Bottom Feeder

By Maria G. Cope

Graduating high school was Maddy Carrington's chance to leave her abusive childhood behind.When she discovers her father is a murderer, her chance of getting out of Georgia alive comes from a nineteen-year-old war veteran with deadly secrets that may cost both of their lives.

Jackson thought the worst of his battles were over.Returning from a year-long tour in Afghanistan, he planned to relax and eat his way through every restaurant in Savannah.That is, until he makes a deal with the South's most notorious crime boss, Cordell Carrington.

They want to tell you their story with one stipulation:absolute confidentiality.

**This New Adult book contains mature language, mild violence, and mild sexual content. Discretion is advised.**

Lowlife (A Bottom Feeder Novel) is set to release in March 2014

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria G. Cope
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311072658

Maria G. Cope

The short version: I am a book nerd, word nerd, breakfast cereal connoisseur, avid hugger, and dill pickle addict. I'm too nice and I wouldn't live life any other way.The long version:What’s to Know?On the surface I am the daughter of hard-working southerners, the wife of a United States Soldier, literary nerd, aspiring author and nursing student. But if you really want to dig deeper, you will see that I am optimistic for a pessimist, call me an idealistic realist, sometimes an opportunist; I will drink the half-full glass of water if I am thirsty. I enjoy rocking chairs on a front porch, the way grass smells as it is being cut. This is the beginning of regrowth and rebirth, ending only when summer turns to fall, fall to winter. It's sort of beautiful.I question my own beliefs, but never God. This makes me stronger in Him, stronger in me. The stronger I am, the less it hurts when I fall and the quicker I get back up, dust off my Chucks and tell life it hits like a bit--er, punk.I may not be the best at the things I love to do, but I will surely do these things with a finesse and style that will make you look twice, think twice, taste twice. Mind outta the gutter, Sweet Pea, I'm also a trained chef. Tupac wrote about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete, defying the laws of nature. That wasn't about me . . . it is me.

Book preview

Foreword

Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command

Author’s Note: When I asked if he would write a Foreword for this book, I wasn’t expecting this type of response. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t something that reads like a journal, like a sneak peek into his unfiltered mind. He wrote something more than I could have ever asked for. Thank you, Reaver 6-1, Special Operations Command. The floor is all yours.

It's Thanksgiving Day. Yesterday, I arrived to Fort Bragg, NC, an 18 year-old kid 3,000 miles away from home. Needless to say I won't be partaking in any annual turkey with my kinfolk.  It's okay, though. This guy everyone calls Sergeant Major has invited myself and another guy to his house for the celebration.  

I'm a little quiet. I have a lot on my mind. Before I left the building I will be working in, my boss alerted me not to unpack my gear because I would be leaving to support the invasion of Iraq in three days. The next few days were spent eating leftovers and calling friends and family.

Hey, what else can I do?

Six months later and I'm back home. You really learn a lot about yourself and others when placed in that situation. Coming from Compton, California I wasn't too worried about a war zone; I mean, I kinda lived in one.

But this was different.

This was like being the Away Team, trying to hold on for four quarters and still keep enough in the tank to get back to the bus after the game. But I was one of the lucky ones to make it back in one piece. Some made it back. Others, not so much. Good people, too. I'm going to miss them a lot.

But I can't dwell on that just yet. I gotta get my mind right, because I just found out I have 16 days off, then I start training for a rapid push again. Apparently, I impressed someone last time around. Check me out: Two combat missions and I can't legally have a drink yet. I'm a bad ass.

Wow. That was a rough one. A constant wave of rockets and bombs come my way. Stranded on top of a building for 3 or 4 days fighting sleep and the enemy at the same time. Trying to explain to a woman who doesn't understand English or Spanish that her daughter's death was the result of her husband's road side bombs.

