Home > The Fix (The Carolina Connections #1)(2)

The Fix (The Carolina Connections #1)(2)
Author: Sylvie Stewart

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 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 the most cheerful and positive person I know, and although she occasionally has a temper and definitely has a dirty mind, everyone loves Fiona. Most people would like to carry her around in their pocket like one of those 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 venti black one, not the tiny grande 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 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 growing 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.

This brings me back to 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 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 cellphone 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. The morning was already looking brighter.

With Rocco, now fully dressed, settled in at my 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.

“Knock, knock.” I rapped as I pushed open the door. “I figured I should rattle your cage since eighties rock doesn’t seem to be doing the—Oh God! Put it away!” I slapped my hand over my eyes so hard I could practically feel the shiner forming, the vision of Gavin’s pale white ass cheeks burning a hole through the back of my skull. The only thing keeping the vomit down was the fortunate fact that he was on his stomach instead of his back.

“Guhfmm … what?” came the drowsy male snuffle from the bed, accompanied by a rustling of sheets.

Still shielding my eyes, I whispered-yelled, “Get your hairy ass covered!” I did not want to alert Rocco to any possible distraction involving his favorite person and unfortunate role model.

“Hey, it’s not hairy,” Gavin protested with a yawn. “You’re just jealous cuz mine’s perfect and yours is, well, you know.”

I turned to face the hall again and lowered my hand. “You can’t be late on your first day, Gav. And for God’s sake, put on some pants—there’s a minor in this house and there is no way to un-see that whole mess you’ve got goin’ on, Billy Idol.” Careful not to glance in his direction, I made a vague circular motion with my finger and hurried away to finish getting myself ready for the day.

I returned to the kitchen with five minutes to spare. Gavin, thankfully now clothed in faded jeans and an old concert t-shirt, was leaning against the counter with his own bowl of Cocoa Krispies raised to chin level. He spooned a bite into his mouth and focused on his nephew.

“But why doesn’t she like ponies?” Rocco’s puzzled expression passed between his uncle and me, his lisp making “ponies” come out as “poneeth.” His brown eyes crinkled in confusion while his thick dark hair tilted to the side along with his head. “Ponies are awesome.”

Gavin pointed his now empty spoon at Rocco. “I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t like ponies, Rock—it’s just that it’s been too long since she’s ridden a pony,” he said, chuckling to himself at his oh-so-lame joke and giving me a sidelong glance in repressed merriment.

“Ha ha,” I responded and then gestured for Rocco to give me his empty bowl and cup from the table. “Your Uncle Gavin needs to quit with the livestock stories and get going to his new job,” I told Rocco. “And we need to get a move on, dude, or we’re gonna be late for school. Go grab your shoes.” I tossed the dirty dishes in the sink for later.

Rocco dashed to the side door to retrieve his sneakers and I turned to face my brother. “Seriously, Gavin, good luck today,” I stretched onto my tiptoes to give him an unexpected peck on his scruffy cheek. “Knock ‘em dead!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied self-consciously, running a hand through his unruly mass of dark brown hair—hair that I noted had clearly not been washed on this day. Baby steps, I told myself.

We both knew this job was a big deal—a turning point of sorts, I hoped—but not wanting to make him feel more uncomfortable than necessary, I threw a small wave over my shoulder, picked up my lunch bag along with Rocco’s backpack, and escorted my kid out the door.

“Yeah, good luck, Uncle Gavin!” Rocco hollered as he hopped down the garage steps toward the car. “Maybe if you do a good job we can go on a pony ride this weekend!” As the door closed behind me, I caught a brief glimpse of the cereal spewing from Gavin’s surprised mouth and onto my linoleum floor.

One guess as to who’d be cleaning that up later.

Poop!

Chapter Two

If It’s Good Enough for a Caveman…

NATE

“I think that about covers it,” said the nurse, handing over the discharge papers. “Any other questions?” Her pleasant smile passed over my mother, sister, and me, finally coming to rest on my father who was perched on the side of the hospital bed.

“I think we’ve got it from here.” My mother breathed in deeply and released it in a resigned sigh. “Plenty of rest, no alcohol, healthy diet, and no stress—easy enough.” She tried for a small smile with limited success, although it was unclear whom she was trying to reassure, us or the nurse. Nothing about this mess was easy.

My father spoke up from his seat on the bed. “Are you sure about this whole no red meat thing?” His hand swept up to point a finger at me as if this had all been my idea. “What the hell do you think cavemen ate, bean sprouts? No! I’ll tell you what they ate—meat! And then when they were done with that, you know what they ate for dessert? More meat! And you think they weren’t stressed? Of course they were; they were being chased by lions and wooly mammoths and who the hell knows what else as soon as they set foot outside the cave. Talk about stressful.” His finger made sure to single out each occupant of the room before his tirade settled.

   
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