The Fix (Carolina Connections #1)

by Sylvie Stewart

  The Fix

  A Carolina Connections Novel

  by

  Sylvie Stewart

  COPYRIGHT

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by the author who can be contacted at sylvie.stewart.romance@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Sylvie Stewart

  Cover Photography by Walt Stoneburner

  Photo: www.flickr.com/photos/waltstoneburner/5646291191/

  Photographer Page: www.flickr.com/photos/waltstoneburner

  Photo has been cropped, color adjusted, and resized from the original. This photo is used in compliance with a Creative Common license.

  First ebook edition: July 2016

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  fix (fiks)

  noun - informal. a position from which it is difficult to escape; a predicament.

  - Dictionary.com

  Chapter One

  Pants? Who Needs Pants?

  Laney

  I awoke to a foot in my mouth.

  No, not the old feeling of having said something horribly inappropriate that you immediately wish you could un-say, but an actual foot. In my mouth.

  “Ung guh!” I spat. To say this was a disturbing way to begin one’s day would be a gross understatement – emphasis on the gross. “What in the…ugh.” My head dropped back to the pillow as comprehension dawned. Rocco’s little size twelve with those cute little toes lay on the pillow next to my face – and a small puddle of drool. I took in his sleeping form, passed out up-side down in his Ninja Turtle underwear and nothing else.

  “We can’t keep doing this, dude,” I whispered to myself. My little exhibitionist, having contorted himself into some kind of inverted nocturnal backbend, had spent the night in my bed – yet again. Being awakened by small naked body parts was starting to mess with my head. Not to mention, who knew where those little feet had been? Oh, wait, I did. Blech.

  Completely unprepared to get up for the day, I snuggled back into my pretty dogwood printed sheets and stared up at the ceiling. I was discovering that moving to a strange new house was rough on a kid. Hell, it was rough on me and I was twenty years older than him. All things considered though, Rocco had been a real trouper since leaving the only house he’d known at my parents’ and moving into our cute little fixer-upper we now call home. But there were obviously still some kinks to work out.

  When my parents had first brought up the possibility of their out-of-state move, I don’t think I had ever seen them so edgy. There had been lots of hand wringing and “um, well, you know” before I had demanded they just spit it out – I was halfway convinced one or both of them were dying of Ebola or something equally horrifying.

  I had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable for leaning on them so heavily since the little stick had turned blue that it was almost a relief to have the decision to get a place of my own taken out of my hands. Turns out while I had feared our moving out would hurt my parents’ feelings and might seem ungrateful due to all of their help with Rocco, they had been afraid I would fall to pieces without them. One come-to-Jesus conversation later and my mom was accepting a new position at the University of Richmond in Virginia and I was on the phone with a realtor.

  The truth is that early on I never would have survived a day of motherhood without the undying, and most importantly, non-judgmental, support of my family and my best friend – as well as the financial, if not physical, support of Rocco’s dad. But it had been past time for me to pull my big girl panties up and I knew it. All of the support I had received had allowed me to finish my associate’s degree and get a job which, while not being entirely stimulating, allowed me to take care of my kid and me. As far as single moms went, my situation was the dream, and I knew it.

  I was finding that there was something so satisfying about holding ownership of the place where you lay your head at night, and I thought our new house was adorable. It had bright white siding – after a power-washing session from my dad – and black shutters that were mostly on straight, and it was all topped off by a cheery bright red front door. The house was a ranch and it was a bit older, but it had three bedrooms and two baths and a fenced in backyard for Rocco and the dog that I was sure we would eventually get. It was close but not too close to the stores and restaurants, and the street was nice and quiet. I loved it and I was proud of our new home, even if it did have some drawbacks – leaky faucets, a few uneven floors, and maybe a few more major problems. But that was okay. All of that could be fixed with time and a little help from my idiot younger brother. I hoped.

  On the condition that he would help with the repairs and renovating, I had agreed to let him stay with Rocco and me. It was a win-win – my faucets wouldn’t drip and my brother wouldn’t be homeless, considering that his previous residence had also been my parents’ house and even he had to admit that at twenty-two, following your parents to a new state in order to live in their basement was borderline Jay and Silent Bob. And besides, all of his drinking buddies were here in Greensboro so there was that…

  So now the house was ours and we were making it into a home. What I didn’t know before moving was that a new house breathes differently than your old one. It has its own voices and creaky bones to creep you right the hell out if you’re not used to them. And we were definitely not used to them – thus the previous month of waking up to Professor Underwear crowding my sleep space in an entertaining array of positions.

  It was past time to get out of bed so I laid my hand on Rocco’s bare foot and pressed a soft kiss to his sleepy “boy” smelling head, trying not to wake him. The floor squeaked under my feet, and out in the hall I tried in vain to avoid that one crazy cockeyed floorboard. One stubbed toe and several curses later I reached the kitchen and went straight to the adorable, if a bit cranky, vintage avocado-colored fridge for my morning coffee. Okay, what I actually mean is Diet Coke. Don’t look at me like that. There are plenty of people who don’t like coffee. And some of them are even over the age of thirteen.

