by Vicki Batman
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Vicki Batman
Dedication
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
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Temporarily
Employed
by
Vicki Batman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Temporarily Employed
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Vicki Batman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-497-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-498-5
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Vicki Batman
“TEMPORARILY EMPLOYED is one of those books that will keep you turning the pages while you’re giggling. I’ve read just about everything this author has written, and she never fails to disappoint with her witty dialogue and fast-paced narrative.”
~Liz Lipperman, national best selling author
~*~
“Nobody blends humor and great characters like Ms. Batman.”
~Harlie's Books
~*~
“Vicki Batman never fails to entertain. This novel is a perfect showcase for her humor and spunk. I've eagerly awaited its debut.”
~Kathleen Baldwin, award-winning, bestselling author
~*~
TEMPORARILY EMPLOYED is Jennifer Cruise on steroids. I only stopped reading to laugh. Readers will love Hattie Cooks and Officer Whatshisname!
~Donnell Ann Bell, bestselling
romantic suspense author
~*~
TEMPORARILY EMPLOYED
placed Third in the Single Title Category
of the 2007 Lone Star Contest.
Dedication
To Handsome
To Susan Ard—thanks for the push
To sissies, the PP girls, Guilty Girls, & funsisters—thanks
Chapter One
“Yuck.”
Pretty much covered the whole freakin’ day.
A blinding red-white, red-white strobe, reflected in my brand new Wrangler’s rearview mirror, seized my attention. The police. I tossed my hands skyward, ready to surrender. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Like I’d commented this a.m. to my roommate, Jenny, “Today, anything’s possible.”
My Bad Day checklist included:
- Crappy job interview, one which might have provided desperately needed income.
- Wore gut-busting panty hose on a hot day which had now worked past my waist and strangled my diaphragm.
- A barely blowing air conditioner indicated something had malfunctioned in my new, fun car.
I stole another glance in the mirror, and with great reluctance, flipped the right turn indicator. My vehicle coasted to a stop on the shoulder of Boston Avenue in my hometown of Sommerville, a nice suburb located between two large cities. Four lanes of cars and trucks zipped by as I sat there where every single one of my family, friends, friends’ friends, and their friends—including Rat Fink Suzanne—would see a police vehicle positioned right behind mine. Gleefully, drivers would chant the “Ha-ha, got you, not me” ditty.
How embarrassing.
After killing the engine, I flopped back in the seat. Shooting the morons the finger was an idea. Nah. I’m too exhausted to care.
A litany of: “No, not hiring.” “Just filled the position.” “You’re over qualified.” “You’re under qualified…” tornadoed through my head. Coupled with the intense job search through various outlets like the internet and completing numerous online employment applications, no wonder my body had been depleted of all life force.
Not even a breeze blew to take the edge off the unbearable summertime heat. Tangled wild trees and dry scrubby bushes banked the roadside. The grass had taken on a scorched look. Rolling down the driver’s window, I surveyed my surroundings. Nothing great. Nothing new.
I stole a glance in the side mirror at the policeman who strode purposefully along the shoulder. The gravel crunched under his boots. He looked huge, probably because his uniform, which appeared to be bulked with a bullet-proof vest, made him resemble a buffed-up superhero in size. Exceedingly intimidating.
Sigh. When things went wrong, they were really wrong.
As I viewed him drawing closer, my heart pounded harder. Awkward circumstances usually brought out the worst in me like shyness, ineptness, and uh...more shyness, hang-ups I carried from childhood. Back in the dark ages, I’d deliberately steered clear of embarrassing situations by developing the best self-protection—avoidance. Over time, I’d adapted to embarrassment, but every now and then, some unusual situation would spring out, and like a stealthy cat, those old prickly feelings crept back inside me.
The policeman stopped by the driver’s side, his head slanted to better peer inside.
Up close and exceptionally personal, I saw his sunglasses with dark lenses which shielded his eyes.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Wellborn. I need to see your driver’s license and proof of insurance—”
Something unknown possessed me. I bulldozed in and snapped in an overly loud voice, “What do you want? Why did you pull me over?”
His body stiffened like a package of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough.
Oops. My brows shot skyward as my hand quickly smothered my mouth. Had I really done that? Had I really hollered at a policeman, a very big no-no? Now, he’ll surely ticket me.
“Shouting at me could result in disorderly conduct charges,” he said.
Golly. His stern tone intimidated me. Maybe babbling and apologizing profusely will make amends. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally rude. Mom would give me her little talk on Being Polite to Other People if she’d heard me. I’m really, really sorry.”
A quick glance told me he’d tilted his head in an attentive manner which indicated he appeared to be listening to my explanation with professional interest. “I’ve had an appalling, hideous, horribly dreadful day.”
