Batteries Not Included: A Romantic Comedy

by Christa Lynn

  Batteries Not Included

  By

  Christa Lynn

  Copyright © 2016 by Christa Lynn

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Acknowledgements

  Wow, I’m not really sure what to say this time. This is my 8th published novel, and I’m overwhelmed with excitement and the outpouring of support for this one. Batteries Not Included kind of goes back to my roots of inner humor and fun, with the element of suspense and steam to warm up the pages.

  I want to thank my #1 beta reader, Tara Greseth. Girl, you’ve been with me since day one, and you’ve never strayed. You have a heart of gold and one day, we will meet in person and I’ll get to squeeze you so hard you can’t breathe. You’re always there at the end of my rainbow and during the darkest days, shining your light on me. Stay gold, my friend.

  To Ebony McMillan, you have never given up on me, even when I’d given up on myself. You’re always there to lend an ear, and I always know I can count on you. Thank you for being the rock to my roll.

  Lisa Roth, I know we haven’t been as close as we once were, but I love you to the moon and back. Thank you for always being there and sticking with me through all of my ups and downs. You’re a treasure to have in my life.

  Debbie Dunlop, what can I say? You’ve also been there for me through thick and thin and always ready to go that extra mile. You can make me smile when I don’t want to. And no, I can’t let you into my head as I write because there’s no room. Thank you for all your love and support.

  Lynndy Boos, April Timmons, Kati Thompson, Renee Leigh, Kimberly O’Connell and Renee Allison…thank you so much for spending a few hours reading this book and giving me your feedback. I trust you ladies and your opinions mean the world to me. Thank you for all you do.

  And last but not least, my Ride or Die BFF Kimberly Dean. You’ve been Ethel to my Lucy and my biggest motivator. We’ve stood side by side as we both venture out of our comfort zones and put our words out for the world to see. I’m so proud of you and what you’re doing, and I’m so thankful to have had you by my side for all these years. I love you and I always will.

  Chapter 1

  Reaching down into my bra, I pinch the cashew that fell between my boobs. I glance at it before popping it into my mouth and brush the salt off my t-shirt. I feel eyes on me—Sarah is staring at me.

  “What?” I croon. “I dropped my nut.”

  “You are a nut.”

  “But you love me,” I say as I grin at her, grabbing my long-neck and chugging the last swallow before slamming the bottle onto the plastic patio table.

  “Ick. Backwash,” I choke out, throwing two fingers up in the air trying to get our waiter's attention.

  “You're never gonna find a man if you keep acting like one,” she whispers.

  “Like what?”

  “A man, Shelby. You act like a man.”

  I grab my crotch and fake spitting onto the concrete next to me then release a low burp. “Like that?” I giggle.

  “Oh, my God, you aren't right,” she says, sliding down in her chair as if to crawl under the table.

  “Relax,” I say, grabbing another cashew and chucking it at her head. She ducks and my nut goes flying, pinging the guy at the table next to us right in the head. “Oops.” I snicker as I look away, pretending not to notice.

  “Seriously, don't you want a man? Maybe some excitement in your life?” she asks, all of a sudden.

  “What for? I've got plenty of excitement.”

  “Yeah, in your bedside table.”

  “And? It gets the job done,” I bite out.

  “So, you have no desire to get serious with a man?” she asks, though it's not really a question.

  “Look, I have enough 'serious' in my nine to five, I can do without anymore. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Well, then, what about just for fun?”

  “What about it? I have fun. We’re having fun now,” I say, knowing exactly where she’s going with this conversation. It’s the same thing every time we meet up for drinks after work.

  “Not this kind of fun, Shelby.”

  “Are you saying I need to get laid?” I ask a little too loud, and suddenly, the noisy patio of this bar gets eerily silent. “Fuck,” I groan, taking a sip of the cold beer that, thankfully, appeared before me in the nick of time.

  “Well, yeah,” she continues. “You’re uptight, stressed out and …”

  “Stop,” I say, putting up the good old hand. “My last three boyfriends were fucking Neanderthals. That’s where I got such bad habits.” I laugh. “Men are pigs, simple. I’m totally okay by myself.”

  “Well, at least dress up with me and go with us to Da Bomb Saturday night; it’s their grand re-opening and formal.”

  I spew my beer. “Formal? You know I don’t do formal, Sarah. Business casual at work is enough for me.”

  “Please?” she pleads, her big brown eyes batting and her lashes fanning across her rosy cheeks.

  “You’re getting sunburned,” I change the subject.

  “So? It’ll be a nice rosy glow on my face,” she says as she flounces her long, dark hair and tips her eyes.

  Sarah never has a problem in the Love Department. She’s stunningly gorgeous, and men flock to her side. In fact, Cashew Head has been smirking at her, his eyes having a hard time staying off her back. But then again, her blouse is wide open exposing her back and her purple bra strap. Hell, if I were a lesbian, I’d tap it. But I’m not. I’m also not interested in meeting another beefy, holier than thou, beast of a man.

