Life in a Rut, Love not Included (Love Not Included series Book 1) (4 page)

“Excuse me, mister. Like I said, this was an accident. It’s not like I killed your family dog or anything so why don’t you relax and it will get worked out. I’m sure my parents—” I am abruptly cut off when Hottie McAngry Pants takes this opportunity to snatch my phone right out of my non-manicured hands (which may I say I need a mani very badly), and tosses it into the intersection! I repeat! He tosses my phone! I watch it go flying, land splat in the road then get hit by about three vehicles before I turn to him open-mouthed. “You did not just do that.” I breathe in a
holy shit I’m about to lose my cool
and match him on the anger scale.

“Learn to know when to use your phone! I’m taking your license,” he says and takes his phone to snap a picture of my license plate, then he snatches my license out of my hand. “Don’t worry, you will definitely hear from me!” He turns and starts to walk back to his truck.

As I stand there stunned, the only thing I can do is slowly repeat, “You did not just do that!” while Hottie McAngry Pants climbs up in his truck, flips me the bird, and takes off.

That did
NOT
just happen! What is wrong with the world today? I mean, what kind of world do we live in when extremely hot guys, with tanned skin and rugged jaw lines, get all macho jerk on innocent people? I mean, seriously!

Honk! Honk!

“Oh shut up! I’m moving!” I yell at the car behind me. People just don’t know how to go around. I get back into the retro wagon and proceed onward a bit confused. Was that just a glitch in my ongoing bad dream or did that attractive douche just steal my license, hijack my phone only to murder it by a Saturn, and take off?! I should call the cops!
Yeah, with what phone?

The even bigger issue now is that I have no idea where I am going and Aunt Raines is definitely going to have some waiting time. Great. I decide to skip the trip to the contractor and head first to the airport. It’s safer to make the contractor wait than to have my dad kill me for my tardiness.

Pulling up to the airport I spot Aunt Raines immediately, sporting her gigantic tropical hat and piles of bags and jewelry dangling from her ears and neck and wrist. She is the all-American senior citizen. Retiring early to Florida years ago after Uncle Merle passed, Aunt Raines realized that she was missing out on so much, went nuts and decided to open up her own handmade jewelry store on the beach. I have mad respect for Aunt Raines, but her taste in jewelry is a bit out of style. And when I say a bit, I mean huge. Like far. She spots the red box immediately and waves back. I slow to the curb.

“Hey, Auntie Raines! Sorry I’m late. I hit a little bump in the road.” A.k.a. a nice piece of ass.
Like literally: ass,
I mumble to myself.

“No worries, sweet thang. You’re here now. Let’s get going though. I need to catch happy hour before dinner.” Of course Aunt Raines always needed her happy dose of vermouth. Her ritual. She says it helps her not miss Uncle Merle so much. No biggie on my part. Any reason to indulge in a cocktail is good enough for me.

Since Aunt Raines doesn’t own a phone, I have to stop at a payphone and call my mom for her contractor’s address again. Who would have thought, payphones still do exist!

“Where are you, Sarah?” my mother belts through the phone. And when I say
belts,
I mean since I don’t dare put the receiver too close to my ear without catching Chlamydia (they may still exist but let’s be honest, only hookers and drug dealers use payphones nowadays), I can still hear her. “You never showed at the contractors? He has called twice saying you were a no-show. He did not sound happy!”

“I understand,” I tell her calmly. “I got into a little fender bender with the car. Everything’s fine though. The guy was real nice about it. He’s gonna call. Work it all out.”

Lie.

“Well hurry up,” she says. “Tell my sister I said hello and I have her vermouth waiting.” Will do! After mentally writing down the address and swearing to my mother that I know where I’m going—partial lie—Aunt Raines and I head together to our next destination.

As far as I know I am in the right place. I have to be since this is now the third place we have stopped and I have struck out every time. I mean, what kind of address is this? And who doesn’t mark street signs? Once we make it down the gravel road, signs of life start to appear and I finally see a construction site with a huge trailer and a sign for Calloway Construction. Last goal. Get in and get out, vermouth and Golden Girls in T-minus twenty minutes. Mission complete.

