Bottom Feeder (4 page)

This drink says a lot about Cordell.
Whether that is good or bad is up for debate.

“
What exactly do you do,
son?”

I recite the textbook description of
an Explosive Ordnance Disposal soldier. “Our typical role deals
with locating, identifying, and disposing of unexploded ordnance,
improvised explosive devices, chemical, biological, and nuclear
ordnance and weapons of mass destruction. My job includes
intelligence gathering, supporting, and escorting VIP missions for
different government agencies.” I blow out a puff of air. “Not as
exciting as the movie, you see.”

Cordell’s lips curl into a smirk.
“Government agencies, huh?”

I nod, unwilling to go into detail.
The server, again, replaces Cordell’s empty bourbon glass, shooting
a smile my way before disappearing into the crowd.

I am
so
getting her number.

“
Violet tells me you’re in
the market for a car?”

“
Yes, sir. I plan on
purchasing one before I leave next Sunday.”

“
You lookin’ for a new
one?”

“
I’m hoping to get my
hands on a classic.” Subtle, I am not.

Cordell laughs and sips his
bourbon.

“
I’ve got a few classic
cars myself.” I nod. I’ve dreamed about those cars since I was
fifteen. He finishes off the bourbon with one tilt of his head. The
server, seeming to appear out of thin air, replaces the drink
immediately. “You interested?”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint
to refrain from jumping up and down like a kid in a bouncy house.
“Absolutely, sir.”

“
Come on down to the dock,
son.” Cordell slaps me on the shoulder. “We’ll talk
business.”

The diamond-encrusted horseshoe ring
on his pinky finger glistens off the crystal teardrop chandelier
suspended from the vaulted ceiling above us. Its luster blinds me
momentarily.

I have a feeling this is one of those
moments I will later come to realize is a metaphor. Like a
backwards sort of déjà vu.

Maddy

What is it about a party thrown by
Cordell Carrington that makes people come running like a moth to
flame?

Or maybe stink to a landfill is the
better cliché.

The invitation described a graduation
party, not just for me, but for all the seniors of Coastal High.
Every student was invited, including their families. They all
checked “ATTENDING” on the RSVP.

This is not a graduation party. It’s
another event for Daddy to show off what he has. What I
hate.

I twirl in front of the
three-way mirror in my over-sized closest, cringing at the awful
ensemble I am forced to wear. Or rather,
it
is wearing
me
. My only goal for tonight is to
make sure the fabric stays down—and up—in all the right
places.

Daddy owns Couture
Debutante, a boutique in Savannah whose designer makes handmade
concoctions such as the atrocity I am wearing now. Nomi Bradford’s
dresses are very popular on the pageant circuit. Trust me when I
say I am
not
a
pageant girl.

This particular dress is extremely
short and full-skirted in hues of the Triple P and Double G: peach,
pink, primrose, and gold glitter. I would sparkle in a darkened
room in this dress. I sigh in exasperation when the fabric inches
down on the second twirl. I adhere half a roll of fashion tape to
my skin and dress, slapping the two together with as much force as
I can manage.

A rhythmic knock raps on
my bedroom door.
Knock knock knockity
knock knock knockity
.

“
I’m decent!”

Dixon struts dramatically into the
room, giving two half-turns to show off his pinstriped three-button
blazer with matching vest and a neutral-striped button-up
underneath. His blonde locks are arranged in intentional gelled
disarray. He is absolutely stunning as usual.

That is, until he opens his
mouth.

“
Uh-uh,” he shakes his
head in disgust. “That dress is anything but decent. More like a
crime of fashion.”

I roll my eyes at the corny joke, but
nod in agreement. “You know how Daddy is about these
things.”

After a few model struts in front of
the mirror, Dixon pats his moussed and gelled hair to make sure it
doesn’t move under hostile circumstances. Like walking, for
example.

“
You do everything he
tells you to do.” He plops on the desk chair and scrolls through my
iPod. “I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to join his mafia or
demonstrated how to clean up evidence.”

A week after I returned from Atlanta,
Daddy’s paranoia meter suddenly went off the charts. He upped the
security, adding cameras outside and inside the house, including at
my bedroom door. My room is also bugged. I can’t remove the tiny
chip from beneath my lampshade because whoever put it there would
know. I cover the lamp with a scarf to muffle my conversations with
Dixon.

“
Shhh!” I throw the roll
of fashion tape at his head. It bounces off one of the gelled
pieces, resting with a silent thud on my desk. “I think your hair
just cracked under pressure.”

“
Sorry,” he
mouths.

I bend to give him a quick peck on the
forehead to show his apology is accepted—and to give the fashion
tape a trial run.

He smiles and tugs at my dress. “We
may need duct tape for these things.”

I grumble in resentment as he ushers
me into the closet.

My body is not made for dresses like
this. For one thing, my boobs are way too big for a strapless with
a sweetheart neckline. Two, I’ve been called fat on more than one
occasion. Sometimes I feel self-conscious about that. And three,
it’s hard to hide the scars on my back and upper arms with this
dress style. That’s why I don’t allow Nomi to alter this dress with
me in it. My hair is long but it doesn’t hide everything. I learned
a little trick with foundation primer, red lipstick, and a
camouflage used to conceal tattoos. The combination of the three
helps cover my scars and the occasional visible bruise. Dixon helps
with the application, but doesn’t question about the injuries. Not
anymore. I tell him they are from my Krav Maga class.

Anyway. Dixon compares my body to
Marilyn or Bettie. Sometimes I like to agree with him. In truth, I
like my curves. They make me feel, I don’t know,
feminine.

