The Lucky One (Carolina Connections Book 3)

by Sylvie Stewart

  “Bailey!” he shouted.

  “What?! What else could you possibly want?!” I shouted back.

  And then, to my utter horror, I burst into tears.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Signs You Might Be a Girl

  BAILEY

  “Oh no.” Mark’s voice lost its intensity and fell completely flat. My chest began to heave with a torrent of sobbing, the likes of which I’d never experienced. I felt Mark’s hand awkwardly pat my back, although it felt more like he was trying to dislodge something that had become stuck in my windpipe than actually provide comfort.

  An even bigger wave of tears and snot began to flow and I was helpless to stop it. What was happening to me?

  “Hey, um, it’ll be okay,” Mark attempted to soothe while I reached blindly for my box of tissues. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  I heard him head toward the kitchen, presumably to get me a glass of water, or perhaps a giant bottle of tequila. I continued to lose my ever-loving shit and tried to figure out where everything had all gone wrong.

  Mark returned a few minutes later and, as I’d suspected, he handed me a glass. It didn’t smell like tequila. Damn. He sat next to me again while I chugged the water down, suddenly desperately parched from my uncharacteristic bout of dramatic girl-tears. This, in turn, made me start hiccupping, and that was when Mark finally gave in to the inevitable and wrapped me up in a big burly man-hug, complete with back and forth rocking motions. We stayed like that for a good long while, neither of us saying a word.

  Then, once my tears finally abated and his shirt was sufficiently soaked, he grabbed the remote and we watched Indiana Jones kick some Nazi ass.

  Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  I felt Mark stiffen beside me.

  “Huh, are you expecting anyone?” he asked in an incredibly poor attempt at ignorance.

  “You just had to do it, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scampered off the couch before I could physically assault him. I was feeling too shitty to even attempt chasing him.

  “Fine. Just let them in. What do I care?” I could only imagine the pathetic scene I presented with my tear-drenched face and the pile of snotty tissues forming a moat around me.

  I heard the sound of the door opening followed by two feminine voices laced with equal parts caution and concern. “Hi, Bailey,” they both said hesitantly. Great, I was a real live freak show.

  Before I could even glance at Fiona and Laney, I heard Mark say, “Well, I’m out of here,” followed immediately by the sound of my front door latching shut. Coward!

  I sighed and prepared myself. I hadn’t shared this much personal info in, well…ever. Leave it to the male species to be the cause of my descent into the gossip vortex.

  “Hi.” Sniff.

  One syllable was apparently all they needed as invitation to deliver boob-crushing hugs and settle in on either side of me. They didn’t even seem to mind my tissue collection.

  “Mark told us all about it. Well, at least his version, so you may have to backtrack a bit,” said Laney.

  I actually managed a genuine laugh at that. I could only imagine what Mark had said. It was probably something along the lines of, “Bailey’s vagina got run over by some artist at a pedestrian crossing and there’s snot coming out of her nose. Get over here now.”

  “We’re worried about you, babe. We’ve never seen you like this,” Fiona chimed in, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  “That makes four of us,” I joked lamely.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Laney grabbed my other hand, and for the first time in my adult life, I actually felt that strength in numbers thing that women were always talking about—that feeling of sharing the load making it lighter somehow. So, I took a deep breath and spilled my guts about Anton, revealing the whole awful truth.

  The day I had my heart broken by Anton Germaine had actually started out as a good day—a great one, in fact. I’d taken some of his constructive criticism on a work-in-progress and was feeling proud of the result I was achieving. The piece was one in a series of oils I’d conceived of weeks earlier when I’d found myself mesmerized by a TV program about the America’s Cup. I’d been obsessively poring over photos and videos of sailboats since, determined to capture their majestic beauty and quiet power on canvas. Anton had been a great help, and I felt my work had elevated under his tutelage over the last several months.

  I rushed up the steps of his rental house just north of downtown. I’d skipped out of work early and was eager to show Anton the progress I’d made on the painting. Careful not to damage the canvas, I used my foot to push the front door open while I balanced my things in my arms.

  “Hey, Anton! Wait till you see this!” I shouted excitedly into the quiet space. I set down my bag and took the canvas with me to go in search of my boyfriend. When I didn’t find him in the kitchen, I jogged up the stairs, thinking he was probably in the shower. Being a painter was dirty work—wonderful, but dirty.

  “I finally figured out how to manage the glare off the water—” I stopped dead in my tracks at the threshold of the bedroom. A dark-haired and very naked woman was grinding on top of my equally naked boyfriend. They both turned to look at me as I stood dumbfounded in the doorway. My breath froze in my lungs and I dropped the canvas to the floor.

  Anton’s expression morphed from exhilaration to disappointment, his lips pursing. The woman’s expression was a combination of smugness and irritation. She didn’t bother to slow her motions.

  What the fuck?

  “Anton, what the fuck is going on here?” I managed to whisper.

  “Bailey,” was all Anton said.

  What?! That was it?! Where was the remorse? The panic? Where was the desperate attempt at an explanation? And why in the hell was she still on top of him?! He couldn’t even seem to muster a look of embarrassment, for God’s sake.

