Bottom Feeder (12 page)

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 lay 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
hard 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.

“
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.”