Yeah, we had our release valves. We caught up on the many bad days of Jack Bauer on 24, educated ourselves to the mystical workings of women with Sex in the City. We even had the time to figure out why so many guys in the USA hate The Sound of Music. Personally, I think it's because they will never get a woman that hot who can sing. Not all of us are Jay-Z.

Finding things to take your mind off the bad stuff is easy when you are around guys who suffer the suck with you. We typically didn't address our struggles with each other. It was an unwritten rule that you weren't allowed to bitch and moan to another guy who went through the same thing as you, and he's not bitching and moaning.  

So we just drove on.

We go out, spend some bullets, win some hearts and minds (that's what they call it now). We come back, shower and eat, turn on a movie, get bombed, run outside, come back and go to sleep. It becomes routine; you knew what to expect, so it became easy to deal with.

I am now the proud owner of more Combat Service Stripes than Time in Service Stripes. Three Combat Stripes. Eighteen months of combat service and I receive my First Time in Service Stripe at three years.

But enough of that.  

I'm home now. Still not allowed to drink, but I can finally flaunt this war badge to the ladies in non-military towns. Awesome! They are going to love me . . . love me as much as they want. Yes!

Tomorrow, I leave for the airport. That is, if tomorrow ever gets here.

I can't seem to fall asleep. My mind is racing. I'm thinking that something is wrong. Something isn't secure. Something is vulnerable. I don't know what it is. I thought it was jet lag at first, but it's been almost 2 weeks.

Nah, this is something different. Something weird.

I feel really relaxed now, though. Only if I could go to sleep. . .

What was that?

Okay, I know I heard that. Let me check it out. Okay, it was nothing. Check the windows, check the doors, check every room, every corner. Nothing. Good. Safe and secure. Let me lay back down.

What was that . . .

My mom and dad are happy to see me. They missed my 19th birthday, so along with all my favorite foods, they have a cheesecake with candles; I prefer cheesecake to regular cake.

I see my uncles, aunts, cousins and siblings. I also see a few people I don't know. My First Sergeant said, A coming home party from war has a way of bringing new family members out. I guess he was right; I didn't think I had Mexicans in my family. Let me watch them for a little while, make sure they don't try anything.

Yeah, I know. But you never know.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yeah, that's the official name for it. You find this prominent in individuals returning home from a combat zone. More recently, from the War on Terror.

The docs told me I have it.

Thankfully we were under doctor-patient privilege when I told him about my constant drinking and partying, my newfound knack for anger and my short temper. He asked me about my hyper vigilance—I’m always on alert and prepared for the worst. I told him it's a precaution to make sure things are in order.  

He asked, How many times? Six or seven throughout the night.  

He asked, How do you sleep? I'm now accustomed to about 4 hours of sleep each night.

What brought this on?  

I can't answer that.

Maybe it was watching my buddy take one while he slept. Maybe it was getting news over the wire about my boss getting halved by shrapnel. Oh, did I mention all that happened after the President declared, Mission accomplished?

Yeah, that made me mad.  Mad enough to want to go out and end the mission myself. End it all.

Next came a friend who died in a helo crash getting back to the main base to have a severe sprain looked at because we didn't have X-Ray techs on our camp.

Oftentimes, people who don't understand, won't understand. That's why it's so hard to treat PTSD on an individual level. Everyone is different. Everyone has their own demons and experience. But one thing I can tell you: This—whatever it is going on in my head—it doesn't do anything to me. It takes away from me.

I never knew what it took away until I began to miss it.

I miss having a good night's sleep. I miss being able to relax. I miss the sound of the 4th of July. I miss dreams; all I have these days are nightmares. I miss being able to conduct myself in a crowd. I miss having a drink just for fun; my mind has linked drinking to memory. So I drink. And I think about the guys I'm drinking to—the ones who should be drinking with me, the ones who should be drinking instead of me. I miss the way morning used to make me feel so alive. Now I question if today is my day. You know, The Day. I miss action movies; gun fire makes me a little jumpy. I miss being able to eat steak. Had a little incident where a bunch of people were hurt by some really hot stuff and, well . . . never mind. I miss how making friends used to make me feel. Nowadays, if you haven't lived in my boots in some way, shape, or form, you don't belong.