  “I’ll think about it, but if I do … you’ll have to loan me a dress,” I say as I cringe inside. “Oh, God, that means I’ll have to wear heels, you know I don’t do heels, Sarah. I can’t go.”

  “Bullshit,” she says. “With those legs in a nice spike heel? Girl, you’ll have every man drooling over you.”

  “No, now that’s bullshit,” I say, my fingers running along the mouth of my Budweiser. “Plus, add a little—no a lot—of alcohol, and you may be peeling me off the floor.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says as she stands up, hoisting her gigantic purse over her shoulder. “I gotta run, but I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what time I’m picking you up.”

  “I’m not going,” I say as I swig the last of my beer down and scan the patio looking for the waiter to bring the check.
<
br />   “Yes, you are. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Well, you’re gonna take it this time, Sarah. I have no desire to go out for a night on the town. Work is killing me, and Saturday night is my wine and relax night.”

  “Alone,” she says, her eyes cutting at me.

  “Yes, alone. Just how I like it,” I say as the waiter sets the check down. I slip a twenty into the black folder and grab my own purse, a beat-up backpack that I carry everywhere. Sarah eyes it and shakes her head.

  As I move toward the door, Cashew Head pushes his chair back and the feet of his chair run over my foot, causing a gash in my foot and my flipflop strap to tear.

  “Ow, ugh …” I yell, sitting back quickly in Sarah’s chair.

  “Oh, my, I’m so sorry,” his deep voice rolls off of his tongue.

  “Why don’t you pay attention?” I say, grabbing a cocktail napkin and blotting the blood off the top of my foot and not looking at the man that just tried to kill me.

  “I’m sorry, are you all right?” he asks, sitting down next to me and grabbing my foot, placing it on his hip. He takes an ice cube from his drink and presses it against the cut, a whimper escaping my lips. “Oh, shit, I guess I should have sucked the alcohol off it,” he says as he pops the ice cube into his mouth before attempting to put it back on my foot.

  “Umm, no,” I growl. “I’ll handle this, thank you, though.” I grab a Band-Aid out of my backpack and start to open the package, though the beer has fuzzed up my brain, and I can’t get my fingers to work.

  “Allow me?” he asks, slowly taking the Band-Aid out of my hand. I look up at him, and his dark blue eyes are piercing me, almost demanding me to give him the Band-Aid.

  “I said, ‘I’ll handle this,’” I say, casting my eyes away from his. I can feel Sarah by the door watching and sense her smirk. She’s not offering to help in any way, and frankly, that pisses me off. He lets my foot go but leaves it resting on this thigh. His thick, jean-clad leg. Good God, Shelby. Get it together.

  He opens the Band-Aid and hands it to me, and I quickly place it onto the cut, pressing the sticky part down before removing my foot from his thigh. Yes, I’ll say it again—his hard, jean-clad thigh—and slipping it back into my flipflop, careful not to catch the Band-Aid on the half-cut strap. “Well, so much for my pedicure tomorrow,” I complain. He chuckles quietly, but I ignore the deep rumble in his voice and stand up to leave. He stands up too and holds his hand out as if to shake it.

  “I truly am sorry, please take care of that wound. It could get infected if you’re not careful. Make sure you clean it well when you get home and keep it covered. When was your last tetanus shot?”

  “What are you, a doctor?” I snap. This … man … is starting to get on my nerves. Where is Sarah? I scan the patio, and she’s gone—split vanished. Fucking bitch, I think to myself.

  “Actually, I’m an EMT,” he says, and I step back. A paramedic? That looks like that?

  “Fuck me,” I say, only I thought I said it to myself. His eyebrows raise, and his lips turn up in a sexy smirk. “Umm, thank you for your help,” I say as I turn to leave.

  Thank you for your help? He’s the fucker that caused this, and I’m thanking him? I’m shaking my head as I push my glasses onto my nose and hobble inside the bar to go to the door, wishing the patio wasn’t fenced in so I could just leave. Sarah is by the door playing on her phone, grinning at whoever she’s talking to.

  “You ready?” I ask, her eyes snapping up, and she slips her phone back into her bag.

  “The real question is, are you ready?” she asks, her eyes going over my shoulder toward the patio door, focusing on something that I just don’t care about at this point.

  “Yeah, I’m ready to get out of here. You coming or you staying?” I ask as I reach for the door.

  “By the looks of his eyes, you may be coming soon enough.” She giggles. I shake my head and walk outside, the cool breeze fanning my heated cheeks. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Sarah asks as she walks out behind me.

  “He almost cut my foot off, Sarah. Look,” I say, holding my leg up so she can see it, and my left knee gives out, but strong arms catch me before I can fall. I look at Sarah, but I can’t see her eyes through her dark glasses.

  “Careful, we don’t need you falling,” the foot-destroying EMT says as he sets me on both feet. “I hope you’re driving her home,” he says to Sarah.

  “She lives across the street,” Sarah says, nodding her head toward the row of townhouses across the street.

