The Feeder
Authors: Mandy White
The Feeder
Mandy White
Second Edition
Kindle Edition
Published at Kindle Direct
Copyright © 2013 Mandy White
All Rights Reserved
This work is not to be reproduced in any type of media, in whole or in part, without the expressed consent of the author, Mandy White.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons alive or dead or actual locations is purely coincidental.
Warning:
This book is not for everyone. It contains profanity and scenes of graphic violence and mutilation. Readers who find such things disturbing are advised against reading any further.
You’ve been warned!
Table of Contents
Chapter 2 ~ Reunion at the White Surf
Chapter 6 ~ Vigil at the Cobalt
Chapter 13 ~ Hollywood’s Bad Boy
Chapter 15 ~ Trolling for Trolls
Chapter 18 ~ The Perfect Twins
Chapter 19 ~ The Intersex Condition
Chapter 27 ~ Sewage is as sewage does…
Preview: Fed Up ~ Sequel to The Feeder
~ Chapter 1 ~
Happy Birthday
“Hap-pee Birrrthdayyy!”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded drunk. Not a big surprise, considering it was 3 am and it was her birthday.
Our
birthday.
The fact that Camille had drunk-dialed me and woken me out of a deep sleep didn’t bother me. It was just so good to hear her voice.
She had been in Los Angeles since before our last birthday, when she had promised we would spend the next one together. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen this year either, since we had already been twenty-nine for three hours and she was still in California while I was at home in Vancouver, Canada.
My sister Camille had always been the party animal of the two of us. I was the nerdy one; the analytical thinker who preferred computers to people.
In spite of our differences, my sister and I understood each other unlike anyone else because we were identical. We were part of each other.
“Long time no hear. Happy Birthday, you sexy bitch.”
“I’m sorry, Sammie… I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I know I promised we’d spend this one together, but I’ve just been so busy. I can’t leave right now.” Camille sniffled loudly. Either she was crying or she’d just snorted a line of something. Knowing my sister, the odds were equally in favor of either one, or both.
“Don’t sweat it babe, but I’m holding you to it next year. We
will
be spending our thirtieth together, even if I have to fly down there to do it.”
There was a pause on the other end, followed by another sniff and a shaking breath. “I miss you so much,” she said softly.
My heart ached, more than a little. I missed Camille too, more than anyone would ever know. She was the good half of me; the only one who truly understood me.
“So, come home then.” It was a simple request, but a useless one. She wouldn’t.
“I want to,” she whispered.
“So, get on a fucking plane. You got a piano tied to your ass? I’ll send you a ticket if you need money.”
“I can’t.” Her voice sounded constricted. “It’s too late.”
“What the shit is that supposed to mean?”
“I just want to come home!” she blurted, “I want to see you so bad, Sammie, but I can’t. I’m s-s-so scared.” Camille was crying for real now, sobbing loudly into the phone.
“Too late? What the fuck? Cammie, you’re not making sense. Please stop crying. It’s going to be okay.”
“No,” she whispered, “it’s not okay. It’ll never be okay again. I’m his now, and he won’t ever let me leave.” Her voice was beginning to slur more than when she first called and her words were developing a singsong quality.
My sister was definitely high on something.
Camille laughed weakly. “But I got away from him and he won’t find me here, and if he does… fuck him.”
My heart thudded in my chest.
“Who? Who is he?” I demanded.
She giggled. “Fuck him…fu-uck him, in his stupid ass…” she sang softly.
“Cammie, listen to me. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” As I spoke, I got out of bed and strode to the window, looking through the rain-spattered pane at nothing in particular. I needed to find out where the hell she was. My sister never gave me her address or phone number because she moved around a lot, mostly staying in hotels and friends’ apartments. Her elusive lifestyle drove me nuts, but that was her way. Camille preferred to be the one to make contact. It made her feel like she was in control, in a life so far out of control.
“Talk to me, Cammie.” I was pacing now, my legs thrumming with nervous energy.
Just when I thought she might have dropped the phone and fallen asleep, Camille seemed to wake up enough to register what I had just said.
“No! You can’t. Please don’t come, Sammie,” she begged. “He’ll hurt you. This is my mess, not yours.” Camille’s heartbreaking sobs became louder and her voice hitched as she tried to speak. “If anything happens to me… please… know… that…” she was flat-out bawling now, “I love you Sammie… I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Please… just… forget about it.” In a barely audible whisper she added, “Forget about me.”
“Cammie!” I shouted into the phone. There was no response. “CAMMIE!” I screamed, beginning to panic. “Talk to me! Please!”
I listened to the living silence of the open connection, calling to her, pleading with her to pick the phone up until finally the line went dead. Camille may not have told me where she was, but it must have slipped her mind that I had caller ID. I hung up and hit ‘reply’.
