Bottom Feeder (13 page)

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 lay 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?”

S
ift 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.