Bottom Feeder (6 page)

The only time I’ve ever
said no to Daddy was when commanded I fly to New York. Okay, so I
didn’t say no,
per se
. I simply reminded him of the Houston flight. So next week
at this time I will be on my way to New York in the BMW.
Alone.

I prefer things that way.

An hour later I pad quietly into my
bedroom.

“
Want
breakfast?”

“
No, thanks,” Dixon
replies. “I’m going home. Dad needs help with a job before I go to
the theatre today.”

I take my hair down and grab my work
clothes. “Let’s meet at your house. I’ve got to bake some stuff for
the guys at the warehouse.”

Dixon opens his mouth, closes it. “You
know what my suggestion is.”

He thinks I should add what he likes
to call “special” ingredients to the food I make for the staff at
the main warehouse. These ingredients come in the form of bodily
fluids. Um, no.

“
Later,” he says, a slow
smile creeping across his face. His
I’m
scheming
look.

Great. I’ll have to be on guard the
rest of the day.

Jackson

My feet hit the pavement at a slow but
steady pace. It’s 5 a.m. I’m tired. As usual, I did not sleep. I
pass the time thinking about the Barracuda, imagining the surplus
of women who will take their turn in the passenger seat. Arm candy
is a must. Yes I am cocky enough to admit I think these
things.

What? I don’t say it out loud. Cut me
some slack.

Halfway through the ten-miler, the
heat screams down unrelenting. I want nothing more than to be home,
showered, clothed and standing in Cordell’s mansion.

As I turn on my street, I spot an
elderly lady stumble on the curb. I rush over to help
her.

“
You okay, ma’am?” I ask,
picking up the contents of her purse.

“
Jackson Monroe!” She
throws her arms around me. The familiar scent of lilac perfume
wafts into my nose. Mrs. Elaine Brenner: widow, Southern Belle,
certified ball breaker. “I’m all right, darlin’. Old ladies drop
stuff all the time.”

“
I don’t see any old
ladies around here, Mrs. B.” I smile and hand over her
purse.

“
You were always such a
charmer. Now stand back and let me look atcha.” She looks me over.
“Oh, dear.”

I shift uncomfortably.

“
Your eyes are different,
darlin’.” I wonder if she’s going senile. “Now don’t give me that
look. I ain’t senile. That God-forsaken war changed you. I saw it
in my own husband. We all saw it in your daddy when he came back.
Now it’s in you. The way you look at life, at people, at the world.
You got more hatred and anger and confusion coursin’ through your
body than you know what to do with.”

“
I have to go, Mrs.
B.”

Mrs. Brenner pats my face. “You come
by and see me before you leave again, sweetie pie. I got some
chores for you.”

“
Yes, ma’am.”

I sprint until my lungs feel as if
they will burst. I let the pain in my ribs overtake me. Whatever it
takes to get Mrs. Brenner’s words out of my head.

I twist the knob to Mama’s front door.
As usual, it is not locked.

After a lukewarm shower I dress in
jeans and t-shirt then hop in Mama’s Civic and plead to whoever’s
listening that the smooth leather seats of a 1971 Barracuda will be
underneath my butt soon.

Apprehension twists in my gut as I
park outside the wrought-iron gates. I squash the feeling. I don’t
have time for worry right now.

I gape at the massive detached garage
that, no doubt, holds the Barracuda. The gate glides smoothly open
before my fingers reach the small touch screen. After a short
hesitation I continue walking up the driveway.

From the corner of my eye I see
something rushing toward me. I jump back, ready to
attack.

The psychs say these jumpy
reactions are related to PTSD. That might be true if I
had
PTSD.

“
Oh!” Maddy exclaims.
Whatever she reads on my face causes a flood of insanity to come
out of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I thought you might
be Dixon. Not that you look like Dixon. He’s my best friend. I know
what my best friend looks like. I’m sorry for startling you like
that but I owe him payback for putting icky stuff in my shoes
before he left and when I stuffed them in my bag all this gooey
stuff fell out. . . sorry, I’m rambling.”

I want to ask her about the gooey
stuff in her shoe, but instead reply, “So you were going to attack
him on your bike?”

She plants her feet on the ground and
pulls her long, chocolate brown hair into a messy
ponytail.

“
Whatever works,” she
smiles.

My bunkmate—the army calls
them “Battle Buddies”—in basic training knew everything about
diamonds and gemstones. Instead of bringing pictures of family
members with him, he brought pictures of jewels. He was a nice guy,
but super weird. He never talked about anything other than jewels.
Sort of like Bubba in
Forrest Gump
talking about shrimp.

Anyway, he said the sapphires with the
least amount of greens and purples are considered the best quality.
Looking into Maddy’s intense blue eyes glistening in the sun
reminds me of the pictures of sapphires he passed around like they
were his kids.

Huh. Random.

“
Well, I better go,” she
continues. “I’m on my way to Dixon’s house. We ride to work
together.” She bites her lip as I purposely stretch the awkward
pause.

“
I think Lib—. . .” Maddy
stops mid-sentence, as if she has said too much.

Libby Jarrett. The
thought
of her name
makes me shudder. How could I
not
remember her? The girl made my life hell. I was
her first
.
She
was my third. Maybe fourth. Does anyone really keep up with these
things?

She stalked me. Day and night. I
didn’t know at the time, but Mama issued a restraining order
against Libby. She caught her trying to break in the house one
Saturday while I was away at a baseball game. I never told anyone I
found Libby in my bed the night before I left for basic training. I
had to call Dixon to get her to leave.

Since I have no desire to discuss a
girl I never want to see again, I quickly change the
subject.

“
Where do you
work?”

“
Just Dance. Dixon works
at the theatre next door.”

