Bottom Feeder by Maria G. Cope Page A

La Guardia to fly you directly into Fayetteville. The
Barracuda will be waiting at the airport. You will not have to
spend a single dime of your money.”
    “ I won’t be driving the
Barracuda?”
    “ You’ll be taking her
car.” He points to the far corner of the garage. My knees buckle at
the sight of a brand spankin’ new metallic Monaco blue BMW
550i.
    I went with a friend to
look at one of these a few weeks ago. Let’s just say the test drive
was suh-weet . The
speeding ticket he acquired during the test drive wasn’t sweet, but
we—everyone in the car plus the officer who issued the
ticket—agreed it was well worth it.
    Cordell slithers over to Maddy’s car.
“She never drives it,” he says, disgusted. “She prefers that damn
bicycle.”
    He opens the door and gestures for me
to sit.
    “ Why doesn’t she drive
it?” My male brain cannot fathom anyone not wanting to drive a
550i.
    “ I don’t know what the
hell’s wrong with her. Maddy shies away from attention. Although
that works out great in some aspects of my lifestyle, it’s a
nuisance in others. I’m a very public man for private reasons,
Jackson.”
    I shift my attention to the interior
of the BMW. Black leather seats, dark poplar wood trim, and an HD
radio with surround sound. I breathe in the new car smell, basking
in all its glory.
    The Barracuda. The money. The chance
to drive this BMW for eight hundred miles up the east
coast.
    “ When do we
leave?”
    “ Let’s get that
paperwork.”
    I follow Cordell into a kitchen that
I’m sure cost more than Mama’s entire house. My stomach growls in
neglected fury. The last time I ate was yesterday morning. I should
have taken Maddy up on her food offer.
    “ You hungry, son?” Cordell
asks in a tone that doesn’t suggest he revealed dirty family
secrets to practically a stranger only minutes ago.
    I sit on a high stool at the breakfast
bar and spot cinnamon rolls. Dammit, I love cinnamon rolls.
“Starved, sir.”
    “ Maddy isn’t good at much,
but she can cook. Help yourself.” He lifts a platter filled with
pastries and places a napkin on the bar. I grab a cinnamon roll and
a few triangle biscuit-looking things. The cinnamon roll disappears
in three bites.
    “ Mmmmm-mmm,” I muffle,
taking a bite of a something that tastes like maple and sugared
pecans. I take another bite before swallowing the first. I have no
idea what I am eating, but it’s tasty.
    Cordell laughs and tosses me a
single-serve carton of milk.
    “ She learned from Grace.
She makes my breakfast every morning after her run. Violet said she
brought you something yesterday?”
    I salivate at the memory of gooey
butter cake. Maddy made that? “Four o’clock run?” I ask, stuffing
my mouth with another pastry.
    “ Crazy, isn’t it? You
would think she’d be a little smaller in the waist with all the
runnin’ and dancin’ and that Krav Maga shit she begged me to let
her take. She eats all that organic crap but she’s always been a
fat one.” He shakes his head in disgust.
    I think back to last night. Sweet
smile. Kind of curvy. Not the slimmest girl I’ve ever met, but
definitely not fat. Not my type. But not fat.
    I cram another pastry in my
mouth.
    “ Let me get those papers,
son. Then we’ll discuss some things further.”
    I sneak a cinnamon roll and a few more
pastries on my napkin, stuffing the last one in my mouth seconds
before Cordell returns.
    He places a pen and the papers on the
counter. “Just sign. I’ll deal with the rest.”
    I wipe crumbs from my mouth and gulp
down the carton of milk. As the ink from the pen flows over the
paper I can’t help but wonder if I’m signing over my
soul.
    “ Now on with the rest of
it.” I stare at the plate of pastries longingly before following
Cordell out of the kitchen.
    Claustrophobia settles in as the heavy
oak door to his office closes behind me.
    Cordell walks to the east side of the
large room and punches in another keypad code, like in the