  One could say I am not a morning person. As in, I may be borderline vampire. My co-worker and friend, Annette, claims that she is also not a morning person so she makes herself wake up an hour earlier than necessary to enjoy a leisurely pot of coffee and read the paper to help her wake up for the workday. That is not what I mean. At all. In fact, I think that is the precise definition of a morning person. In my world, no self-respecting non-morning person ever wakes up a minute earlier than it takes to frantically throw things together and arrive
at the day’s destination a mere hair’s breadth from being tardy. And usually looking like their five-year-old styled their outfit. And hair.

  Armed with my caffeine, I made my way into the laundry room – okay, “room” may be a tad generous, technically it’s more of a laundry “closet” – to see if I had somehow managed to wash and dry appropriate clothes to dress Rocco for daycare and me for work in a somewhat presentable fashion. Luckily, the dress code at Brach Technologies, where I log in my 40 hours a week, is pretty laid back so I can usually get away with pants and a blouse or even a nice t-shirt if I throw a sweater over it. Comfort is key if I’m going to sit in a cube all day being hypnotized by my monitor, so my work wardrobe receives almost zero effort from me – much to my best gal pal’s horror.

  On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, my best friend Fiona puts together outfits in a manner that I can only describe as “crafting”. There are copious amounts of thought, skill, and passion involved when Fiona gets dressed in the morning. Remember the character Cher in Clueless? Now you’re getting the picture.

  Last Tuesday I’d rendered Fiona completely speechless (a miraculous feat in itself) when she’d picked me up from work and spied the pair of Skechers I was wearing. What?! They’re comfortable! And they were the dressy-ish kind anyway, so suck it!

  The moment my Skecher-shod foot had hit the floorboard of her Prius Fiona’s mouth dropped open, her head tilted back, and she crossed herself, all while doing some kind of deep breathing thing. I had already settled in the passenger seat so there was no escaping the drama. May as well get comfortable, so I pulled my brunette mess of hair into a sloppy ponytail with the hair tie I always keep on one wrist. Let her rant about that one too.

  “Dear Saint Jimmy, she knows not what she does. I swear,” she muttered to the roof of the car.

  “Um, I know who you’re talking to and I’m pretty sure he’s still alive and well and no doubt creating more toe crushers as we sit here.”

  “Of course he is not dead!” Fiona’s head snapped to me.

  Oh, it looked like Exorcist Fiona was coming out to play.

  “I just wanted to apologize in case he’s listening,” she whispered before clearing her scowl and finally gracing me with her cheery customary Fiona smile. “So, aside from the fact that you evidently got dressed in the dark this morning, how was work?”

  Letting her dig slide like I always do, I tapped my index finger to the side of my mouth in feigned thought. “Let’s see, ten being a complete lobotomy and one being menstrual cramps, I’d give it a six. Jessie brought doughnuts,” I explained.

  “Mmmm,” Fiona mused while pulling carefully out of the parking lot, both of us silent for a moment contemplating the sheer yumminess that is a perfect doughnut.

  “Oh!” she brought her head around suddenly, startling the bejesus out of me. “You’ll never guess who I saw on my Starbucks run this morning! For once I know something before you do,” she taunted in a sing song voice before prattling on and gesticulating wildly, as she is wont to do. “And don’t let me forget to tell you about the party we’re invited to this weekend – a wellspring of man candy, I promise you. God I need to get laid. Anyway, about the coffee thing, I was running late because Gary kept reminding me about needing his half-caff extra, extra hot, as if that’s actually a thing, so I had to wait forever for the poor barista to get it right and I was just turning around when–” she stopped abruptly. “I forgot. Where am I taking you? Pete’s or the other place?”

  My seven year old Corolla had kindly held onto the last fragments of its bald tires just long enough for me to save for the new ones, thus my chauffeured ride to the body shop. “Pete’s. He gave me a better deal on the tires and said he’d try to fix my door dent for free,” I replied. Is there anything more depressing than tires to blow $300 on?

  She looked at me out of the corners of her Gucci-sunglass-covered eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with Thelma and Louise bobbing around under his nose when he gave you the estimate.” Her chin raise saluted my “girls”. “Did he manage to bring his eyes anywhere above chin level at any point in the negotiation?”

  I chose to ignore her little joke at the expense of my rack. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times, you don’t get to have big boobs without having big other stuff to go along with it. Mother Nature has some sense of justice. “So, continue with this big news,” I redirected her, pulling my Target sunglasses from my purse.