“Hurry now, sweet thang. It’s gettin’ close to happy hour.”

“I know Auntie, in and out. Sit tight,” I chirp as I pull into a parking spot I believe I just made, then hop out.

As I make my way towards the trailer, I spot some men walking with tools and wood boards. I peek over, noticing all tan and muscle. Not bad, not bad. Why did I never date a construction worker? “Can I help you?” one of the men asks while walking closer to me.

“Um, yes. Thanks. I’m looking for Jack Calloway.”

“Is he expecting you?”

Man, tight ship they run around here. “Um, yeah, I’m supposed to be picking up some blueprints. He is doing work on my parents’ house,” I say while he and his buddies check me out.

As Mr. Tan-and-Wide finishes looking me up and down, he points to my left. “He’s in his office. Second trailer to the left.”

“Thanks!” I say, then turn toward my destination.

“No problem,” he says to my back, then adds, “Nice shoes.” When I turn around to look at Tan-and-Wide I catch him and his wingman smiling at me. I give him a courtesy wink and continue walking on. I can respect a man’s appreciation for a good pair of shoes.

I walk up to the trailer and debate whether or not I need to knock. Deciding that it would take time off my end goal, I decide to just walk in. Time is of the essence, as they say. I open the door and step inside, looking around. “Hello?” I call out in hopes of finding my target. “Mr. Calloway?”

“Back here. Just come back.” Ah, bingo. A nice, deep voice. Let’s go see what’s behind door number one.

As I walk towards the door I definitely realize that this day has told me, more than anything else, that I need to get some. When every man pushes my buttons—the good ones, of course—it has to be a sign. Note to self: get some soon.

I make it to the entrance of the door and walk in. Mr. Calloway has his back to me, shuffling papers and prints on his desk. “Hello,” I say. “My name is Sarah Sullivan. I’m here to pick up blueprints for my mother, Cindy Sullivan.”

Mr. Calloway pivots my way, then stops. No, wait. Did he stop or did I just stop? Because something stopped. Maybe it was my heart. Or my breathing. Or the spinning motion of the earth, because right before me stands none other than Hottie McAngry Pants.

Fuck.

“You have got to be shittin’ me!” he spits out. He looks me up and down, stopping a bit too long at my shoes, then works his way back up. I’m gonna be honest, he is a huge prick but his stare-down of me is getting me a bit heated, and not in an angry way.
Hello, Sarah! Back to Earth!
Right . . . Is this guy for real?

“Excuse me?” is all I can conjure up at this point . . . again.

“You following me or something?” Now this guy is really just pushing my buttons—and not the good ones. I believe myself to be a calm, nice person (OK, yeah, minus my little office breakdown), but he is about to bring out a whole new side of me.

“Listen, pal,” I say. “Trust me, I wouldn’t follow you to anywhere. So let’s get that straight. And second, I am here to pick up some prints for my mother, which I may add we will be discussing her choice in contractors when I get home!”

“You do that, sweetcakes,” he says, turning to go back behind his desk. “I’m perfectly well off to pass on this measly job anyway. No harm here.” He tosses the blueprints at me, and I barely catch them before they smack me in the face. This guy is a real treat!

“Well I’m glad we got that out of the way. So continue on your day being a douche and I’ll be on my way.” I go to turn and he is in front of me before I can even blink. His close proximity to me now is making me a bit flustered.

“Oh don’t worry, baby, I’ll go on with my day just fine. Now hurry home, I’m sure Mommy and Daddy are wanting their car back.” He is staring at me without an ounce of humor in his tone, then waits for me to start my exit out of his office. When I’m done staring back at him disbelievingly, with the urge to smack him while explaining how I’m not a loser living with my parents—when actually I am a total loser living with my parents—I decide to just bite my lip and move. This is delaying my Golden Girls and I’m sure Aunt Raines is about to go into vermouth arrest in the car.

