Bottom Feeder Read Online Free PDF Page A

to clean up evidence.”
    A week after I returned from Atlanta,
Daddy’s paranoia meter suddenly went off the charts. He upped the
security, adding cameras outside and inside the house, including at
my bedroom door. My room is also bugged. I can’t remove the tiny
chip from beneath my lampshade because whoever put it there would
know. I cover the lamp with a scarf to muffle my conversations with
Dixon.
    “ Shhh!” I throw the roll
of fashion tape at his head. It bounces off one of the gelled
pieces, resting with a silent thud on my desk. “I think your hair
just cracked under pressure.”
    “ Sorry,” he
mouths.
    I bend to give him a quick peck on the
forehead to show his apology is accepted—and to give the fashion
tape a trial run.
    He smiles and tugs at my dress. “We
may need duct tape for these things.”
    I grumble in resentment as he ushers
me into the closet.
    My body is not made for dresses like
this. For one thing, my boobs are way too big for a strapless with
a sweetheart neckline. Two, I’ve been called fat on more than one
occasion. Sometimes I feel self-conscious about that. And three,
it’s hard to hide the scars on my back and upper arms with this
dress style. That’s why I don’t allow Nomi to alter this dress with
me in it. My hair is long but it doesn’t hide everything. I learned
a little trick with foundation primer, red lipstick, and a
camouflage used to conceal tattoos. The combination of the three
helps cover my scars and the occasional visible bruise. Dixon helps
with the application, but doesn’t question about the injuries. Not
anymore. I tell him they are from my Krav Maga class.
    Anyway. Dixon compares my body to
Marilyn or Bettie. Sometimes I like to agree with him. In truth, I
like my curves. They make me feel, I don’t know,
feminine.
    My hourglass shape was inherited from
my mother, who definitely resembled a Marilyn or Bettie. My stomach
is flat, but thicker than hers had been. I love my legs. Not
because of their appearance, but because of their strength. I can
kick with the intensity of someone twice my size. I can run faster
and jump higher than most people my height, which is barely
five-one.
    “ All taped up,” Dixon
announces. “Now let’s get this over with. Quickly .” He presses his lips in a
hard line. Any party thrown by my father makes Dixon nervous, like
a firing squad will be called on the attendees at any
moment.
    I used to think this was silly. He’s
intense, yes. But hurt people? No way.
    These days things are a little
different.
    I tug on his arm. “I would never let
anything happen to you, DJ. I promise.”
    “ That’s what I’m afraid
of,” he replies grimly.
    The rooms are already crowded with
guests, ranging in age from newborn to eighty-nine. The event
planner designed the ball room to mimic a nightclub, suited with a
top DJ from the Atlanta club scene. Neon colors streak across the
room in an elaborate light show, glinting off the chandeliers and
bouncing off the walls to the sea of faces. Dixon immediately moves
to the center of the floor to show off his skills.
    The kitchen is busy with the catering
company and its servers bussing in and out like worker bees. I
fight the compulsion to help them. Daddy would frown on that, I’m
sure.
    Mindful of my manners, I greet and
thank each guest for attending.
    I finally spot Daddy talking to Violet
Monroe, the woman who has been like a mother to me the past two
years. Her strained smile and tense posture tells me she’d rather
be anywhere than speaking with him.
    About two years ago, Dixon and I were
walking by her flower shop when Tommy Crenshaw—Dixon’s resident
bully—came out of The Candy Kitchen and kicked over a large terra
cotta flower pot. Dixon tripped and took me down with him. I
covered Dixon with my body when Tommy took the first swing. My face
met his fist with the sickening thud of bone against bone. Tommy
has always hated my best friend. I believe the hate is stemmed