Bottom Feeder by Maria G. Cope Page B

control
in my life. Controlling the outcome of food is therapy. Delicious
therapy. Especially baking, where all the measurements have to be
precise or your product will turn out badly. Everything has to be
just right: the ingredients, the oven temperature, the type of
oven, even the weather.
    “ For who?” His hands grind
into my back. He is upset that I was with someone that took
attention away from him.
    I should lie. What would it matter?
His response will be the same regardless of what I say. “Daddy
suggested I make them for Jackson.”
    “ You doin’ him?” Larry
drives his knuckles into my spine.
    I do not flinch. Never let them see
you flinch.
    “ No, sir.” I grab the
rolling pin to flatten the dough.
    “ Of course not.” He grabs
my neck. “Nobody wants your fat ass. Except maybe the
homo.”
    My temper flares, but there is no
reason to argue. He wants me to be angry, to lash out. I don’t.
Again, his response will be the same.
    I sprinkle cinnamon sugar across the
flattened dough.
    “ Bet you wanted him to,”
Larry continues, shaking his head. “Whore. Nothing but a
whore.”
    He stands close. Too close. I do not
flinch.
    I roll the dough into a log and cut it
into eight even slices.
    Larry’s hand sneaks around my waist,
underneath my shirt, tugging at the front of my bra. “Bet you want
me to want your fat ass, too, huh?” He grabs my hair, jerks my head
back. “Too bad. You’re not my type.”
    I’m not your type because
I’m not eleven years old anymore, you sick bastard.
    I place the rolls on an ungreased
cookie sheet for the second proofing. The second proofing is the
most important. It allows a lighter, airier finished
product.
    “ Maddy!” Daddy yells.
Larry steps away from me. “I’ve got a meeting. I’ll be back
tonight. Larry, I need you there in an hour.”
    The front door snaps closed. Here it
goes.
    Larry grabs my wrist.
    Drags me to the foyer.
    Pushes me to kneel on the stairs. I
stand. He pushes me down. I stand.
    “ Suit yourself,” he
says.
    There is no need to resist the rest.
He gets off on the struggle. I do what I can to lessen his
pleasure.
    I do what I have to in order to keep
them safe. If it kills me, I have to keep them safe.
    The FWERP sound of his belt flying
through the air and landing on my back brings me to my
knees.
    I stand.
    I. Do. Not. Flinch. Never let them see you
flinch.
    FWERP “Whore!” FWERP FWERP FWERP
    I stand after each hit. I wrap my
fingers around the banister to steady myself. Always
steady.
    The blows land mostly on my back.
Sometimes my waist, when the belt wraps around like a whip.
Sometimes it snags and pulls at the skin.
    The gate buzzes. Larry unnecessarily
covers my mouth before pushing the button to open the gate. He
pushes me away.
    I walk back to the kitchen to place
the cinnamon rolls in the oven before turning to him.
    “ I hope you get your fill
while you can, Mr. Duvall,” I announce. “Because these are the last
days you will ever lay a hand on me.”
    He laughs and answers the
doorbell.

 
    Jackson
     
    I pull through the heavy gates and
park between a red F-150 and a white Benz.
    Larry Duvall answers the door—cinnamon
roll in hand—then ushers me into the kitchen where Maddy and the
pretty server from her party are perched on tall chairs at the
breakfast bar.
    A lonely cinnamon roll sits on the
counter. Larry notices me eyeing the pastry and swipes it off the
plate. Bastard.
    Maddy frowns. I frown.
    He gives Maddy one of his creepy winks
before shutting the door behind him. My stomach growls. I hope he
chokes on that cinnamon roll.
    “ Jackson, this is Laney
Minks. Laney, Jackson.”
    “ Oh, I remember you from
the party,” Laney breathes. “My parents own a catering company. I
had to work before I joined in. Gah, I had sooooo much fun that night! Dana
wore this dress that. . . ” Her voice is kind of high-pitched and
nasally, like nails on a chalkboard. “. . . and the shoes were
hideous.”
    Maddy turns to