  I turned to get the hell out of this place and I heard the woman say, “You’re free to join us if you like. I do love blondes.”

  My foot caught on the top step and I narrowly escaped a tumble down the stairs. My hands grasped at the railing, the edge digging painfully into my side in the process.

  “Sloane, you’re not helping,” I heard Anton say, his voice getting nearer.

  I needed to get out of there before he caught up with me. I almost made it to the front door before remembering that my keys were in my bag I’d discarded earlier. Shit. I turned to the living room and was stopped abruptly by Anton’s hand on my arm. I shook it off violently, refusing to look at him.

  “Bailey, beautiful, don’t be so angry.”

  Don’t be what?!

  I rounded on him, forgetting my resolve. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” I shouted. “How am I supposed to feel when I walk in on my boyfriend in bed with another woman?!”

  This was like some Lifetime movie. I was even having trouble resisting the urge to slap him across the face.

  He held his hands out to the side. “I’m not built to be monogamous. I figured you knew that. I’m sorry if this comes as a shock.”

  “I don’t even know how that’s possible,” I put my hands in my hair. “All those things you said to me. All the time we’ve been together—I thought we were together.” I kept shaking my head as if that would somehow help explain this complete clusterfuck.

  He approached, still naked. I wanted to run but he was between me and the door. “We’ve had our bit of fun and it’s run its course. It’s nothing personal.”

  Except it was. To me, it was as personal as it got. I’d fallen in love with him, and worse yet, I’d trusted him.

  “And besides, I just see myself with someone a bit more…sophisticated, more self-actualized. You understand.” And then Anton honest-to-God chucked my chin. “I really need to surround myself with people who take their work seriously and are willing to ful
ly dedicate themselves.” He gave me a knowing look.

  This wasn’t the first time he had doubted my dedication to my craft. He’d told me countless times that if I was truly serious about being an artist I needed to quit the “establishment” and immerse myself in a less restrictive existence.

  I’d tried numerous times to explain to him about my family and my obligations to them. But he always had a response to everything, even my arguments regarding my mortgage and my preference to eat on a daily basis.

  “Come now,” he said, “we can still be friends.” He reached for my hand and I snatched it away before he could make contact.

  How could I have fallen for this man and his lies? I knew better!

  I picked up my bag and rushed past him, not bothering to respond. It wasn’t until later that night that I remembered the painting. I was wrapped up in a blanket with a cold beer and a heartbreak soundtrack on my headphones when I decided I never wanted to see that canvas again. Surely, Anton and Sloane were having a good laugh over it. Stupid, naïve Bailey Murphy and her pathetic attempts at painting and love.

  “What a dick,” Fiona said, her lip curling in disgust.

  “A pretentious dick,” Laney added. “Yuck.”

  That got a little smile out of me. I’d managed to deliver the entire saga without crying, and I did feel a touch better having gotten it off my chest.

  “Well, ladies, Anton may be the reason God created the middle finger, but at least I can thank him for one thing.”

  They looked at me expectantly.

  “He taught me a valuable lesson about where to put my trust and to always know my place.” I pushed off the couch and headed to the kitchen for more water.

  “Hold on a minute, woman!” Fiona demanded. “Your place is any-damn-where you choose. Don’t let that asshole win.”

  I turned around again and saw them both standing with hands on their hips. Twin pillars of indignation with attitude.

  “Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but it’s just not meant to be. I’m destined to sit at that desk moving drywall and countertops around on a page until I die.” Okay, perhaps I was throwing myself a bit of a pity party.

  Fiona tilted her head. “Says who?”

  “Um, common sense?” I replied.

  “Who says you can’t be an artist?” she rebutted while Laney nodded in support.

  “Are you kidding? There’s a reason the word ‘starving’ always precedes the word ‘artist.’ And, besides, I can’t even stand up to my own father about this and you know what a marshmallow he is.”

  Fiona wasn’t done. “Surely you can find a way. Look at me. I never thought I’d get to do something I love for a living and now I get to cook and plan parties.”

  I turned back around and headed for the fridge. She couldn’t understand, as sweet as it was of her to try. She’s a kick-ass cook, and she comes from a shitload of money. I was about as likely to make a living from my art as I was to be an astronaut. Or Gwen Stefani. All scenarios were equally unlikely.

  “Oh, come on,” said Laney, following me. “I’ve seen your work. It’s incredible! And your dad would understand.”

  I set my glass down hard on the counter and then stomped my foot in frustration. Like a child. I was sinking to an all-new low. “Look, I’ve tried!” I stalked back out to the living room. I was an aimless mess. “They said I wasn’t good enough!”

  Fiona’s head snapped back. Oh, shit. The finger was surely not far behind. “Who is ‘they’?”

  “The goddamn MFA board! Anton Fucking Germaine! That’s who!”

  Their brows formed identical creases and they turned to each other in confusion. If I hadn’t been so worked up I might have laughed.

  “Who the hell cares what that shithead says?”

  “The board, that’s who! I got a letter a week after Sloane and Anton’s bull-rider show. They rejected my application and wished me the best of luck in my future endeavors,” I mocked.

  “Well, shit,” was Fiona’s response.