Stepping to the side and out of Hottie McBig-and-Broad’s way, I walk past his office. My final attempt to get the last word is flashing my middle finger while exiting his office but I have a feeling it’s been missed by the sound of the door slamming behind my back. For what it’s worth, and if anyone asks, I won.

I make it back to the car without being eye-assaulted by the construction models and get the hell outta dodge. After apologizing to Aunt Raines for the delay and promising to take the faster route home, we are on our way. But I still can’t believe what just happened in there! When did it become OK to be such a jerk to someone? Do I come off as a slum who doesn’t look like they can afford car insurance, or better yet, respect? So I am wearing my infamous T-shirt and sweats. So what? They are my comfort zone. And who doesn’t like my shoes? They are golden five-inch stiletto Manolo Blahniks! Ugh.

I sneak a peek in my rearview mirror and do a quick sweep at myself. Finger-brush my hair. Wipe my face with my palm. Not helping. I remind myself to remove all mirrors in my path. I mean, maybe I do deserve to be treated this way. It’s not like I’ve been showing myself any sort of respect lately anyway.

Sadness fuels across my face as I turn onto our block. I just don’t know when things got so bad. I try to go back and remember why I couldn’t see the signs along the way. Memories flood in: walking into our apartment, searching for where Stacey was, only to find her underneath my boyfriend. My Steve. My one and only Steve of seven years. When did I lose focus and stop seeing the signs? The looks on both their faces when their eyes connected with mine. The attempts they didn’t make to deny what was happening and the pleas that they never meant to hurt me. Not sure how my best friend and boyfriend fucking defines as not hurting someone, but, whatever.

It all went downhill fast after that. I flipped my shit at work, telling off Steve in front of the entire board, finishing my erratic scene by announcing that I also quit and then walked out. Not that I would have stayed if I could go back and do it all over again, but Stacey said it was best we probably did not live together anymore, and since everything was practically hers at that point, I packed up what little was mine and left.

I can’t say I ended up on my parents’ front step in good shape either. I was devastated. Everything I had worked so hard for was just . . . gone. Stolen right from under me. One minute I had a great life, with a stunning apartment in the city, a great best friend, a handsome, wonderful boyfriend, and my dream job. Then I blinked and I had nothing.

“You OK, sweetling?”Aunt Raines asks, breaking me from my pathetic thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m just great, Auntie. We’re home, no more fretting. Now how about some cocktails?”

“Sure thang, baby. You sure you’re OK? Your mamma told me about your bad luck. Shame that man didn’t know what he had.”

Oh, Aunt Raines, always seeing the bright side of people, of situations. If all else fails, maybe she will let me live with her and help sell her necklaces on the beach. Maybe my destiny is to be a wallflower lacking taste in accessories.

“I’m good, Aunt Raines. Let’s go toast to Uncle Merle.”

Here, here.

I
AM LAYING ON
my bed spread-eagle as he slowly makes his way up my legs. I can feel his breath on my skin as he presses his thumbs against my inner thighs. Slowly, he raises his head and speaks my name, but for some reason it sounds off. I continue to focus on his face while he moves his way upward, taking little nibbles on the side of my waist. Again, he says my name. Only this time, I’m not so sure it sounds as seductive as would the typical voice of a hot muscular man who is about to just completely ravish me.
Focus, focus,
I start to scold myself. We are just getting to the good part, and I have a feeling this is going to get
real
good. He makes his way up my stomach and his hands brush against my chest while he dips his head and begins to whisper in my ear, “It’s not you . . .”

“SARAH! Get up!”

This is not happening.

I can’t even get some in my dreams! Not only does my dream man have my damn mother’s voice, but right before he’s going to show me the goods, he starts to break up with me. I really need to get a book on dreams and the psyche. Rolling over to my side, because I have a feeling I may have the female version of blue balls, I take my pillow between my legs and squeeze. I miss a warm body next to me. I miss Steve.