Checked Out

by Hazel James

  Checked Out

  Copyright © 2020 Hazel James

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Tall Story Designs www.tallstorydesigns.com

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For my sister and all the laughs we’ve shared.

  PPNNB.

  Jack

  The first time I punched Ricky Stavroulidakis was at my thirteenth birthday party. Mom made me invite him, even though she knew we were mortal enemies, because she believed in the power of cake.

  Specifically, her twist on Death by Chocolate.

  I hoped there was truth to the recipe. When it came to Ricky Stavroulidakis, death by anything was fine by me.

  Our rivalry started in sixth grade, thanks to Hannah Rosenberg and her brand-new boobs. Ricky told the guys in our gym class that he’d charm his way under her shirt by Halloween. There was just one problem—Ricky wasn’t her type. She’d told him as much in the cafeteria, right before she said two words that put me smack in the middle of his radar.

  Like Jack.

  As in, “You’re too obnoxious. I prefer guys who are funny and sweet, like Jack.”

  I was as shocked as Ricky was embarrassed. I’d never even spoken to Hannah. As a kid who stuttered, I spent most of my time trying to be invisible.

  Like Jack became a giant neon arrow I couldn’t turn off.

  Ricky pretended not to care that she shot him down in front of everyone, but he tormented me for the rest of sixth grade and all through seventh. The shitty part was not being able to tell him off. Getting my mouth and brain to cooperate with each other was hard enough, let alone when adrenaline was involved.

  Mom said our mutual hatred was silly, but that’s because she didn’t understand middle school politics. Hell, I didn’t either, and I walked those halls every day. The only good part about seventh grade was Diego moving in next door. We were the same age, he’s deaf, and I’d never been much of a talker, so it worked out perfectly. By the time my thirteenth birthday rolled around, I was able to ditch our notepad and converse with my hands. I loved it because hands can’t stutter.

  Ricky showed up at the party just before it was time for cake and presents, a deliberate move to spend as little time as possible at my house until Dad took us all to the Boise Hawks game later that afternoon.

  A lot of the guys on our baseball team dreamed of playing for the Hawks and eventually making it to the Colorado Rockies. I was on the team because I was an only child and Mom worried I’d miss out on developmental socialization.

  It was fun, for the most part, and it got even better when Diego joined us. We spent our time in the outfield fantasizing about Ricky taking a line drive to the kneecap. Cross-field communication was another benefit of sign language.

  Ricky saved his present for last. When he passed me a blue gift bag stuffed with tissue paper, Diego caught my eye and signed this should be interesting.

  I can still picture the exact moment I reached inside and pulled out a tattered copy of Little Women. That’s the book I was assigned for my final project in seventh grade English. It’s also how I got my first kiss.

  I’d finally gathered the courage to ask Hannah out on Valentine’s Day (yes, a full year and some change after the “cafeteria incident”). She spent hours in the library with me so I could practice my oral presentation. The first time I made it through my two-minute speech without stuttering, she kissed me.

  I didn’t know Ricky was in the library that day working on his own project. He let out a wolf whistle and a round of applause that had gotten him kicked out, but not before ensuring he’d embarrassed the hell out of me.

  The smirk on his face at the party proved he wasn’t done. “I know how much you love this book,” he’d said, puffing his chest out.

  The logical side of me knew not to engage him. That he was pissed because I got to first base with a girl who wouldn’t even let him on the field. Then adrenaline took over. My throat clamped shut, killing the string of words I had ready on my tongue, so I did what Diego taught me.

  I used my hands.

  Blood shot out of Ricky’s nose when my fist made contact. It was the loudest thing I’d ever said to anyone, and damn, it’d felt good.

  Mom freaked, of course, but he stormed out of the house before she could smother him with paper towels and a bag of frozen peas. The only thing Dad had said was, “Speaking of grand slams, it’s time to leave for the game.” He didn’t like Ricky either. Privately, we called him Dicky Stavroulidakis, which eventually turned into Dicky Stavroulidikis, and then just Dicky Dick.

  When we got back later that night, Mom made me walk down to Ricky’s house to apologize and see how he was doing. I would rather have gnawed off my arm, but I was already in enough hot water with her.

  Ricky’s little brother answered the door and called for him. I didn’t think that was necessary, figuring eight-year-olds were capable of a quick status check. “I’m supposed to ask if you’re okay,” I’d said, clarifying that I had nothing to do with the reason for my visit.

  Ricky told Alex to go back inside and stepped onto the front porch, propping the screen door open with his foot so he could cross his arms over his bare chest. He probably thought he looked intimidating. I thought he looked like a pudgy boy with cleavage.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? You hit like a bitch.”

  That was the second time I punched Ricky Stavroulidakis.

