Bottom Feeder (29 page)

“
He ain’t here.” Terrance
spreads out on his bed and throws an arm behind his neck. “But I
am.”

I enter the room and breathe a sigh of
relief and disappointment. What would I have said if he were here,
anyway?

“
Even with a hangover,
you’re still running those weak lines?”

He snorts. “Girl, I got the strongest
game in the building.”

“
If it inflates your ego,
I’ll allow you to believe such lies.”

“
You’ll see how attracted
you are to me if you just allow the natural to happen.”

Placing a hand over my heart and
fanning my face with the other, I answer in my best Southern Belle
dialect, “Well I declare, Mr. Dominguez, keep talkin’ that sweet
talk and you are gonna sweep me right offa my feet.”

“
You got jokes,” he
laughs.

When I lift the tote bag
from Dom’s chair, my gift falls on the seat with a light
thump
.

Take it? Leave it? He put so much time
and effort into this for me, and I do love it. Take it.

I pause beside Terrance’s bed. “How do
I contact Sergeant Wotley?”

His face scrunches up like
I force-fed him spoiled food. “Why would you wanna talk to
that
mamabicho
?”

I come up short on the excuse-front.
“I just need to. Please? I’d owe you.”

He grunts and pushes himself off the
bed. “Yes, you would.”

“
I wouldn’t owe you
that
much,” I say, and
motion to his hole-infused boxers. “I’ll buy you new boxers, but
that’s as close to your underwear as I’m getting.”

“
I can’t even be mad at
that,” Terrance laughs. “Wotley is probably still in his office.”
He tosses his cell to me. “It’s under
Sergeant A-Dot-Hole
in the contact
list.”

“
Nice. Very mature.” I
cross to Dom’s side of the room and sit at the desk. My heart is
racing. Taking two deep breaths, I press TALK.

“
Sergeant Wotely,” the
shaky, high-pitched voice answers. “What, Dominguez?”

“
Hello, Sergeant Wotley,”
I respond quietly. “My name is Madelyn Carrington. Do you have a
moment to speak with me?”

“
You’re speaking now,” he
replies harshly.

Oooo-kay.
“I want to talk about Specialist Jackson Monroe.
Would it be possible to speak with you face-to-face?”

“
You’re the female in the
room, I take it?”

I’m trying hard to ignore
his tone. Tears threaten to spill.
Get a
grip, Carrington. Do not cry.

“
Your actions are not that
of anyone respectable, Madelyn Carrington, and you best be glad I
didn’t call your parents to let them know their underage daughter
was in a barracks room all night with a nineteen-year-old
soldier.”

I shake myself, mentally and
physically. So much for keeping a grip on the waterworks. Years of
pent-up emotions are coming out in one day—in the form of
tears.

And here is this man on
the other end of the phone, who does not know me at all, speaking
like I’m some random skank. Well I got a little something
for
Sergeant A-Dot-Hole
.

The words drift out of my mouth
slowly, my Georgia accent flowing thicker than Crisco. “Now you
listen to me, Sergeant. My mama raised me to be a lady, but she
also taught me not to tolerate crap. I really hope you don’t speak
to your wife and kids, or even your own mama in this manner. You
know what you need, Sergeant? You need the ugly slapped right out
of your mouth.” Terrance peeks around the wall locker, his eyes
wide and incredulous.

“
I am not
one of your soldiers; I
will not
tolerate you speaking to me
like this. All I’m asking is for you to take two minutes out of
your day to listen to someone—
other than
yourself
—speak. Besides, if you want to
insult me and accuse me of things, the least you could do is
grow a pair
and say them
to my face.”

“
I’ll meet with you, Miss
Carrington,” he finally answers, his voice solemn. “Back parking
lot of the barracks. Fifteen minutes.”

Terrance is propped against the wall,
mouth open and bug-eyed. I wipe the moisture from the phone with
the bottom of my shirt and place it in his hand.

“
That was the sexiest
thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he breathes, shaking his head. “No one
talks to Wotley like that.”

I take a few steps to the door before
turning back to him. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Terrance squeezes a tight hug around
my shoulders. “The pleasure has been all mine.”

I drop my bags in Jackson’s room and
change into a pair of black cropped sweats and a purple boyfriend
tee. Jackson is asleep. I check his breathing and grab the key from
his nightstand.

I scan for Dom’s car in the parking
lot and quickly chastise myself for doing so.

I wonder what kind of car
Sergeant Wotley drives. I picture him in a Hummer or monster truck
with
The Crusher
written across the doors.

A black, 1980-something Ford Escort
pulls into the parking lot, steering toward me.

So much for
The Crusher.

“
Sergeant Wotley,” I greet
with my hand extended. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with
me.”

Miss Maddy Formal, that’s
me.

“
Call me Miles. After
all,” he smiles, accepting my handshake. “You’re not one of my
soldiers.”

Any other day, I’d have the decency to
feel ashamed of my rant. Today is not the day.

Miles listens while I
inform him that I am not, in fact, underage. Leaving out the extra
dramatics, I explain about New York City and how Jackson is doing a
favor for my . . . I struggle to use the word
father
when speaking of
Cordell.

I stretch the truth a bit when I
explain my purpose for being in the room. I tried to make Jackson
appear responsible by telling Miles that he arranged a designated
driver (me), and my reason for being in the room was to keep an eye
on him in case he needed help getting to the bathroom—or garbage
can. To protect the soldiers at the front desk, I added that I
signed out and left the building but not before placing a rock in
the side door to sneak back in.

Great, Carrington.
Fake-confess you broke into a government building. A-plus work on
that one, Genius.