“
Mm-hmm, I know the
place.” I smile just to see if . . . yep. Her cheeks flush a bright
red. Ridiculous. “Is Cordell home?”

“
He’s on the lower level,
in the barber shop. I left food on the counter in case you are
hungry.”

A barber shop in the house? Really?
“I’m starving, but I think I’m here on business.”

Maddy frowns at the mention of
business. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, her expression
situates into a smile.

“
If you change your mind,
feel free to help yourself.”

Cordell swings open the front door.
Maddy waves goodbye and pedals through the open gate. He points me
to the garage and pulls a small device from his pocket. The gate
closes and the garage’s five doors slide open when he presses a
button on the tiny controller.

I gasp in amazement at the car
collection. A fully restored, candy pearl 1964 Mustang. A metallic
black 1969 Camaro. A bumblebee-striped 1972 Charger. A burnt orange
1970 Nova SS.

There are more cars further back, but
my eyes rest on the Barracuda.

“
Son,” Cordell begins, “My
life has only one predicament and I believe you are just the person
to help me.” His Georgia drawl shines through so predominantly that
I picture him dressed in a Colonel Sanders-style suit, carrying a
bucket of original recipe. My stomach grumbles at the thought of
fried chicken. “Your job in the army requires a certain amount of
confidential information.
Is that
correct?”

No. I defuse explosives. I nod
anyway.

Cordell leans against the wall. “Let’s
say I had a job for you. The only stipulation would be complete
confidentiality about the job. The payment would be this car,” He
points to the Barracuda, “And cash. This automobile is worth more
than seventy thousand. An extra ten thousand should be sufficient
enough for keeping quiet, wouldn’t you say so?”

A sudden panic rises inside me. I’ve
heard rumors of Cordell’s shady business deals. I never paid
attention to any of them because I never had a reason to. Until
now.

I look into his beady brown eyes. “I’m
not killing anyone for money, Mr. Carrington.” A steady throb
pulses behind my eyes. What the hell did I just say out
loud?

Cordell cackles. “Do you really
believe those silly rumors?” Another hard laugh. “All I’m asking is
your word for confidentiality before I agree to hand over this car.
Besides, I don’t need to hire someone to commit murder. I can do
that job myself.”

“
I can keep a secret
better than most, Mr. Carrington, but if there is anything illegal
involved I have to refuse. Please understand, sir. I have my career
to think about.” I subtly begin backing out of the garage. I can
outrun him.

Will I have to scale the
gate?

Are there attack dogs?

Shit.

“
Now hold on just a
minute,” he replies angrily. “I will tell you the reason I asked
you here today, but I will
not
have you accuse me of wrongdoings on my own
property. Where’re your manners, boy? Your mama raised you better
than that!”

Crap. He played the Mama Card. “I’m
sorry, sir.” Should I stay? Or run like hell? I glance at the
Barracuda. “Just tell me what I need to do,” I sigh in immediate
regret.

“
That’s what I like to
hear. Come have a seat in your new car. I’m going to check a little
somethin’ before we talk business.” Cordell punches numbers on a
small keypad on the back wall.

I take my place in the driver’s seat.
The car will need an old school name. Something classic, yet not
like Betsy or Sally. No. Those names are typical,
expected.

Cordell looks over his shoulder,
quickly going through the code twice. Two separate codes for the
same keypad. Cautious.

Click.
Whir
.

The wall slides back revealing two
rows of six television screens. Security cameras pass in ten-second
intervals between each room of the house and the perimeter.
Paranoid.

He opens a fireproof box beside the
far left monitor and removes a piece of folded paper. The wall
slides smoothly back into place.

Helen? No.

Louise? Maybe.

Meryl. Ehhhh. . .

“
We’re going to think of
this as
quid pro quo
, if you will.” Cordell smiles at his knowledge of Latin. In
his line of business—whatever that may be—I’m sure he recites this
line on a regular basis. “My dear, sweet Maddy has been accepted to
a very prominent performing arts school in New York City. I need
someone to drive her.”

Easy enough. I place both hands on the
steering wheel. It’s like the heavens opened up and rained
excellence on my day.

“
I need you to understand
why your silence is crucial. My reputation, my
work
depends on a certain level of
confidentiality.” His voice is both pleading and
menacing.

Myrtle. The ‘cuda shall be called
Myrtle. I run my fingers across the leather seats. Yes, whatever he
needs me to do I will do.

“
Let me start from the
beginning,” Cordell continues. Once those words leave his mouth,
apprehension overcomes me. This is not going to be good.

“
Grace, Maddy’s mama, was
beautiful. Piercing blue eyes, waist-length raspberry blonde hair
with the body of a ’50s pin-up. She belonged on the covers of
magazines. I had to have her. Except for the eyes,
Maddy
unfortunately
looks nothing like her.” He spits his daughter’s name out like an
expletive.

“
I pursued Grace to no
end,” he chuckles. “She wanted nothing to do with me.
Everyone
wants something
to do with me. You have to understand there aren’t many things I
can’t have. I always get what I want. Grace was no different. When
she finally gave in and talked to me, I learned she was leaving
Savannah to start a new life on the west coast. A week before we
were introduced—I already knew who she was, of course—Grace
discovered she was pregnant, the father gone.” I don’t like where
this story is going already.

“
Grace’s parents
were
very
traditional southerners. They would have disowned her for
having a child without a husband. I presented her with a solution:
marry me and I would take care of her
and
the baby. It took some of the
old Carrington charm, but eventually she agreed. I knew she loved
me before she realized it herself. Call me an arrogant son of a
bitch, but I had—
have
—that influence on women.” The sound of his chuckle makes my
skin crawl. I shiver against the warm leather.