadful. We might see eye-to-eye on something after all.

  But Laney is pretty and . . . my type. If only she would be quiet.

  “Good,” Laney smiles. “I don’t want that Enid lady touching my hair or face. Maybe you should work in cosmetology!”

  I mentally roll my eyes. Maddy continues feeding Laney smiles and reassurances, handling her with the patience I thought only a mother could hold for a child.

  Maddy leaves to answer the doorbell and Laney turns to me.

  “I’m eighteen,” she says. I nod. “My parents are out of town.” Another nod.

  Maddy returns with Dixon trailing behind her. He breathes a disgusted sound at the sight of Laney while shooting a glare that says he’d like to punch me in the face.

  I smirk and give a mock salute. Backatcha.

  “Laney, please don’t rip it again,” Maddy pleads after tying off the last thread.

  Laney nods without sincerity before disappearing into the closet.

  “I
think I’m going to head out,” I say. When I cut my eyes to Dixon, Maddy nods in understanding. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

  Minutes after parking at the edge of the Carrington property Laney passes in the white Benz, waving for me to follow.

  Maddy

  “He’s going to Laney’s house,” Dixon says, plopping down on his bed.

  “I know.”

  Instead of dwelling on that, I begin packing essentials for the show. All the materials needed for my job as makeup artist is compartmentalized in a three feet tall cosmetic train case. Since tonight is my last event at the theatre, I am giving the full case to Mr. Lipinski for future shows. I hope whoever utilizes the case will cherish it as much as I have.

  “The incubus and succubus together under one roof,” Dixon declares. “Meant for each other.”

  When Laney showed up this morning after Jackson called, I knew he would leave with her. This knowledge does not negate the fact that the oxygen feels as if it has been kicked out of my lungs.

  “Think she’ll do the ‘ol Sift and Snatch?”

  Sift and Snatch is a game Laney developed in tenth grade, the year she began sleeping with the hottest guys in school. Mainly the ones with girlfriends. When the, er, session was over, Laney made a point to be the first one up in order to sift through the heap of clothes.

  The object of her game is to get the guy’s wallet, or something personal to him. Not to steal for the contents, but to give the guy a reason to call her back. If he has a girlfriend, Laney informs said girlfriend, “I’ve got something that belongs to your boyfriend.”

  And I thought I had daddy issues.

  Needless to say, Laney was the reason for the end of numerous relationships. This game is also the reason she’s had two nose jobs.

  “You shouldn’t like him,” Dixon scolds, noticing my grimace. “I hope now you see him for the asshole he really is.”

  “Language!”

  “Whatever. He’s a tool. You’re too good for him.”

  “Yeah.” I glance at the clock. My pity party (table for one!) will have to commence later.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Dixon pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Jackson is the type of person who is only out for himself and everyone else is leftovers. Do you think he’s going to stick around Laney’s house for milk and cookies? No. He’s a jerk and you know he’s a jerk.”

  These stupid emotions are exhausting.

  “So the first guy you’ve ever had a crush on turns out to be a Grade-A douche bag. This is not uncommon. However, this moping around is killing me. We’re going to Emil’s party tonight to have a good time. You never have fun.”

  “I do so have fun!” I exclaim, genuinely offended.

  Dixon scoffs. “Um, no. Fun does not include learning various languages on Rosetta Stone. I forbid you to babysit tonight. You will not be everyone’s designated driver. You will not be the girl holding back another girl’s hair while she throws up Jager-bombs and Doritos. Your only job is to dance, kiss boys and walk away, leaving them hanging on for more. Got me?”

  Kiss boys? Huh. Maybe I will.

  No you won’t.

  “Oh!” Dixon exclaims, rising from the bed. “The reason I came over early is because the cell phone vibrated.”

  He pulls the sleek FBI-issued phone from his back pocket and hands it to me.

  Agent Mace, who had apparently been watching Daddy for some time, provided me with a cell phone. He suggested I keep it in a safe place—not in the house or the BMW. Dixon’s bedroom is the only place I could think to hide it.

  I contacted the Agent only once to tell him I suspected my room was bugged. The next day, I was called to the school’s front office. Someone sent a bouquet of balloons and a vase of gumballs with a handwritten card that read Hope you have a popping good time today. Corny, yes. But I got the message.

  I popped the balloons in the locker room after school and discarded everything except the tiny bug tracker. I scanned my room for the transmitter that night and found the device beneath my lamp.

  Dixon never questioned why I dropped him off at an Atlanta mall that day in February before disappearing for three hours. Nor did he question the purpose of the phone I returned with and three days later asked him to keep underneath his mattress. I hope he will never know I was at the FBI’s field office turning in my father for multiple murders.

  After I finish my initial duties at the theatre, I climb up to the rafters for privacy.

  “Next week,” Agent Mace says in his non-descript average guy voice. “I’ll come to you.”