But hey, it's not so bad.

I've had countless missions and one failed marriage—I think me dragging her outside to the MedEvac helo had something to do with it. Yeah, I was dreaming. The heavy drinking, screaming names in my sleep, and waking up to faces of baddies that got it from me . . . yeah, I think I made out good on this end. Better than most.

Once the docs figure out how to treat this thing, though, I'll be good as new. But for now, good enough is as good as it gets. I still got a job to do. Yeah, I may see some things that may make it worse, but remember: if a 44 year-old man can do it, I damn sure can.

I'm 19 years old and not yet in my prime. I still have a long way to go.

Prologue

Maddy

My time is limited so I will make this quick. My name is Madelyn Faith Carrington, but you can call me Maddy. I am seventeen years old. My skills include running in flip-flops and eating my weight in fried okra; sometimes together, but not always in that order.  

I lie sometimes. Don't look at me like that. Please. It's only to protect the ones I love from the ones who hate me. Because of the scars on my wrists, people think I tried to end my life. Between us, and only us: I did not put those scars there.

My best friend, Dixon, means the world and everything in it to me. He's the only person I trust, and even he doesn't know everything. Tybee Island is my home, but not for much longer. Daddy is forcing guiding me with the best of intentions to attend school in New York. My mama died when I was eleven. And Daddy? Well, he might have killed her. 

I need to confess everything before the same happens to me.

Prologue

Jackson

My name is Jackson Benton-Monroe. I am an Explosive Ordinance Disposal soldier in the United States Army.  

They want me to talk about why I am angry. They say I should tell you about the guilt of coming out of war without so much as a scratch, while others went home without body parts, or in a box with a United States flag draped across the top.  

But let me tell you something, I do not want to tell anyone about my twelve months in the mountains of Afghanistan. So, no, I am not going to talk about anger or guilt. Besides, if I told you an untied bootlace saved my life you will probably call me a coward for not dying. I don’t blame you.

I will say this once:  a war is not only fought by countries of soldiers across oceans and deserts and mountains. No. After combat, the battles at home begin. Our mind, our family, our trust is never the same. I thought the worst was over as soon as my size twelve boots hit American soil.  

I was wrong.  

I learned about a different kind of battle; a backdoor assault where one person will take hits so others don't have to suffer. Some of us wish we could be that honorable, but instead we will bunker down and cower away from anything that might hurt. 

I will tell you my story on the single term that this will all be said with strict confidentiality. There are others whose lives depend on your guarantee, so please consider carefully.

Maddy

February

Dixon roars his 1966 fluorescent orange Bronco across the cobblestone pavers, coming to a screeching stop thisclose to the UPS truck’s rear bumper.

Doo-doo brown Bermuda shorts, Dixon remarks in awe of the driver’s uniform. With a matching button-down and, oh God, boots to match? She is the epitome of my future ex-wife.

I roll my eyes. If you had this thing called a job, you might understand the concept of a uniform.

Dixon runs fingers through his iridescent-blonde locks. Pretty people do not work for pennies.

Which is exactly why you work at your dad’s construction company for free. I jump down from the jacked-up Bronco and grab my backpack. See you tomorrow.

Can I help you ma’am? I say to the driver. I am authorized to sign for Mr. Carrington’s deliveries.

Package for Madelyn Carrington.

Oh. That’s me.

Do you have identification? No one else is allowed to sign.

The woman shifts from foot-to-foot like maybe her pants are too tight. Or she has a massive wedgie. After examining my ID closely she hands over a large padded envelope. She turns and enters the cab of the truck without another word.

Do I need to sign? I yell. The delivery truck slams into reverse and the driver backs down the long driveway that leads to the main road.

Wow. Rude, much? Maybe she had to pee. Or pull out her wedgie.

