Read The Fix (Carolina Connections #1) Online
Authors: Sylvie Stewart
The Fix (Carolina Connections #1)
The Fix
A Carolina Connections Novel
by
Sylvie Stewart
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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
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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
fix
(fiks)
noun - informal
. a position
from which it is difficult to escape; a predicament.
- Dictionary.com
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.