My hourglass shape was inherited from
my mother, who definitely resembled a Marilyn or Bettie. My stomach
is flat, but thicker than hers had been. I love my legs. Not
because of their appearance, but because of their strength. I can
kick with the intensity of someone twice my size. I can run faster
and jump higher than most people my height, which is barely
five-one.

“
All taped up,” Dixon
announces. “Now let’s get this over with.
Quickly
.” He presses his lips in a
hard line. Any party thrown by my father makes Dixon nervous, like
a firing squad will be called on the attendees at any
moment.

I used to think this was silly. He’s
intense, yes. But hurt people? No way.

These days things are a little
different.

I tug on his arm. “I would never let
anything happen to you, DJ. I promise.”

“
That’s what I’m afraid
of,” he replies grimly.

The rooms are already crowded with
guests, ranging in age from newborn to eighty-nine. The event
planner designed the ball room to mimic a nightclub, suited with a
top DJ from the Atlanta club scene. Neon colors streak across the
room in an elaborate light show, glinting off the chandeliers and
bouncing off the walls to the sea of faces. Dixon immediately moves
to the center of the floor to show off his skills.

The kitchen is busy with the catering
company and its servers bussing in and out like worker bees. I
fight the compulsion to help them. Daddy would frown on that, I’m
sure.

Mindful of my manners, I greet and
thank each guest for attending.

I finally spot Daddy talking to Violet
Monroe, the woman who has been like a mother to me the past two
years. Her strained smile and tense posture tells me she’d rather
be anywhere than speaking with him.

About two years ago, Dixon and I were
walking by her flower shop when Tommy Crenshaw—Dixon’s resident
bully—came out of The Candy Kitchen and kicked over a large terra
cotta flower pot. Dixon tripped and took me down with him. I
covered Dixon with my body when Tommy took the first swing. My face
met his fist with the sickening thud of bone against bone. Tommy
has always hated my best friend. I believe the hate is stemmed from
questioning his own sexuality. Dixon thinks he’s just a
tool.

Anyway, my head bounced off the
pavement like a ping pong ball. There was a small scrape on my face
and some bruising, but nothing more. Tommy jumped in his truck and
raced off. Violet rushed out of her shop to help me. I wouldn’t let
her take me to the hospital so she closed the shop and drove me
home. Violet went along with my story when I told Daddy I tripped
over something on the sidewalk. He tried to thank her with money.
Violet did not accept a dime of what he offered. I liked her
immediately.

Money and greed float around me like
oxygen. I’d never seen anyone refuse payment from him.

I think Daddy sort of has a thing for
Violet. Most of Savannah’s bachelors have a thing for her,
actually. She never has to wear makeup. She has the type of skin
women her age—don’t ask, she will never admit this age—pay a lot of
money for. Her flawless skin, combined with waist-length honey
blonde hair that swirls in waves down her back, and almond-shaped
eyes the color of peat moss make her one of the most beautiful
women I’ve ever seen.

Since her husband left almost fifteen
years ago, she has not given anyone else the time of day. Violet
shot Daddy down with only the grace and poise of someone having
great skill in doing so. Cordell Carrington didn’t know if he
should be angry or impressed. I, for one, was impressed.

She has a son stationed at an Army
base in North Carolina. He returned from Afghanistan about a month
ago, but hasn’t been able to visit since his homecoming.

Jackson Monroe is the guy everyone
knows. I was a freshman when he was a senior, but he went to
Savannah High and I went to Coastal. He joined the army the day he
turned seventeen and graduated a semester early in order to start
Basic Training.

His deployment hit Violet like a Hulk
Smash to the gut. Hoping to lessen the loneliness, I stayed with
her a few times a week while Jackson finished up his year-long
tour. She helped me remember what it’s like to have a mother. I
helped her remember to lock the doors at night.

I spot a tall, vaguely familiar guy
step through the entryway.

Oh, he’s pretty. Wait. No.
Wrong word. Handsome? Beautiful? Breathtaking? Whatever he is, he
is
definitely
something. His combination light brown-sandy blonde hair is
cropped very short, giving off the hue known only in the south as
No Color. Lucid green eyes. Lips you just want to—oh God, that
smile. Dimples! I close my eyes. Open them slowly.

No crushes, Carrington.
Get yourself together.

He looks too young to be a
Carrington
goon
business associate. I study him. The tense shoulders, stiff
back, the tightness at the corners of his mouth and slight twitch
in his right eye show he is barely holding himself together. Like
he can snap or run at any moment. Possibly both. I step closer to
read the words on his lips.
Escort.

Missing. Emission.
No, that’s not right.
Mission. Gov—

“
Madelyn, the dress looks
great!” I spin to see Nomi Bradford’s slender face beaming with
pleasure.

Always the human billboard, Nomi is
dressed in one of her own creations of chiffon and tulle layers
that flow in brown and cream stripes, coming to an end just below
the knee. With her ketchup-red hair, she almost resembles a
meatloaf.

“
Yes, Nomi,” I say with a
smile. “It’s one of a kind.”

She nods. “Has your daddy seen it? I
want to know what he thinks.”

I look over my shoulder.
Daddy and the
sexy fellow
guy are gone. “No, ma’am. I’m looking for him
now.”

“
Is Mr. Duvall here
tonight?” Nomi straightens her dress and fluffs her perfectly
coifed hair. Her disappointment is obvious when I tell her Larry is
in Houston until tomorrow. I shudder at her attraction to him. “Be
sure to mention I asked about him.”

I will not. “Yes ma’am, I sure
will.”

I begin the search for my father. He
will be upset if he thought I enjoyed myself before he has a chance
to parade me around to his associates. I look in all the open rooms
downstairs before spotting Violet again.

“
Violet,” I smile. “Did
you see where Daddy went?”