The phone rang a dozen or so times before a sleepy Hispanic sounding voice answered, “White Surf Motel.”
“Camille Thompson’s room, please.” There was a brief pause.
“No here. Not that name.”
“How about Aurora Snow? You can’t miss her. She’s a blonde lady. White.”
“Yeah, tha bloonde one. Jeest a meenute.” His slow, bored-sounding voice reminded me of Napoleon Dynamite’s Mexican friend, Pedro.
The line was busy.
“Fuck fucking fuck!” I cursed aloud, pacing anxiously back and forth. I called the hotel back. “The line is busy. Can you please go knock on her door and tell her to hang up the phone so I can call her?”
“No… we no do that. You call her tomorrow.”
“Wait!” I shouted, before the man had a chance to hang up. “Please!” I pleaded. “It’s important. Can you please at least check on her? I’m worried about her. She’s been sick.”
The desk clerk sighed. “Jeest a one meenute. You hold.”
I waited for the longest seven minutes of my life before the clerk came back on the line.
“Okay, I check. Lady, she jeest fine. Jeesta lotta drunk. She say you no worry, you go to sleep. She call you tomorrow.”
“Can you check on her again in a couple of hours?” I asked. The line went dead before I finished the sentence. Camille was alive. Just drunk.
Not likely
. I knew her better than that. She hadn’t let a birthday pass without the assistance of some sort of drug since we were teenagers.
Maybe she was fine. Maybe not. I wasn’t taking any chances. One thing I did know for sure was my sister needed me. She was in some sort of trouble and as usual, it involved a man.
I’m his now, and he won’t ever let me leave.
Her words chilled my guts.
Within hours I was at Vancouver International Airport, boarding an early flight bound for Los Angeles.
~ Chapter 2 ~
Reunion at the White Surf
The White Surf Motel was located in Malibu, according to the Google map I had printed out before I left.
As the taxi wound down the Pacific Coast Highway, I gazed out the window at the long stretch of coastline. I imagined most Canadians seeing the California coast for the first time would be ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the miles of sandy beaches and impressive houses.
It was no big deal to me. I’d lived on the West Coast all my life. We had the exact same ocean in Canada. We had sandy beaches, million dollar homes and celebrities too, just fewer of them.
I was too preoccupied with worrying about my sister to give a shit about the scenery.
I tried to call Camille again from the taxi, but the line in her room was still busy. A new desk clerk was on duty, and she refused to indulge my request to check on my sister.
El Bitcho
.
When I arrived at the motel, I met El Bitcho in person. A bug-eyed woman with overteased flaming red hair, she reminded me of one of those troll dolls kids used to play with.
At first, she refused to tell me what room Camille was in, but when I gave my long blond hair a toss and batted my baby blues at her she softened enough to give me the room number. It was either that or go to the room herself and knock on the door and this woman was clearly much too lazy to bother.
Room 102 was ground level, facing the beach. Nice view, but I didn’t give a shit. I pounded on the door.
“Camille!”
There was no answer. I pounded on the door again, open-palmed to make it louder. Still nothing.
I weighed my options. I could probably have kicked the door in, but not without attracting unwanted attention. I could break the window without making too much noise, but it was the middle of the afternoon and somebody was bound to see, possibly that chambermaid…
I had noticed a chambermaid’s cart a few doors down on my way to room 102.
I took a deep breath and gave my hair another shake, trying to make myself appear calm and casual. I strolled down to the room that was currently being cleaned and rapped on the open door.
“Hello?”
I heard water running in the bathroom. I knocked a little harder and called again, in a louder voice. This time someone answered.
“Si?”
“Can I have some towels please?”
The chambermaid, a rotund Hispanic woman, emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel. She gave me a blank look.
“Towels,” I said, pointing at the stack of clean towels stacked on the cart, then pointed at myself. “For me? Room 102.” I flashed her my best movie-star smile, cocking my head slightly, trying to look as cute and sweet as possible.
The chambermaid’s humorless expression didn’t change but she seemed to be studying my face, as if trying to remember what the occupant of room 102 looked like.
She nodded. “Towl. Si. You take.” She selected two of each size from the cart and handed them to me. “I cleen room today?”
I shook my head. “No thank you, that will be fine.” I pretended to walk toward room 102 with my towels, then stopped and loudly said, “Oh! No!”
I turned around with a horrified expression, catching the maid just before she went back into the room.
“Can you help me?”
“Si?” Again with the blank stare. I tried to read her face for clues to see if she understood me, but this woman either didn’t speak much English or she took the poker face to a whole new level.
“I had my door propped open but it closed on me! I don’t have my key!” I made a key turning motion with my hand, and then patted my pockets to indicate they were empty. I wasn’t sure how much English this woman spoke and I hoped I wasn’t insulting her by assuming she didn’t.