Once inside the empty house, I toss my backpack aside and carefully open the package. The content consists of a small envelope with three numbered disks, packaged in individual paper sleeves.

I pop the disk labeled #1 into my laptop and gather ingredients for jambalaya, Daddy’s favorite. This meal usually puts him in a good, relaxed mood. I’m going to need all the help I can get tonight. He’s going to be little angry when I tell him I was accepted to Duke. He thought I only applied to in-state schools.

Actually, Daddy does not know how to do a little angry so I decide add a praline cheesecake to the menu.

While the onions and green peppers sweat out their flavors in a sauté pan I methodically peel, devein, and toss pieces of fresh shrimp on a bed of ice. The cold, firm texture against my fingertips, along with the sounds of a KitchenAid mixer whirring in the background diverts my attention away from thoughts of telling Daddy about Duke University.

The step-by-step process of cooking distracts me. Helps me think. Most of all, it clears my head. Cooking is the way I remember my mama without recalling the bad stuff. She died a few years ago. I don’t like to talk about it.

I wash my hands and press PLAY on the laptop, then walk to the pantry to grab some honey.

A surge of panic rushes over me when Daddy’s voice—the one reserved for when too much liquor is consumed in too little time—rumbles throughout the kitchen.

I glance around. Alone. My eyes move hesitantly to the laptop.

A single shiver courses its way through my body, starting at my toes and ending with a quiet squeak exiting my throat.

A man, maybe twenty-five, with chocolate red hair and a lanky build sits hunched in a chair. I run my eyes over every inch of him that I can see through the dark lighting and the massive amount of blood covering his face and clothing. Each leg is tied separately to the bottom of a metal fold-up chair, his arms bound at the wrists with plastic zip-ties.

The air is sucked out of the room as the familiarity of this kind of entrapment sets in. I rub the scars on my wrists instinctively.

The guy sags further in the chair, his bowed head rocking slowly from left to right. A large man with tight brown curls appears with his back to the camera. He lifts a meaty right hand and punches the man once. Twice. Three times.

Blood gushes from his nasal cavity. When the man turns around, I instantly recognize him as one of Daddy’s employees who I only know by nickname, Twitch.

Daddy walks in view of the camera. Simon, my boy, he says to the guy in the chair, How’re things?

I cannot look away. It is as if a metal device is keeping my eyes pried open, like one of the nauseating scenes from A Clockwork Orange. The room is empty aside from the single chair the man is sitting on. A stream of sunlight illuminates behind his head from a short window in the back of the room, like he’s partially underground. The gray concrete floors are waxed to a glossy sheen.

Daddy grabs the back of Simon’s head, jerking it back swiftly. Blood sprays from a wound on Simon’s face.

You ruined my suit! Daddy roars as a few drops of the thick liquid land on his lapel.

For hell’s sake, Cordell, just do it, a bored-sounding man says off screen. I would recognize that disgusting voice anywhere. Larry Duvall, my father’s oldest friend and business associate continues, Twitch, now. I’ve got reservations.

Look at the lens, boy, Daddy says.

Simon slowly lifts his head to reveal his face to the camera. Through misshapen features, his icy blue eyes show determination mixed with fear. His lips are moving, but no words resonate from his mouth.

Daddy leans closer. What’d you say, boy? I can’t hear you. Speak up.

Several chuckles are heard in the background. Simon’s eyes close, his lips continue moving.

Praying. Oh God, he is praying.

I said, ‘speak . . .

Maddy! The front door slams.

Oh no! I try shutting down the computer and ripping the DVD out of the drive. Simon’s screams pour out of the speaker.

Panic sets in. With my rapid thinking skills, instead of muting the sound and closing the laptop, I slam the stupid thing on the floor. The drive pops open. I scoop up the disk as Daddy enters the kitchen.

While he examines the broken laptop like an alien species, I covertly stuff the disks in my backpack.