  “Thanks, Sarah,” I say, totally annoyed at this point. “By the way, she lives three miles down on the left,” I say, getting her back for announcing to the good Samaritan where I live. She tips her glasses down and glares at me, and I smile an evil grin. All I want to do at this point is take my damaged foot and my drunk ass across the street and flop. I’ve got one more day of work, and then I can hide away at home and nurse my foot, and my libido, which struck up a notch ten minutes ago when Mister Sexy tried to turn me into an amputee.

  “Can I at least walk you home?” he asks.

  I glare at him, the beer goggles getting on my nerves. “No, I don’t know you, and you tried to kill me. I can make it home by myself, and … without getting hit by a car,” I say as I turn toward the corner and the crosswalk. I take three limping steps and the strap of my flipflop snaps the rest of the way and goes flying off my foot, my big toe getting caught in the tangle of leather. I stop, stare up at the sky, and silently ask the Gods, “Why me?” before picking up my flip-flop and stuffing it in my backpack then limp my way across the street wearing one flip-flop. “Somebody shoot me now, please,” I mumble as the light turns green and I hobble my way across the street. I didn’t say “bye” to either of them, and I didn’t look back, though I can feel both sets of eyes on me, watching to make sure I don’t trip over the lines on the road.

  I decide I don’t need him knowing exactly which townhouse is mine, so I walk around the back of the building and wobble my way to the back door then realize I only have a key to the front door. “Fuck!” I squeak between tears and sit down on my back steps. I’ll just sit here for a while and make sure they’re both gone before going back around front. I look at my foot, and the blood is seeping through the Band-Aid and starting to ooze out of the sticky part. I drop my head in my hands and watch it, the blood now starting to run down the side of my foot, the red drops rolling down my foot to the concrete.

  I’m hypnotized by the slow roll of blood and the discreet staining of my back stoop. I guess I’ll remember this night every time I come out back and see the blood stain. I glance at my watch and realize I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Admittedly, they’re both gone by now. I grab my backpack and wobble my way back out to the corner and peer around to make sure they’re not still standing there. The coast is clear, so I hip and hop three doors down to my front steps, taking them as quickly as I can without stubbing my toe. I dig my keys out, something I should have done before this point, but I’m not thinking clearly. I finally get the door unlocked and step inside, dropping my bag and keys by the door, and kick off my other flip flop before grabbing a tissue from the box beside the couch. I blot the blood away and stick the paper to my foot, then hobble on my heel to the bathroom to clean up the wound properly.

  After cleaning with peroxide and crying a little at the sting, I have it bandaged up and dry. It’s only eight o’clock, so I don my pajamas and crawl into bed grabbing the remote to watch a movie but all that beer is making my head spin, so I snuggle down and close my eyes. Dancing on the back of my eyelids is the EMT without a name, nor do I care what his name is. That’s what I keep telling myself. I don’t need a man, let alone one with any type of medical background or hero complex. I can only imagine how protective he must be, and that would drive me crazy. I’ve been alone for so long, I can’t imagine having some man come in and take over.

  I remember his thick thigh under my foot, and thos
e piercing blue eyes, and my body starts to tingle. I shake it off and roll over, the tape from the bandage catching on the sheet and ripping off my foot. “Fuck!” I yell as I sit up and look at my foot, the blood starting to ooze once again. I look closely at it. “I wonder if I need stitches?”

  I get up and re-bandage it, this time throwing a sock on my foot to keep the bandage in place and crawl back into bed. But now, it’s throbbing with every beat of my heart. “Ugh,” I scream as I toss the covers back off of me, sleep now miles away. I glance at the clock, and it’s only an hour later than it was when I went to bed. “Geez, it’s going to be a long night.” I pop an aspirin and chug back a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. I crawl back into bed and curl up against my pillow, tucking a smaller one between my knees.

  His blue eyes once again appear, so I rub my eyes to make him go away. But he’s still there. Then Sarah stands behind him, laughing and holding her fingers up in a V, wiggling her tongue between her fingers. “And she calls me a pig.” I chuckle into the silence of the room.

  I shake it off and close my eyes. Finally, he’s gone. He’s way out of my league anyway. And he was just being a good citizen. Sarah was a bitch, too. I’m kind of glad this all happened because now I’m off the hook for this stupid formal bullshit she wants me to go to. There’s no way I’m getting this foot into heels, so it’s my excuse for not going. I know, she’ll come over here bringing me a dress and shoes, but I’m not opening the door. I’ll hide in the dark with the doors locked and pretend I’m not home. She’ll knock for a while, call my cell, call my land line, and probably even send me a text and email … but I’m not budging. I’m not going to this little soiree, and that’s final.

  I finally drift off to sleep, my alarm going off a little quicker than I would have liked. But I roll out and check my bandage, finding it has been bleeding all night and my sock is stuck to my foot. “Oh, God,” I groan. I put my weight on it, and my whole leg hurts—the skin is swollen and purple around the edges of the wound. I hope this fucker isn’t getting infected. I can’t afford to take the time to go to the doctor.