Miles raises his eyebrows at my
confession. Rivulets of sweat bead at the edges of his maroon
beret. I rock from side-to-side as the pavement scorches my feet
through my thin flip flops.

“
So it was really my fault
for staying in his room all night,” I declare, bringing my entreaty
to a close. “I don’t know anything about the military or how all of
this works, but this whole thing isn’t Jackson’s—Specialist
Monroe’s—fault. I want to make right what I have caused to go
wrong, sir. I’m begging you.”

“
Madelyn,” he says
seriously. “I happen to work for a living. Calling me ‘sir’ is like
drinking dark liquor and light liquor at the same time: the two
don’t mix very well. I’m positive Monroe can attest to that fact.”
The corners of his mouth turn up into an almost-smile. “I will take
what you’ve said into consideration,” he goes on to say. “But I
can’t guarantee anything. Specialist Monroe knew he shouldn’t drink
and he knew he shouldn’t bring you to his room to stay overnight,
underage or not. Drunk or not.”

“
I appreciate your
consideration, Miles. Thank you.”

I wait until he is out of the parking
lot before jogging back to the building. The sun beams down in
ferocity, bouncing off the dark pavement and making the North
Carolina humidity seem like the gates to hell. I glide along the
barracks’ wall for shade.

My heart flutters stupidly
when I spot the candy paint of a Hyundai Tiburon at the front of
the parking lot. Ugh. I am absolutely tired of my heart reacting
like this over cute guys. It’s disconcerting and
really
annoying. What
bothers me most is the shame I feel for thinking he was actually
interested. That's what I get for being gullible.

Exhaustion washes over me. Maybe it’s
the lack of sleep or the overwhelming combination of emotions and
information overload, but my legs do not want to move any further.
I slump against the wall and allow the tears to roll.

After several minutes of controlled
breathing, I push away from the building, silently hoping I do not
see Dom. And fervently hoping that my first hope is
shattered.

Jackson

I only wanted to sleep off this shitty
hangover and even shittier day.

It started with one knock. Two. Three.
Six.

After that, I left the door open to
let the people file in. I dodge their questions about Maddy and
lock myself in the bathroom.

My only question is: Where the hell is
Maddy?

Maddy

In light of this new information, one
thing is certain: I need a plan and I need it quick. In a strange,
macabre way, this newfound knowledge is going to save my life. I
will be ready for an attack. And trust me, there will be one. All I
can do now is wait and prepare.

Cordell’s ruthlessness runs deeper
than I thought. Now I’m his enemy. Maybe I have been all
along.

As much as I want to ditch New York
City and live off the grid, anything Cordell can use to keep track
of me—laptop, cell phone, car, bank account—needs to remain in use.
I have to keep Jackson safe. Not to mention figure out a way to
avenge what has happened to Chris, Jeremiah, and Lamont.

Jackson’s room is packed with people
who stop talking and openly stare when I enter. I slap on a smile
and make my way through the small crowd. Trying to ignore the eyes
burning holes into my back, I quickly gather my
belongings.

A hand lands on my arm. With my nerves
on a roller coaster ride, my first instinct is to turn around
swinging.

“
Let me help,” Jackson
insists, his tone cautious.

“
No.” I turn to leave.
Jackson blocks my exit and my view of the crowd.

“
I’ll contact you soon.” I
whisper, bringing my eyes to meet his. He nods but doesn’t move. I
glance around him to the curious sea of faces. I feel like a
sideshow. A freak. Like every emotion I’m feeling and every secret
I’ve ever held is exposed on the surface of my skin.

I think of Emil’s party and Lamont’s
words of how Jackson would not want to be seen with me. I think of
the words he spoke earlier.

Omen.

A useless
nobody.

Disgusting.

Idiot.

Bottom feeder.

That’s when it hits me to do something
so spiteful, so shocking that I almost feel ashamed for thinking
it. Almost.

I look into Jackson’s eyes and motion
for him to lean closer, as if I’m going to whisper in his ear. I
gently grab the back of his head.

And I kiss him.

I slam the trunk of the BMW and settle
in the driver’s seat. According to the GPS, a bookstore is located
a quarter mile from the mall. This is where I will put my plan in
writing.

Adjusting the mirrors, I glimpse a
piece of lacy fabric sticking between the seats in the
back.

Ew. Ew. Ew. I shudder at the vivid
mental pictures.

“
Okay,” I say aloud,
taking a deep, angry breath. “First phase of the plan is going to
be cleaning the seats.”

Yesterday, I decided the
most exciting part of today would be a latte and a cookie. But no.
That would be too easy. Too enjoyable. The universe says I have to
find out my sociopath father isn’t actually my father. I have to
find out someone I cared for, along with his cousins, have been in
a terrible car accident that probably has something to do with me.
I have to hear that I’m a
useless
nobody.

But the thing that I find the most
exciting is digging someone else’s used panties out of my car
seats. Yes, this is exactly how I wanted to spend my
day.

I pull into a self-serve car wash and
roll down all the windows to air out the car. Who knows what kinds
of smells are imbedded in the seats?

“
So much for getting away
unnoticed,” a voice says to me.

I slide a dollar into the change
machine.

“
Hey, Dom.” I’m sure I
attempted to mask the gloomy feeling. Pretty sure it didn’t work
out. “What’s up?” I slide a second dollar into the machine. Siphon
a smile. Turn around.

“
What happened with you
and Monroe?” he asks, following me back to the car.

Oh no. Did he see me kiss Jackson? Do
I care? Ugh. Yes. Yes, I do. “Why?”

“
I came to his room
looking for you, and saw the bump on his head.”