The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(3)

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.”