  Fiona has what I like to call an “oh look, something shiny!” level of distractibility. Her habit of losing track of thoughts and taking little verbal strolls during conversation can be a tad confusing. Listening to her tell a story is kind of like picking your way through a vocal minefield. But since she’s my best friend, I choose to find it charming. As do most people, actually. That’s just Fiona – a charming little verbal-diarrhea-spewing pixie with a gorgeous heart-shaped face and wispy blond hair. She is also one of the most cheerful and positive people I know, and although she occasionally has a temper and definitely has a dirty mind, everyone loves Fiona and most people would like to carry her around in their pocket like one of those obnoxious celebrity purse dogs but infinitely better. However, she’s mine and I will never give her back.

  “Oh, right,” Fiona said. “So, Starbucks…anyway, the barista hands me Gary’s coffee but it’s the wrong one and I turn around to tell her mine is the grande black one, not the tiny venti with cream…although why Gary doesn’t like a little cream, I don’t know.”

  Something else about Fiona? She has a mouth on her, no doubt, but she also has this uncanny knack for saying things that sound overtly sexual (at least to those of us with dirty minds, so, yeah, pretty much everyone I know) but are in fact completely innocent. And she doesn’t seem to know she does it, therefore making it all the more hi-lar-ious, especially coming out of that angelic face. It’s so bad that my idiot brother and his equally idiotic best friend have a running bet where the first one to get turned on by something Fiona unwittingly says owes the other five dollars on the spot.

  “…and I practically run smack into Gavin,” I heard her say.

  Speak of the devil. Literally. My idiot brother Gavin.

  “Gavin? My Gavin? My idiot brother Gavin? What in the poop was Gavin doing at Starbucks? He doesn’t have enough money for a Starbucks coffee. He doesn’t have enough money for a complimentary coffee!”

  “Well, I know, but give him a break,” she chided and then grimaced. “And you’ve got to stop saying ‘poop’ so much, Laney. It’s kind of nasty.”

  I waved her off with my hand. “I know, I know, it’s disgusting, but I’m trying not to say ‘fuck’ anymore and Rocco won’t stop with all the ‘poop, fart, and butt-crack’ talk so it’s invaded my vocabulary without my permission – like osmosis or something. Forget about that,” I shooed. “What about Gavin? You know, he’s been acting shady lately, the little bastard, and I know he’s up to something that’s going to end up costing me either money or pride, and I can’t afford either.” I rubbed at my freckled cheeks, a habit I have whenever I get stressed or nervous.

  “No!” Fiona cried excitedly. “That’s just it! He was interviewing for a job!”

  My hands dropped. “Shut your face! At Starbucks?!”

  “No, of course not.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He’d have to shower for that.”

  “And wear a shirt,” I replied, taking in this revelation.

  “And pants,” Fiona finished thoughtfully.

  Hmm. The source of Rocco’s “underwear only” policy was becoming evident.

  “So where was he interviewing then?” I asked.

  “At some construction company with an office next door to Starbucks. He said something about the company renovating the Harris Teeter on Friendly by my dry cleaners. Not that you would know what a dry cleaner is, my fashion impaired friend.” She gave a little giggle. Why was I friends with her again? “But I digress…apparently the company is growi
ng really big and they need some new muscle to push it hard on a couple new jobs.”

  I snickered only momentarily at her inadvertent dirty remark, too distracted by the notion that my beloved ignoramus may actually be growing up and attempting to take on responsibility. Wow. I might cry.

  So there I was in my laundry room at 7:15 in the morning where I was sifting through clothes while trying not to spill my Diet Coke. Rocco’s wardrobe was a snap: shorts, t-shirt, socks, sneakers. Bam. I’m not one of those moms who dress their kid like a tiny grown up in collared shirts and pleated pants with belts and Top-Siders. He’s not executing a business deal – he’s going to pre-school. Where he will most likely get paint in his hair, will most definitely get someone’s boogers (hopefully his own) on his shirt, and will quite possibly pee his pants. Shorts and a t-shirt work fine for that.

  Aha! I finally uncovered a slightly wrinkled white eyelet button down for myself that I could pair with my low rise black pants, kickass silver studded belt, and some comfy ballet flats. Clothes in hand, it was time for me to wake up my little streaker.

  Halfway back to the master bedroom, I heard music. Billy Idol, to be precise, his plea to “ride the pony” coming from the extra bedroom where Gavin had been squatting for the last few weeks. The song was abruptly silenced (thank you) with what sounded like a cell phone hitting a wall. That was odd. Gavin had the same sleeping-in gene I did so why would– Yes! I remembered now – today was Gavin’s first day of work! I squeed to myself and executed some super cool dance moves. I may soon be able to afford the $7 bottle of wine. Not that I could tell the difference, but whatever. This morning was already looking brighter.

  ***

  With Rocco, now fully dressed, settled in at my awesome turquoise shabby chic kitchen table munching on his bowl of Cocoa Krispies – sans milk, of course – there was still no sign of Gavin. It had been twenty minutes. Further inspection back in the hall revealed a closed door and a muffled snore.