You Lucky Dog

by Julia London

  She undid the buckle of his belt.

  Max came up on his elbows and watched her unfasten the button and unzip the fly.

  “Do you have a condom?”

  Her gaze flicked up. She suddenly hopped off him and the bed, went to her vanity, and reached down next to it. She held up a plastic sack, then tossed it onto the bed.

  Max opened the bag and looked inside. There was a box of tampons, a new tube of toothpaste, and a box of condoms. He pulled out the box and looked at it. “Economy size,” he said appreciatively.

  “I was getting prepared for a long and happy relationship.” She pulled her dress over her head, then shimmied out of the tights she was wearing. She reached behind her and unhooked her bra. “Any more questions?”

  Max kicked off his shoes and began to push his jeans down his hips. “Yeah . . . what are we waiting for?”

  Carly climbed onto the bed. And then his hands were on her, moving over her body, tweaking her, caressing her, biting her. She wrapped her fingers around his erection, and everything disappeared for Max. They moved like this for a time, rolling one way, and the other, so that no part of their bodies were left untouched. And then he groped for that giant box of condoms.

  Carly’s release was long and slow, and he took great pleasure in it, aroused beyond reason. When he looked at her, he could feel the flow between them, the silent communication, the mutual expectations and regard. He had never felt that sort of connection with anyone else, and he wondered again, was this love? Forget the chemical reaction—was this love, that thing that pushed all rational thought aside and drove men to do things they might never do? Was it love that made this feel momentous and slightly desperate and unworldly? It wasn’t just corporeal—it was more transcendent than that. It was weird, this thing called love—you didn’t see it, you didn’t hear it, but suddenly, you just were.

  If he didn’t believe it, all he had to do was look at her and the way she gazed at him now. She made him believe.

  When they had both found their release, neither of them spoke for a very long time. He felt like they were tumbling back down the mountain, a free fall into reality. But eventually, she moved. She stroked his back, then kissed his shoulder. “What was that?”

  Love. That was love, Carly.

  “Whatever it was, it was fantastic,” she said, and kissed his shoulder blade.

  But everything was not fantastic.

  Max woke up in a cold sweat in the early morning hours to the sound of two snoring dogs. He vaguely remembered Carly letting them in the room.

  She was curled on her side, her back pressed against him, her skin warm and surprisingly fragrant.

  He stroked her arm, then heard someone in his head say, “You’re dating your stepsister?”

  It sounded like cheesy porn.

  Nineteen

  Max left Carly’s house before dawn, smothering her with kisses and whispering that she should meet him at Barkin’ Springs as they’d planned. She got up, showered, and dressed for the day, and sat down to check her email.

  Carly gasped—there was a message from Ramona McNeil. Carly hadn’t heard a peep since sending her the Bad News email.

  Ms. Kennedy, please call my office to set a meeting in advance of the New Designer Showcase. If you have anything to show me, please bring it at that time. I am sending a photographer to Austin next week. His information is attached. Please arrange some time in the studio for him. Thank you, RM

  Carly stared at her screen. “Really?” she whispered. She was sure Ramona had written her off when Victor had nothing to show by her deadline. She fired off a response.

  Thank you so much! I am looking forward to showing you the next great point of view in fashion. I know it has been a rocky road, but you won’t be disappointed. Victor Allen will be a household name.

  “This is amazing,” she said to Baxter, who was lying pressed against her leg. “Do you know what this means?”

  Baxter thumped his tail.

  “This means I might pull this rabbit out of the hat after all!” She picked up her phone and dialed Victor. It rolled to voice mail. “Ugh,” she said. They had a phone interview with Entertainment Weekly early this afternoon, one she’d worked really hard to get. She’d sent a video of all the positive press Victor had received for his red-carpet design, a swatch of the red fabric (she would explain that later), and some gifts for the publicity department that she hoped would grab their attention. It had worked—she’d gotten the call a couple of weeks ago.

  Victor had confirmed the interview call yesterday. Between EW and Couture, Carly was convinced she could turn this thing around. That’s what she loved about this career—it was so satisfying to fix difficult situations and show the world true talent. She did a little dance move on her bedroom floor but tripped over a dog toy and stumbled into her vanity.

  “It’s okay,” she said to Baxter, who barely even lifted his head. “I’m good.”

  She was so excited that she donned a Victor Allen original—navy pants with enormously wide legs and a white jacket with pointed shoulders that reached her ears. She gathered her things, leashed Baxter up to ride along with her this morning, and opened her front door—and stifled a shout of alarm.

  Conrad was standing on her porch.

  Carly laughed nervously. “You scared me!” This was creepy—how long had he been standing here? She wondered if she ought to grab something to defend herself with. Like what, her very cute Kate Spade clutch?

  “Good morning, Carly,” Conrad said coolly. He paused to lean down and give Baxter a proper greeting, then rose. “You haven’t come by to sign the lease yet.”

  “I know,” she said apologetically. “Honestly, Conrad, it’s quite a hike in the rent, and I’m still working things out.”