“I know.”
His flat statement struck me momentarily dumb. How the hell would he know? He didn’t know me. He hadn’t followed me around all freakin’ day and seen what I’d gone through. Perhaps, everyone said these things when they were pulled over, and his “I know” reply was the stock answer.
Maybe a so-so explanation would cover my ass. A duck of my chin rendered my meek and mild look. “Let’s say absolutely nothing
has gone right today. Can we start over?”
His affirming nod indicated receptiveness. Thank God his patience training had paid off.
Closing my eyes, I meditated on a mythical Zen place, inhaling several deep cleansing breaths. Innn... And out. Innn... And out. As I released the last huff, my shoulders softened, my heart rate returned to nearly normal. I opened my eyes. “Is something wrong, Officer?”
“I need to see your driver’s license and proof of insurance, ma’am.”
While batting my eyelashes, I drawled with—albeit a feeble attempt and completely out of character—my most gracious Scarlett O’Hara voice. “Why, officer? Was I speedin’?”
“No, ma’am, not speedin’.”
He mocked me. The more I considered how he’d answered, the more I believed he did so. That seems…impolite.
Pen in hand, he began to scribble in a little book. His gaze returned. “Could I see your driver’s license and proof of insurance?”
“Were you following me?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t see you.” I shook my head in disbelief. “You appeared out of nowhere.”
“I was parked on the shoulder of the road.” A lift of his chin indicated where. “Waiting.”
Waiting? How odd. Why would a cop be waiting? “Uh, okay, but why?”
“Waiting for someone like you.”
Why would he say “waiting for someone like me?” Regrettably, my life’s experience was pea green in police matters. My best guess was Officer—oh, Whatshisname?? I can’t remember—parked in a covert spot to nab speeding drivers and ticket them. That was what they usually did.
“Ma’am? I still need your driver’s license and proof of insurance.”
Fine. He’d already started writing the citation. Getting one appeared inevitable. Blowing a huff, I burrowed through my red tote and found my cellphone. Not that and pitched it to the passenger seat. I located my driver’s license in my wallet. To my dismay, the required-to-carry insurance slips had multiplied like rabbits. My frustration intensified as I fumbled with each piece of paper, chasing them all over my lap—nope, not that one—and floor board, wasting our time.
Eureka! A flush of relief passed over me as I handed him the requested items. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He inspected my license with a thorough gaze. “Is this correct? Your name is Harriette Lee Cooks?”
Mom’s Manners 101: Be polite. “Yes, sir.”
“This is your current address?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re the owner of this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ma’am, I’ll be bahhck.”
Is Officer—oh, what’s his name?—trying to be funny? Possessing all the power, he sat in his vehicle and took his sweet time while checking for outstanding arrest warrants, violations, or...whatever, while I sat cornered. Waiting. Squirming.
I crossed my arms. The lights on top of his vehicle continued to flash. Pretty soon, my eyeballs would be imprinted by the exceedingly annoying lights. If only I could evaporate or get the hell out of Dodge.
Hell, just escape from everything.
At the toot-toot tap of a horn, I narrowed my eyes while following a way-too familiar, red compact car with the top down zooming past. Exactly as I had predicted, Rat Fink Suzanne waved with a gay flip of her hand, the wind blowing her hair in a perfectly tossed fashion. Great. She would be deliriously happy to spread gossip about where and what had transpired. Soon, I’d be explaining everything to everyone.
Wait a minute. Wait a freakin’ minute. I pressed my finger to my cheek. Explain exactly what?
Had I run a red light? Or was it yellow? I felt pretty sure the light had just changed to yellow. According to the officer, I wasn’t speeding. So what, what in the wide world had I done?
Inspection and license tags up-to-date? My glance went to the stickers stuck inside the corner of the windshield. I thumped my palm against my forehead. Since my vehicle had been purchased new, I was up to speed on the plates and the inspection sticker stuff. Anyway, would it really matter? It was your word against the establishment—That sounded like sixties radical jargon.
Baffled, I scrunched my brow. Can this be about the naughty things I’d done in a former life? They’d finally caught up with me. I shook my head. Impossible. With a mom like mine, I never, ever did them.
During our formative years, Mom had given her daughters “little talks” on doing naughty stuff with embarrassment as a consequence. Mom wanted her little darlings to mature into perfect little ladies. As a result, I hesitated to do anything which would cause humiliation, mortification, or shame.
I’d tried. Truth told, even as an adult, I still tried. I ticked off these items from Hattie’s Lifetime List of Bad:
1) Toilet papered a friend’s house in eighth grade.
Not so terrible considering the girls with me had lied to the police about not doing it.
2) Stole gum from the grocery store when I was six.