  Laney approached and hugged me again. I sagged in her arms, exhaustion threatening to overtake me. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered in my ear.

  “This calls for ice cream and a chick movie,” Fiona declared.

  I groaned. “Please, no more girl stuff.”

  She regarded me and then relented. “Fine, but just this once.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Insurance

  JAKE

  “What do you know about this Anton guy?” Mark’s voice boomed over the phone and I had to pull it away from my ear for a second. Although I’d been expecting his call, I hadn’t quite anticipated a punctured eardrum.

  After spending my entire Saturday alternately feeling sorry for myself and trying not to call Bailey, I’d finally broken down and tracked down Mark instead. I told him about our experience at the gallery and Bailey’s subsequent shut-down. I was at a complete loss and I hoped that, as her best friend, he might have some insight. Instead, he’d responded with a bunch of swearing and said he’d take care of it. Who the hell knew what that meant.

  It was now Sunday and I was looking around a local nursery at some potential options for the McGuire’s garden. I had an online supplier that was surprisingly good, but I wanted to source as much as I could locally.

  At the tone of Mark’s voice and the mention of Anton, however, all thoughts of work were banished.

  “I know he’s an entitled prick if that helps. Why? What did you find out from Bailey?”

  “Later. Right now, we need to find that Anton asshole. Did you get a last name?”

  My back stiffened. “What did you find out, Mark?”

  “Nothing good, I can tell you that. Now, how about that last name?”

  “Germaine. Anton Germaine.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you back in a bit. Head on over my way. We’ve got a meeting with this dickhead today.” With that, he hung up.

  Shit.

  “This is becoming a regular thing with us,” I observed as I sat in the passenger seat of Mark’s truck while we staked out a campus building at UNCT. Months back, he and I had spent a similar day staking out the local hospital for some loan sharks (I know—I can’t make this shit up) who’d been after our parents. Well, really our piece-of-shit dad, but our mom had gotten caught up in the resulting shitstorm.

  “Huh, you’re right. What does that say about us?”

  “I’d rather not think about it,” I replied, eyes on the door of the Fine Arts building. Mark’s snooping around had revealed that Anton was participating in a workshop on campus today and it was scheduled to end any minute now. All we had to do was wait until he emerged so we could have a little talk with him.

  I’d quizzed Mark about his visit with Bailey this morning, but he hadn’t given me the whole story, I knew. What he did tell me, though, was enough to refuel my desire to give that pompous asshole a taste of my fist.

  This Anton guy had taken advantage of Bailey. He’d promised to help in her career as a painter and then discarded her in a hurtful manner. There was more to it, but Mark said it wasn’t his to tell. I determined I’d hear it from Bailey one way or another. But first, someone deserved an ass-kicking from a couple of hick good-old-boys.

  “That’s him,” I said fifteen minutes later, pointing out the window toward the double doors of the building.

  “Which one?” Mark sat forward in his seat, following my finger.

  “The one who looks like a walking penis with glasses.”

  He reached for his door. “Let’s go.”

  We both got out and headed toward the sidewalk where Anton now stood talking with two very young co-eds. Both were gazing up at him with something resembling hero-worship.

  “Yo, Germaine!” Mark called out as we neared their position.

  Anton turned briefly, a look of confusion on his face, before turning back to the girls and excusing himself. He faced us as we approached. I saw the exact second recognition dawned because it was the same mo
ment his expression shifted from confusion to smugness.

  “Ah, the gardener.” He looked me over from head to toe, clearly unimpressed. I gave not one shit. Then he treated Mark to the same once-over. “And who do we have here? A lumberjack?”

  Mark let out a fake laugh. “You hear that, Jake? This asshole thinks he’s funny.”

  Before I could respond, Anton cut in, “Look, guys, I really don’t have time for this. Say what you need to say and be on your way. I’m sure there are holes needing to be dug somewhere.” He hitched his messenger bag up on his shoulder and raised his eyebrows in expectation.

  How had this dude made it this far in life without having his face rearranged?

  My hands were clenched in fists at my sides but I forced my voice to remain as casual as possible. “I don’t know, Mark, he may have something there. I’m thinking digging a hole might not be a bad idea—maybe a six-foot-deep one? What do you think?”

  Mark turned to me, pretending to completely ignore Anton. “You know, you’d think it was a six-foot hole, but these days they actually only excavate four feet. Has to do with the use of concrete to prevent sinkholes. There’s also something about bodies rising to the surface in flood conditions. I dunno. I saw it on TV.” He shook his head.

  I nodded in return, feigning interest. “Hmm, fascinating.”

  “Okay, gentlemen. While I find this little threat terribly amusing, we’re done here.” Anton brushed past us, “accidentally” plowing his shoulder into Mark’s. Given the sheer mass of my brother, the assclown just ricocheted off him. I almost wanted to laugh at the utter stupidity of that move. Anton steadied himself and chose to leave a wider berth this time. Mark stopped him with a hand to the chest.

  “Oh, we’re just getting started, Germaine.” Mark rocked his neck from side to side, eliciting a popping sound. If I were Anton, I’d be mentally drafting my will.