  I’d heard about karma catching people when they least expected it. I had no idea it’d come in the form of the screen door slamming against the side of his face when he tried to swing back.

  As adults, I still saw him from time to time when I watched the evening news. In case you were wondering, no, I didn’t feel guilty for the scar on his cheek.

  Can you blame me?

  “Two-minute warning,” Cara said, pulling my attention away from the television in my office.

  Her reminder had me reaching for the Pepto Bismol I kept tucked inside my desk. I took a swig straight from the bottle and gave myself a mental pep talk as I fastened the buttons of my suit jacket.

  Ready or not, it was time to teach other people how to talk with their hands.

  Tuesday

  Orgasms.

  Instead of focusing on proper form and repetitions during my leg extensions, I was thinking about exercise-induced sexual pleasure. I first learned about the phenomenon in college when I did an assignment on covering sensitive topics in the news.

  It had something to do with increased blood flow and fatigued core muscles, hence the nickname “coregasms.” Researchers said around ten percent of women have had one.

  It’d never happened to me, but at
the rate the guy on the treadmill was going, I couldn’t make any promises. I’ve been coming to the fitness center every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since I moved in three months ago, but this was the first time I’d seen him.

  Watching him run was hypnotizing. I wasn’t sure if it was the way his muscles moved with each step he took or because my dry spell was approaching a year. Maybe both.

  And thanks to the mirrored wall, I knew he had a great ass and a nice face.

  I didn’t even mind his obnoxiously orange shorts. It made him look like a runaway carrot, which explained my quickened pace as I powered through my last set on the leg extension machine. I’d love to catch up to him and take a bite right out of his—

  Clank!

  My weight stack slammed down, sending an echo across the otherwise empty gym. He was wearing earbuds, but his eyes still found mine in the mirror. They were light—some shade of blue or green—and looked more amused than annoyed. That still didn’t stop the heat from creeping up my neck. I cringe-smiled back at him and prayed I didn’t have any more embarrassing mishaps while I finished the rest of my workout.

  My apartment complex was made of eight separate buildings that formed a square. The mailboxes, laundry facility, and fitness center sat in the middle. The gym wasn’t huge by any means, but it had enough equipment to work up a sweat three times a week.

  I typically used my workout time to plan future stories for my video blog, Try It Tuesday. That was another assignment I had in college.

  I kept it going after graduation because it gave me more practice in front of the camera. I also hoped it would give me a leg up when I applied for jobs. I’ve wanted to be the next Diane Sawyer since as far back as I can remember. As a kid, I even memorized her monologues and recited them to anyone who would listen.

  But despite graduating in the top one percent of my class, I still hadn’t heard back from any of the TV stations I applied to. Moving back home to Idaho had been my last choice. Aunt Alma kept telling me not to get discouraged. She said my time would come and it was my job to be ready. She had an Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series, so I took her advice as the gospel truth and kept practicing.

  See, reporting was so much more than talking in front of a camera. It was telling a story with tone and body language. Take the word hello, for example.

  Putting the emphasis on the first syllable (hello) implied you saw someone pleasing to the eye.

  Putting emphasis on the last syllable (hello) implied the person you were speaking to was stupid or not paying attention to you.

  Not emphasizing anything left you with a simple greeting.

  Basically, it wasn’t always what we said, but the way we said it. Except for moist. Nothing could make that word sound better.

  On my last set of lunges, I let my thoughts drift back to Orange Shorts Guy, who was taking a swig from his water bottle after his run. He was built like a clock tower, tall and lean with defined shoulders and a trim waist. I wondered how big his pendulum was.

  If Aunt Alma was here, she’d take one look at his thick black hair and ringless hand and say, “What the hell are you waiting for?” I tried explaining to her that I was single by choice. I’d applied to news stations across the country and didn’t want to settle down with someone when I had no idea where I’d end up. God knows I didn’t want to stay in Idaho forever.

  Besides. I’d just turned twenty-two. I had plenty of time to meet Mr. Right. For now, I was all about new experiences. Carpe diem and whatnot.

  That was one of the best parts of my video blog. Try It Tuesday gave me fifty-two chances a year to try something new. This evening, I was going to a beginner’s sign language class at the library. I missed last week’s class but the lady I spoke to on the phone yesterday said it was fine for me to come to the next one. I planned on getting some video footage and hopefully a short interview with the instructor.

  As I watched Orange Shorts Guy pull a gray hoodie over his head, I remembered the vibrator I’d received a while back from a company called Buzzed. I started monetizing my blog during my junior year of college, so getting products to review was common.

  There was no blog post about the vibrator, though. The last thing I needed was a scandal that crushed all chances of me becoming a reporter before I ever stepped in front of the camera. I’d worked too long and too hard for that to happen.

