Bottom Feeder (23 page)

Beraz has a rough background, but he
does whatever anyone asks, no questions asked. Most importantly,
he’s quiet and keeps to himself.

“
Beraz,” I say as he
places a chalupa and crunchy taco at my feet. “Sit down for a
minute. I’ve got a job for you.”

He whips out his own king-sized BK
meal and milkshake and begins eating like someone is going to take
it from him.

“
I need you to go to Skibo
Road to pick up something.”

He arches his brow. “Work
stuff?”

I shake my head. “You know the car I’m
driving?”

Beraz finishes off the last bite of
his triple whopper. “The Beemer?”

I nod. “It belongs to the girl I’m
taking to New York tomorrow. She’s at the hotel beside the mall. I
need you to get her luggage and bring it back. She’s staying with
me tonight.”

Over a mouthful of fries, he begins a
protest.

“
Come on, Beraz.” I lower
my voice. “I have to get out of here early. Goodness, do you eat
like that all the time?”

“
I like food.” He shrugs,
finishes off his milkshake and pulls an apple pie from the bag.
“Name? Room number?”

“
Maddy Carrington.
Two-oh-two. Tell her I sent you.”

Finishing off the apple pie, he
rises.

“
One more thing,” I say
before he walks away. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want people
thinking she and I are . . . whatever.”

Maddy

Friday. Beautiful, beautiful
Friday.

My last day trapped in this dull,
generic room.

And.

Wait for it—waiiiit forrr
iittttt . . .
It’s my eighteenth
birthday!

Since I’m pretty sure Jackson isn’t
going to make good on his promise, I plan to dress up, find a nice
restaurant and treat myself to a movie.

Boring, I know. But I can do boring
things if I choose because I’m independent. Or
something.

As I’m getting ready to shower after
my CrossFit workout (burpees suck), there is a low tap on the door.
I pull my workout shorts on in a hurry and climb on the desk chair
to glance out the peephole. The distinct pattern of an army uniform
stares back at me.

My heart races as I open the door,
pitifully excited.

I look up. And up. And up.
“Oh!”

“
Six-five,” he answers my
unspoken question.

“
Oh.”

Really, Carrington? This
is all you can say?

“
Maddy, right? Monroe sent
me,” he finally says, amused at whatever reaction is on my face. He
introduces himself as Dominic Beraz. “You can call me
Dom.”

“
Excuse my manners.” I
open the door a little wider and motion for him to come
in.

He removes the maroon
beret from his head, revealing a mound of coal black hair, slightly
longer than Jackson’s. I don’t realize how uncomfortable I am
having a strange guy here until the door ominously closes behind
him. The
never answer the door to
strangers
thing is still accepted past
childhood, right?

“
Why did Jackson send
someone?”

“
He asked me to get your
luggage, and to let you know you’ll be staying with him in the
barracks tonight. His roommate is deployed. He mentioned something
about leaving early tomorrow. I don’t know . . .” he trails off,
bored.

“
Early?” I perk up
instantly. “Sweet baby Jesus in a crumb cake, thank you! I’m
getting cabin fever in here.”

Wait. The barracks? I vaguely recall
communal showers in movies I’ve seen. The thought makes me
cringe.

Dom chuckles and steps further into
the room. “Did you just say ‘baby Jesus in a crumb
cake’?”

I smile sheepishly.
“Obviously.”

He laughs again and I look
at him.
Really
look at him. My breath hitches a notch. He must have heard,
because he flashes a sweet, pearly-white smile that glistens
beautifully against his bronzed skin.

His face is chiseled into a perfect
oval shape with dark, deep-set eyes. His bottom lip pouts a little
more than the top, the top arching into a perfect cupid’s
bow.

I notice all of these features in slow
motion, not caring one bit that I’m gawking at my messenger like a
museum exhibit. I’m indep—

No, Carrington. You’re not
independent. You’re a creeper.

“
What bags should I take?”
he asks.

“
I’m not sure,” I answer,
flustered. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“
Sure.” He makes himself
comfortable on the desk chair.

Dom begins asking random questions to
keep a conversation going. Oddly enough, I am very at ease with
him.

“
Tell me about
you
,” I finally say
after my ramblings about home and how much I love Tybee Island and
Savannah. It really is too bad I’m never going back. “Age, where
you’re from, brothers and sisters . . . anything you want to
share.”

“
Um, well,” Dom hesitates,
appearing to be in shock that I asked about him. “I’m nineteen.
Kiowa, from Oklahoma City. Six brothers and sisters. I have the
same job as Monroe, Explosive Ordinance. I’ve only been at Bragg a
few months.”

“
And when you’re not
working?”

“
Art,” he replies. “Mostly
sketch. I paint when I have the space. I thought about getting my
degree in art, but I think if I’m forced to do what I love, I’d
hate it.”

I feel the same way about dancing.
It’s such a breath of fresh air to know I’m not the only one who
feels this way.

“
Maybe it’s a stupid
question, but how are you able to go to school in the
Army?”

“
The military pays for
everything. I go to Campbell University. Most classes are on Fort
Bragg, though.”

“
Do you have a major?” I
just can’t believe how easy it is to talk to him. These few days
tucked away in a hotel room have done some good.

“
Information Technology
and Security.”

“
Like FBI and CIA-type
stuff?”

“
Kinda. I’m making the
Army my career. I am getting my degree to eventually become an
officer.”

Dom continues talking. I hang on his
every word while packing my suitcases. I leave out the dress and
shoes for tonight.