  He looked confused. “What are you working out?”

  “Like . . . where I’m going to get the money.”

  “Oh.” He was clearly surprised by this. As if he couldn’t grasp even the idea of not having money. His eyes moved over her face, as if he was double-checking to make sure she was who he thought she was. “Well . . . when will you know if you can work it out?”

  That was the ten-thousand-dollar question. But she couldn’t keep dodging him like this. “Can you give me a couple of weeks? I’ve got Victor Allen’s fashion show in New York coming up, and when I get back, I should have some answers.” She didn’t know how she would possibly have any more answers then than she did right now, but at least it would buy her some time to figure this out.

  Conrad frowned. He looked at Baxter and hitched up his giant cargo shorts. “I guess,” he said. “But if you can’t afford this place, we’ve gotta get you out and someone else in. It’s just business, you know.”

  “Sure. Business.” And so much for loyalty and paying on time and taking immaculate care of this cottage. She could feel her frustration building like a bad case of heartburn. She really loved this cottage and the thought of living someplace else made her immeasurably sad. “Umm . . .” She looked at her watch. Except once again, she wasn’t wearing one. She stepped out onto the porch, pulled the door shut, and stuck her key in it as Conrad stood there, looking confused.

  When she turned to go, she said, “So we’re good for now?”

  “For now,” he said, and scratched at his ponytail. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but whatever it was, she really didn’t want to hear it. She smiled and said, “I better go or I’ll be late.”

  “Yep.” He stepped out of the way. He watched as she and Baxter walked to her car, rubbing his nape like he didn’t quite know what to do with this plot twist.

  He was still standing there when Carly pulled out of the gate.

  She dialed her dad as soon as she was out of the neighborhood. “Good morning, Peach!”

  “Hi—”

  “No, sweetie, not there. The
other cabinet.”

  Carly winced at the thought of her father starting his day with Hannah. She pictured the long legs, the skimpy T-shirt.

  “Sorry,” her dad said. “So good to hear from you, Peach! I thought maybe I upset you. But you know, Carly, I’m still very much a man with needs, and I—”

  “Dad!” she said before he could explain his needs. “You didn’t upset me. I was surprised, that’s all.”

  “Well, I can understand that. I guess between my relationship and your mother’s ridiculous idea to fly off to Vegas—”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’m kind of in a rush, and, Dad, I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure! What do you need?”

  “A loan,” she said. “My business, my life, such that it is, is not going well, and I could lose my house.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that. But what about that kid you’re working for?”

  “That kid by himself is not enough to pay the new rent that starts next month. And Gordon Romero and I parted company.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy with the circles.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, how much are we talking?”

  Carly had always made her own way. She had never had to borrow a dime, and to have to start now made her feel ill. “I’m thinking . . . five?”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment. “Five hundred?”

  “Five thousand,” she said softly. “I know it’s a lot, but until I get another client, I need some help. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. With interest.”

  “Oh. Well,” he said. “I don’t know about that, Peach. I put a lot of money into the time-shares. And Hannah wants to go to the beach for Thanksgiving.”

  Carly held the phone away from her ear. “Shit,” she said. She put the phone back to her ear. Her dad was still talking. “Maybe a thousand? I could spare that. And, you know, you could make some calls for me.”

  “Calls?”

  “To friends and family. Maybe a few cold calls, but let’s exhaust who we know first. You were always very persuasive. I think you’d do a great job selling time-shares. And for every time-share you sell, you’re paid a percentage.”

  Carly was so dumbstruck that she had to swerve to miss the bumper of the car that stopped suddenly in front of her. “Dad, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I am not going to sell time-shares. I’m in public relations. Not sales.”

  He chuckled. “You’re the one calling and asking for money, Carly. I’m just trying to help out.”

  “I appreciate it. But . . .” But what? Was she going to just give up and die and sell time-shares? “But I’ll figure something out.”

  “Have you asked your mother? She got quite a lot of money in the divorce, and if she hasn’t flitted it all away, there might be something left. Better get it before she gives it to this new guy. Who knows with her? She was never very thrifty, but somehow, her spending habits are my fault because I didn’t make enough—”

  “Can I call you later?” Carly asked.

  “Sure, Carly. And, listen, for every valley, there is a peak.”

  “Right. Thanks.” She hung up and swallowed back the heartburn that had climbed into the back of her eyes.

  She tried to figure out another way to get by as she drove to Victor’s studio. Sell her car? She could Uber around town. But with the rush hour traffic around here, the surge pricing would eat through what she thought she could save in gas and insurance in no time. There were the ubiquitous electric scooters on every corner for rent. But really? When temperatures in the summer sat at the century mark?

  She could put some of her handbags on a consignment site to sell. But she had no idea how long that would take. Would she be waiting six months for a sale?

  When she hit the crush of traffic on Congress Avenue, her phone began to ping. As she was stuck at a light, she picked it up. There was an entire string of messages she hadn’t noticed.

  Mom: Good morning, my darling girls! I did a little online shopping last night. What do you think of this as a wedding dress for your dear old mother?