Daddy, I’m so sorry.

That’s all right, sugar, he replies evenly. We’ll order a new one tonight.

He bends to help me pick up the pieces. My body shakes at his closeness. The scent of bourbon and Clive Christian cologne, mixed with the blinding polished gleam of his D&G loafers flip my stomach until I can no longer hold down its contents.

What the hell is wrong with you, girl? Daddy growls when I pull my head out of the garbage can. And just like that, he’s angry.

May I be excused?

If my supper isn’t finished, finish it. His voice is calm. Too calm. And make sure the damned rice is on the bottom of the bowl instead of mixed in. Think you can handle that?

Yes, Daddy.

I’m having a meeting here tonight. Make sure the boardroom has food and drinks and stay out of my sight until tomorrow morning. Understand?

From what I witnessed on the disk, compliance is in my best interest.

Yes, Daddy.

The gate rings at seven. I lay on the floor of the terrace attached to my bedroom, watching as several men—two clad in Savannah PD attire—exit a non-descript cargo van. Ugh. That is so cliché.

Daddy greets the men with his usual southern charm before ushering them into the house. I jump up to double-lock my bedroom door. The only place inside this house where true privacy exists is in my closet, tucked behind a small space between the wall and a large three-way mirror.

I sit behind the mirror and stare into the blackness, willing the sound of Simon’s screams out of my head. When that doesn’t work I crawl out from behind the mirror and begin organizing shoes, purses, and refolding shelves of clothes.

One thing I know for sure: the disks cannot be in my possession. He will kill me if he knows. I cannot protect them if he kills me.

More questions come to mind with each shifting thought. Should I watch the other two disks? Who sent them? Why would someone send them to me? Are they a warning? Should I turn Daddy in? Would he threaten to hurt Dixon or Violet if I did?

Violet. How do I tell someone, who is like my mother, that she is in danger each day she wakes up because of me?

Mama died seven years ago. I don’t like to talk about her death. When I am alone or in a cafeteria of hundreds of Coastal High School students, I cannot cry for her. Crying is a sign of weakness. My number one rule is never let them see you cry. That is why I don’t like to talk about Mama. That is why I cook to be close to her.

Violet Monroe has been like a mother since I met her two years ago. She has a strong mistrust and dislike for my father. I know I can trust her. But getting Violet involved in this mess is out of the question.

Dixon often refers to my father as The Don, Georgia’s very own Godfather. Now I see he might be on to something.

Judging by the two men in uniform downstairs, I cannot go to the police. Right now, they are probably discussing the best methods of getting rid of evidence. Or bodies. Or both.

When the t-shirts and yoga pants have all been refolded, I lay behind the mirror with the backpack clutched to my chest. I do not sleep.

Instead of going for my usual run the next morning, I shower, throw on a linen summer dress, strap on the backpack and tuck my flip flops under my arm. I tiptoe downstairs and pause before I open the side door furthest from Daddy’s bedroom.

He has several computers and tablets in his office I can use for research, but the door is always locked. I contemplate going back upstairs to sneak in the office using the hidden back staircase that leads into the room. The stairs run behind a wall that Mama called the escape route. The furthest I’ve ever been is Daddy’s office, but I know it leads somewhere outside the property. The office door from back there is tucked between the wall and a hidden door inside the body-sized vault where he stores his gun collection. I used to hide from Larry between the wall and hidden door until Daddy found me one day. He said the passage was for emergencies only.

Regardless, going into his office is risky. He probably has more trackers on his computers than the CIA.

I prop my beach cruiser against the chipped exterior of the Jarrett’s 1940s ranch house. I tap softly on Dixon’s bedroom window. He peeks one eye from behind the curtain then lifts the window for me to climb in.

"For the sake of Hey-soos, it’s four thirty," Dixon says grumpily. He stretches his lean, wiry arms above his head and curls beneath the comforter.

I need your computer, I whisper, grasping the backpack like a life shield.