“
You have a date?” Dom
inquires, mid-explanation of his Kiowa heritage.

“
Sort of,” I smile to
myself. Maybe it was a sad smile.

He tilts his head,
confused. “How do you ‘
sort of’
have a date?”

Back home I never cared about going
anywhere alone. But admitting to a stranger—who happens to be
hotter than the Georgia asphalt in the middle of July—that I’m
going on a date with myself seems pathetic.

I avoid the question. “Are there any
good restaurants here?”

“
The chain restaurants are
on Skibo, but the nicer places are downtown.”

“
Thanks.” Downtown, it
is.

“
You have a really nice
smile,” he grins.

“
Er, th—thanks . . .” I
bite the inside of my cheek.

Don’t blush. Don’t blush.
Do. Not. Blush.

“
You didn’t answer my
question.”

I straighten my shoulders. “Yes, I
have a date.”

“
With Monroe?” I do not
imagine the furrow of his brow.

“
No,” I sigh, defeated.
“With myself.”

“
With
yourself?”

“
You can take those bags.”
I point to the stack of luggage. “Jackson can leave them in the
trunk.”

“
Do you go on dates with
yourself often?” My goodness, he’s persistent.

“
And this one.” I place a
canvas tote on the stack.

Dom begins stacking the luggage. “Are
you avoiding my question?”

“
Yes.”

Before tossing the two duffel bags
over his shoulders, he places the maroon beret on his
head.

I cross the room to open the door.
“Let me help.”

He flashes his radiant smile. “S’okay,
I’ve got it.”

“
At least let me get the
car open for you,” I insist.

“
The key is in my right
pocket,” he says when we approach a candy red, two-door
Tiburon.

Instead of keys, I find his leg. His
rock-like, muscular—

Dom clears his throat. My hand might
have been on his leg a little too long. I mutter a quick apology
and locate the keys.

I admire him appreciatively as he
arranges my luggage in the tiny car. His raven hair tints dark blue
when the light grazes his head. The uniform covers everything else,
but if the muscle tone in his leg is any indication what the rest
of his body—

“
So,” he says, slamming
the trunk closed, his lips curling up at the corners. “What is the
occasion that calls for a date with yourself? Anniversary?
Birthday? Or a random celebration of you?”

I roll my eyes, but can’t help
giggling. A giggle? I don’t giggle. “Birthday.”

“
Today’s your birthday?”
he asks with enthusiasm. I nod. “Happy Birthday!” he exclaims with
a beautiful smile.

“
Thank you.” I kick an
invisible rock. “It was nice meeting you, Dom.”

“
Wait,” he says as I walk
back to the room. “Can I celebrate with you?”

“
Huh?” I ask moronically.
His mahogany eyes bore into mine.

“
I’d like to celebrate
your birthday, too. Would that be okay?”

“
Um. Okay?”

“
Great,” he beams. “I’ll
pick you up at seven.” His face twists into disgust. “Our Staff
Sergeant makes us work late every night.”

“
Seven sounds
good.”

Wow.

What just happened?

Jackson

“
What is your major?”
Vanessa asks. “Are you trying to be an officer? They make a lot of
money.”

“
Information Technology
and Security,” I answer. I chose this major to coincide with my
job. Dominguez and Beraz did, too. They are in their second
session. My first session begins next week. A classroom environment
that doesn’t involve explosives is going to be an odd change of
scenery.

“
I’m doing pre-law,” she
says. I nod because this is the thirty-eighth time she’s told me.
Next, she will tell me how much mon—

“
And I’m going to be
making a lot of money.” I nod again, helping her out of the BMW.
“Six figures, at least.”

Vanessa likes to see and be seen in
places with lots of people. By people, I mean soldiers. Which is
why she asked to eat dinner at a popular sports bar, The Big Peach.
I order shots of Patron—underage be damned—and a burger. I glance
around the bar while she talks about herself and her
friends.

More people file in. This is my third
night in a row inside a busy restaurant or club. Self-therapy isn't
exactly working out. The wall of people feels like it is pushing
against every cell of my body.

“
What do you think about
that, JB?” Vanessa asks over the growing crowd. I haven’t heard a
word for the past twenty minutes.

I play it smoothly, turning the
attention on her. “What has been the worst part of your
day?”

She smiles. Once she begins talking
about a pedicure that involves fish eating dead skin off her feet,
I zone out. The key is to make grunting noises every now and then
to show I’m paying attention. The talking stops. I nod once
more.

“
What about the
best
part of your
day?”

Something about her upcoming semester
at Duke. Or something. By the fourth shot of Patron, nothing is
clear. The alcohol helps with numbing the senses. Especially now
that I’m feeling closed-in with the crowd. I’m beginning to think
tonight wasn’t such a good idea.

“
What about you? Worst
part?”

“
Being away from you, of
course,” I smile.

She giggles. “And the
best?”

I lean over to whisper
what the best part of my day
could
be.

Maddy

I have a date. A date!

My anticipation feels foolish and
naïve.

I pull on a little black dress that
Dixon encouraged me to buy from a vintage store in Atlanta. The
deep-V of the bodice accentuates my body in all the right places.
The dress is simple and I feel pretty wearing it.

My hair is strategically
curled in loose waves that fall where I want. I do this to cover
the scars where the dress dips a little in the back. Instead of
subtle makeup, I go with a classic smoky eye and sheer lips.
Lincoln Park After Dark
goes on my toes and fingers.