  Jackson

  After sifting through and separating the pile of our discarded clothes, Laney excuses herself to shower.

  “You can shower here or let yourself out,” she says.

  So with a final “See ya!” from Laney, I leave. Just like that. Just like I always do.

  Back home after a shower, nap and changing into fresh jeans and t-shirt, I find myself calling Maddy.

  “Hey,” I say after her greeting. “You busy?”

  “Oh, uh, hey Jackson,” she replies over the background noise. “I’m at the theatre. What’s up?”

  Why did I call? I want to ask if I can see her later. Wait. Why do I want to see her later?

  “Do you need Laney’s number?” she asks.

  I raise an incredulous eyebrow at the phone. “Why would I need her number?” I quickly add damage control. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  From the fading background noise, Maddy seems to be moving away from the crowd. “Do you know you left your wallet?”

  I pat the back pocket of my jeans then search the discarded pair in the hamper. I shrug and lean on my desk. The cheap laminate shivers to the left when I prop against the edge.

  “I’ll come by your house to get it. What time will you be home?”

  Silence. Sigh. “It’s not at my house.” Her soft voice echoes a tired, almost defeated, tone.

  The sound of Laney’s distinctive voice shrieking in the background is unsettling.

  “When is a good time to get it from you?”

  Silence. Sigh. “Laney has it.”

  I say, “Oh.” It comes out sounding like a strangled cat.

  Maddy knows why I left her house this afternoon. She probably knew all along. I don’t want to see Laney again and . . . oh, shit.

  Cordell is going to hear about this for sure.

  Ever hear the phrase “between a rock and a hard place”? Well, that would be my current location. It’s hell. I do not recommend it.

  “I take that as an indication you would rather not?” Maddy inquires, her tone smooth and indifferent.

  “Er, ah . . . um, er . . .”

  “I’ll get it.” Any other girl would screech and claw and toss my wallet into the marsh. Something tells me Maddy doesn’t have agendas like that.

  “Thank you,” I choke out in relief.

  “Violet’s coming to the show, I’ll give it to her. I’ll tell her you dropped it at my house.”

  I offer to retrieve it when she is home. “I’d like to see you,” I say, adding more damage control.

  “Jackson,” she sighs. “I’m not going to tell him. What you do is not my business. Nor his. Go out. Have a good time while you’re home, okay? Since the drive to North Carolina is so short we can leave whenever you’d like next Sunday. Just send a text to let me know the time.”

  For a few minutes after the call ends, I remain perched on the edge of my ancient desk until it groans in agony. Without further warning it folds and crashes to the floor, taking me down with it. All the contents bang around me, on me.

  Just as I wonder if this is bad karma, an aftershock causes my trophy shelf to fall. I manage to get out of the way before it gets my head.

  I don’t bother to clean up the mess. I stretch out on the bed, my nerves on edge. It’s not that I don’t believe Maddy when she says Cordell will not find out. My problem is I want my
damn wallet back. My other problem is an issue that is completely foreign to me.

  I feel remorse for being with Laney. It’s a deep, penetrating guilt. Weird.

  My phone rings.

  “Hi,” the caller says. “I’m from the Savannah Sperm Bank, where you spank it and we bank it. My name is Tom Smith and I’m calling to tell you, Mr. Monroe, that you have seventeen baby mamas.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you this is why you don’t have any friends?”

  Lamont Washington, my best friend since birth, laughs his ass off. “I’m picking you up. We’ve got seafood to eat and parties to attend.”

  Mama is beside herself with excitement when he pulls in the driveway at six o’clock. She runs her fingers across his head, looking quizzically at his Marine-issued haircut.

  “Well, darlin’, at least you don’t have those god-awful dreadlocks anymore.” The woman is nothing if not blunt.

  Lamont laughs and squeezes her in a hug. He and I have kept in touch, mainly through email, since he joined the Marines. His parents worked long, odd hours so he practically lived with us up until the day he left for boot camp.

  Lamont and I climb into his Galant and drive to the Seafood Shack on Wilmington Island. The conversation consists of mostly military stuff, including our deployments; his to some place he can’t talk about, mine to Afghanistan. He is already on his second deployment.

  “You talking to the docs?” he asks.

  “They’re making me,” I answer. “You?”

  “They don’t have enough psychs in the whole United States military to get my head clear, JB.”

  I nod in agreement. Then again, my head is perfectly clear. I think.

  “Word is,” Lamont says, sitting down at one of the Shack’s wooden picnic tables. “You took Cordell Carrington’s daughter out last night.”

  Suddenly my crab po’ boy isn’t looking so appetizing. “Yeah?” I question. “Who said the word?”

  Over a mouthful of bread and catfish he replies, “My cousin saw y’all outside Hettie’s. I think he likes your girl.”

  “She’s not my girl.” Lamont eyes me suspiciously. “What makes you think that?”