What happened to yours?

Instead of explaining, I kick off my flip flops and snuggle beside him. His rumpled hair falls over his closed eyes. I am reminded for the millionth time since junior year just how gorgeous my best friend really is.

I am not in love with Dixon. I love him, but not, like, love him. Even if I did love him like that, Dixon is not interested in me. He is gay. No one knows this because he dates girls. I guess that makes him bi. But he would rather be with guys. Besides, he is way too high maintenance for my taste.

I place my hands on either side of his face and kiss the tip of his nose. He smiles and wraps his arms around me. I drift to sleep.

It must be really bad this time, he whispers when I nudge him awake two hours later. I nod. Use Libby’s.

Forty-five seconds of research later, I find the closest office is four hours away. If I leave within the hour, I can make it to Atlanta and back without question. Although the content is still traceable, I clear the search history, delete the cookies and empty the recycle bin on Libby’s computer. To be a little safer, I pull up a program to overwrite the data then clear the history and cookies again.

The smells of vanilla-flavored coffee and s’mores Pop-tarts heating in the toaster are oddly comforting as I tread softly into the kitchen. Dixon has eaten the same breakfast every morning since we were thirteen. Drinking coffee and eating chocolate is a rite of passage in the Jarrett family.

I’m driving to Atlanta today, I whisper.

Dixon brings the mug to his lips. Sits it down. Picks it up. Sits it down. I’m going.

You can go, but you can’t go where I’m going.

He blinks. What?

How do I explain why I would need to be in an FBI field office? Even if I wanted to tell him, I couldn’t. If Daddy ever found out and questioned him, Dixon would know too much. He can read a liar like an English professor reads Chaucer. Every word, every twitch of the face, every slight body movement . . . he knows what is truth, a lie, an indecision, a smirk beneath straight lips.

How do I know? Because he taught me.

Every weekend he took me to the mall, Forsyth Park, and many other public areas to test me. I learned American Sign Language, how to read lips, body language, and involuntary facial microexpressions. The science isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty close. Sometimes I studied photographs or videos of random people. Daddy would ask if I noticed certain expressions or emotions on their faces. Even if someone hides things in a masked, neutral, or simulated expression, each person has their own facial and body blueprint. A twitch of the fingers, white knuckles clamped into fists, the nervous tapping or shifting of feet.

The UPS lady.

She wasn’t a new driver. She knew what was in the envelope. Great. One more thing to add to the growing list of Crap I Need to Figure Out.

What’s this about?

I need Dixon to be able to say with a straight face—no smile, dilated eyes, quirks of the jaw or twitch of the eyebrow—that he has absolutely no idea about anything.

I’ll explain what I can on the way. I scoop up the backpack; the weight of its contents is a heavy burden to carry. I can feel the evil cutting into my back and skin, wrenching deep into my core without mercy. I’ll pick you up in an hour.

Dixon perks up. We’re taking the Beemer?

I nod. It’s a risk, but one I have to take.

I make a detour on the way home, stopping by a pay phone to call the number listed on the website. After several transfers I finally reach an agent. Alexander Mace.

What did you say your last name was? the agent asks.

Actually, I did not say my name at all. Is that relevant?

Carrington, was it? I remain silent. As in, Cordell Carrington?

Again, Is that relevant?

Any information on Cordell Carrington is relevant to me. Especially from Madelyn Carrington. Agent Mace pauses dramatically before adding, "You are his daughter, am I correct?"

Jackson

January

I celebrated my nineteenth birthday in the mountains of Afghanistan. There was no cake. My only gifts were lessons learned and body counts adding up on both sides. Shitty gifts, if you ask me. I learned all it takes to survive is an untied bootlace.

Nineteen years on this earth and my life has dwindled down to one birthday on foreign soil where I fired my weapon at a real person for the first time. That night I rested my head inside my Kevlar helmet and made sure my boots were laced and tucked. That night began the first of my nightmares.

May

I