  Her mother had attached a snowy white wedding dress, completely blinged out.

  Mia: Mom, you’re nearly sixty. Take it down a notch.

  Mom: Well, thank you, Mia. Just because I am nearly sixty doesn’t mean I have to take it down a notch. I am as vibrant as I ever was and frankly a lot sexier. You sound just like your father. What about this one?

  The next picture her mother attached was a sleeveless dress with a sweetheart neckline and mermaid skirt. That one was followed by several more pictures of bridal gowns, none of them suitable for a second wedding or frankly, anyone who wasn’t twenty-four and planning a big church wedding with twelve attendants.

  Mia: Pretty!

  Carly guessed with that text, Mia was trying to put an end to the conversation, because this was utter insanity. The light turned. Carly tossed her phone into the passenger seat and drove to the studio. When she pulled into the parking lot, she picked up her phone and fired off a text message:

  Carly: Mom—these gowns look like the type someone would wear to a first-time church wedding. I thought you were going to Vegas. Vegas says cocktail to me, not blushing bride.

  Mom: Who cares where the wedding takes place? Why shouldn’t I have the gown I want?

  Carly threw her phone in her bag. But her mother wasn’t done yet. She heard the ping and with a growl of frustration, she pulled her phone out of her bag.

  Mom: Toby and I would like to have you all come to my house Sunday afternoon. His kids will be here and Trace is coming for the weekend. We would like everyone to meet.

  Carly did not answer right away—she needed some time to adjust to that idea.

  She got Baxter out of the car and went into the studio. The moment she stepped into the door, her gaze instantly landed on one blue and one lime green dress hanging on the wall. The blue one had some hand-sewn fabric flowers on a single shoulder strap. The green one had an asymmetrical hem. Both of them looked hideous.

  Baxter trotted to the couch, where Victor was lying on his back, his feet stacked on one arm, his attention on his phone. He absently put his hand down to stroke Baxter’s head. There was something else about Victor, Carly noticed. He’d shaved his head. The rainbow was gone.

  “You got a haircut!”

  “Yep,” Victor said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  Great. He was in a bad mood. Carly looked around. “Where’s June?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Victor said. “I’m tired of her riding my ass.”

  While it was true that June could ride his ass, Carly was nonetheless alarmed. She rarely saw Victor without June. “Okay. So, you want to get ready for the interview with Entertainment Weekly?”

  “Nope. Don’t need to.”

  She put down her bag and folded her arms. She really wanted to kick something right now. Maybe Victor, maybe a nice karate kick to his gut. She didn’t know what had happened, what exactly had turned, but Victor was clearly suffering from some sort of depression and a stunning lack of confidence. She didn’t know what to do for it. She walked to the dresses on the wall, trying to think of anything that might draw him out of his funk. “Want to talk about the inspiration behind these designs?”

  Victor turned his head and looked at the dresses. “Yeah. They are inspired by being pressured to create.” He turned his attention back to his phone.

  “Are you going to make more?”

  “I don’t know, Carly. I don’t want to talk about it right now. Everyone just needs to let me breathe.”

  Carly had to bite back everything she wanted to say to him. “I would love nothing more than that. But it would help me to help you if I knew what you were planning for the New Designer Showcase. We leave nex
t Wednesday.”

  “Now you sound like my mom. I’ve got time.”

  He didn’t have time, at least none that she could see, but Carly wasn’t going to argue with him. She had one huge goal today—to get him through the interview with Entertainment Weekly. Maybe that would do it. Maybe enthusiasm for his designs from a major publication would turn his mood around.

  Her second goal today was to find more jobs to apply for, because this clearly was not going to be her meal ticket.

  And the third goal . . . well, she didn’t know what the third goal was, exactly, other than she was going to be at the dog park, come hell or high water.

  Since Victor refused to talk or get off the couch, Carly made some calls and scoured the job sites until it was time for the phone call with Entertainment Weekly. When she told him it was time, he wouldn’t look at her.

  “Come on, Victor, please,” Carly said. “I worked so hard to get you this interview.”

  With a heavy sigh, Victor hauled himself up off the couch and joined her at the worktable so they could Skype the reporter.

  Kristie Anderson was a cheery blonde with heavy eye makeup and a sunny smile. She seemed genuinely thrilled to meet Victor Allen and gushed about the red-carpet design he’d done for the actress Taryn Parker. Victor was polite and responsive. He said he got into fashion at a very early age, fascinated by the ladies that attended a church in his neighborhood. They wore lots of pastels and creative hats. He said his mother had taught him to sew. He said he attended an arts high school and learned the basics of design there, and was self-taught after that, studying the great designers.

  Carly was thrilled. This interview was going better than she possibly could have hoped, given his recent attitude.

  And then Kristie said, “Your red-carpet look was really spectacular. I read that Taryn Parker said it was the most comfortable dress she’d ever worn. I thought it was one of the most flattering dresses she’s ever worn. What inspired you for that red carpet and what did you think of the outcome?”