  But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t test it this morning after I ran some errands.

  With my plan in place, I fed my arms into my jacket and headed for the exit. Orange Shorts Guy held the door open for me, which made me want to find his mother and thank her. Nothing’s worse than a hot guy with terrible manners. Well, I suppose a hot guy with body odor would suck just as bad, but he didn’t have that problem either.

  “Thank you.” I blamed my breathy voice on my workout. Hopefully he would too.

  “My pleasure.” I came up to his chin, giving me the perfect view of his lips as they turned up at the corners. They were framed by the sexiest squared jaw I’d ever seen. I’d bet there was power behind that jaw. It was too bad I couldn’t do a comparison between him and the vibrator.

  Continuing my perusal, I noted that his eyes were the color of Elsa’s dress in Frozen, a movie I’d seen eleventy billion times with my niece. I took a mental screenshot of his face that I could replay in the privacy of my bedroom where it would most definitely be my pleasure.

  We stepped outside, but the chilly October air did nothing for the heat coursing through me. I wanted to know which apartment he lived in, and whether someone was waiting for him to come home. I settled for more appropriate conversation instead. “Are you new here?”

  “I moved in a couple of weeks ago. I’m from the area though.”

  I tipped my head toward the gym. “Early mornings are the best time to come, unless you don’t mind a crowd or listening to Sal from building five. He’s a grunter.”

  He smiled again, and my mental camera went off like the paparazzi. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  And I’ll keep you in mind, I thought to myself.

  Right. There.

  God, why had I waited so long to try this? I was approaching orgasm number two in less than five minutes and Buzzed was my new favorite company. I should send a fruit basket to the research and development team.

  Nothing says “thanks for the self-induced toe curls” like peaches and eggplants.

  I pictured Orange Shorts Guy’s lips on my skin, nipping and sucking in all the right places. He’d be an attentive lover on account of his nice manners, but I wouldn’t thank his mother for that one.

  A knock on my front door interrupted my thoughts. I ignored whoever it was in favor of turning up the speed on my vibrator. Ohhh yes. The muscles in my core tightened and I couldn’t help but smile. This was going to be awesome.

  They knocked again, harder this time. I focused on the image of Orange Shorts Guy thrusting his fingers inside me as I approached the brink of release.

  So clo—

  “Tuesday?”

  My sister-in-law’s panicked voice filled my living room. I was lying on my bed, shorts around my ankles with my legs spread open like a butterfly, having a panic attack of my own.

  “Where are you?” she called.

  I jumped to my feet, threw the vibrator across the room, and yanked up my shorts right before Selena stormed my bedroom holding my ceramic paper towel holder like a bat. She’s only five foot three, and in any other situation, I would’ve laughed at how ridiculous she looked.

  Right now, I wanted to murder her a little bit. “What the heck are you doing here?”

  She lowered her weapon. “I was gonna see if you wanted to grab some coffee. Then I heard moaning and thought something was wrong because your apartment was unlocked but you weren’t coming to the door.”

  I wasn’t coming at all, thanks to her intrusion. “I appreciate the concern,” (I didn’t) “but you watch too many true crime—”

  “Shh.” Sh
e stood up on her toes and peered around me, her eyes growing wider by the second.

  “What?”

  “Bomb! Someone mailed you a bomb!”

  I turned my head, following her gaze. She was staring at the package I’d picked up at the mail room earlier. “That’s the shoes I ordered last week.” Though, figuratively speaking, they were definitely the bomb.

  “Shoes don’t buzz.” She fished her phone out of her purse and bolted out the door.

  Oh God. How had my morning gone from amazing to abysmal? I chased after Selena and used my elbow to knock her phone to the floor. “Calm down, it’s not a bomb.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re hiding something.”

  Ugh, why wouldn’t she let this go? “You’re right. There’s a dead body in my closet.”

  She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Dead bodies don’t buzz.”

  “Fine!” I flung a hand in the air. “It’s a vibrator. Are you happy now?”

  Her jaw inched open and then she doubled over in a fit of giggles, complete with knee slapping and snorting while she choked out the words “explosive orgasm.”

  I’m so glad one of us found this hilarious.

  “We can get coffee after I take a shower.” With as much dignity as I could muster, I returned to my room, retrieved the Golden Buzzer from behind my shoebox, and hightailed it to the bathroom.

  I was still thinking about my masturbation mishap on the way to the library. My only saving grace was knowing I stopped Selena before she called 911. I shuddered when I imagined what the segment on tonight’s news would sound like.

  “Residents in Newcastle got quite a scare today when the bomb squad responded to a call about a suspicious package. Channel 3’s Blaine Stavros is at the scene with more information about the type of package they found.”

  I’d never live that down, and worse… Blaine would know I spent my morning with a vibrator.