Guilt caused me to throw away the pack when the wad had stuck in my throat, making me hack up something resembling a fur ball.
3) Upped my age to eighteen to gain entry into a trendy dance club.
Honestly, I’d enjoyed every disgraceful minute.
Without a doubt, Mom would have made me pay for these indiscretions—had she known about them.
These few things were nothing compared to what my wild and crazy girlfriends had done. I was a Very Good Girl with a Very Perfect Life. My mouth curved downwards. Until lately. My perfect job, my perfect life had detoured and crashed.
And I wanted it back—now.
I tapped my right foot. This guy seemed to be taking a long time, while I was melting, meelllttting in this summer heat like the scary green gal from The Wizard of Oz. My scalp grew sweaty and oily. My carefully applied makeup trickled in a stream down my cheeks. I wiggled, feeling my underwear squishy with sweat, a puddle spreading across my back. Definitely scary.
I reached to turn the car key to activate the inadequate air conditioner while hoping-praying-hoping not to deplete the battery. Should the car die, I supposed I could phone Dad for Daughter Rescue.
Or would Officer Whatshisname? think I was fleeing the scene of the crime? Would he chase me down and shoot me? Nah, better not. I released the key and let my head flop to one side. Mom wouldn’t like the shooting part.
Hold on... I lengthened my spine. Exactly what crime?
I shouted out the window, “What’s taking so long?” The problem must be my ugly driver’s license picture. I’d always hoped for something resembling a Glamour Shot and what I really got was glamour snot. Hopefully, this guy saw a tall, pleasant-to-look-at young woman. I checked the rearview mirror to verify him laughing, only to find him talking on his radio.
I viewed my reflection in the clip-on visor mirror and tucked an errant hair strand behind my ear. Everyone said I was a teensy weensy bit obsessed with my hair vanity. So what? “I was Meant to Have Curly Hair” according to my sister, Tracey. She believed in “When Shopping, Buy One in Every Color,” a pro-shopper guideline, one which saved beaucoup de time and dinero.
“Don’t Bury me in Panty Hose,” said another friend. Every girl knew tight hosiery caused gas.
I propped my elbow in the open window, my cheek resting on my palm to study cloud formations. Briefly, the idea of easing off my hose while waiting for Officer Whatshisname? crossed my thoughts. I shook my head, confirming what I already knew—he’d catch me with an exposed derriere, and I’d suffer more embarrassment.
“Ma’am.”
Startled, I jerked my head aside and smacked the small SUV’s doorframe. He’d returned like the creepy character that popped up in all horror movies. Has he uncovered awful news? And what’s up with the “Ma’am” stuff anyway? Doesn’t that apply to my mom’s generation? I’m not over the hill—yet. I rubbed the owie at my temple.
“Good news,” he said.
His words surp
rised me. I paid close attention when he returned my driver’s license and insurance slip. His hand brushed mine, shooting warmth through my veins. Gee. How…unexpected.
“You have no outstanding warrants, and your license picture isn’t a turn-off.”
I expected him to say he’d found no warrants based on being a Very Good Girl. But to comment on my photo—Is he being funny? I didn’t think cops were known for their humor, unless it was weird cop humor.
“Ms. Cooks,” he asked, “could I ask you to step out and let me escort you to the rear of your car?”
Seemed he wasn’t finished with me after all. Since being a Very Good Girl made me inexperienced with the police, I hesitated and with good reason. Routinely on television dramas, two officers dragged Mr. Bad Man to the back of their vehicle where they shoved him into a spread-eagle frisking position. After being cuffed, the cops stuffed him in the squad car to haul him off to jail.
Nasty, gross, perverted things occurred in jail. I didn’t want terrible things to happen to me. No way.
With the cops and robbers programs forefront in my mind, I angled my gaze with a skeptical glint, but all I caught was powerful sun rays which blocked my examination. I lifted my hand to shade my eyes visor-like. Better. “Why? What kind of citation are you writing anyway? Are you going to frisk me?”
A little smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “No, ma’am, I hadn’t planned on frisking you. You haven’t been arrested.” His head turned away.
I caught him saying in a barely audible voice, which for certain I shouldn’t have heard, “I could if you want me to.”
This guy sounded like every other man wishing to get their hands on a woman. And politically incorrect. My eyes rolled heavenward at the smart aleck comment. “I don’t think so. I don’t know you.”
Oops, too late. My brainless musings popped out like they were self-propelled.
“Maybe you do,” he said without an expression on his face.
Which meant what? Not recalling being personally acquainted with any policemen, my gaze surveyed him carefully. He’d flashed a bit of a smile, but I couldn’t really tell if I knew him because his sunglasses half-obscured his face, and the sun still messed with my eyesight.
