Surviving Stephanie

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Note: I'm not sure I'll continue with this one but in my defense I did start it to try to answer a challenge. This is all Sarah's fault for posing the eternal question: "Do you think we fans would actually survive one of these books?" and then begging until I wrote something about it. Actually I have another beginning... hm. I don't know. I think I'll keep this one for now.

Disclaimer: Janet Evanovich wrote and owns Stephanie Plum. The following is a free, not for profit fan fiction brought to you by Boredom.

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My name is Alyssa Chase, I'm a twenty-one-year-old Marketing major at Missouri Western State College in St. Joseph, Missouri. I'm from Missouri. I've lived there all my life and I have never once been to New Jersey. I am not engaged. I am not thirty. I am not to be called Cupcake. And I am NOT named Stephanie. Oh yeah, and I'm also not a bounty hunter. But here I am, in a hospital bed, surrounded by a bunch of people with New Jersey accents who seem to believe otherwise and keep calling me Stephanie.

Like anyone is still named Stephanie. I went to grade school with a whole pack of them, but somewhere they all disappeared. We graduated with a pack of Jessicas and a few Ashleys though. Like they just took all the Stephanies away one night and replaced them. Ick. That's a freakish thought. Almost as freakish as me being here at all. Almost as freakish as-- as the group of people surrounding me.

Some old lady in a purple velour jogging suit with matching hair. Another older lady who looks like June Cleaver in the later years, an older guy who looks like Tony Danza in three more decades were standing on one side beside a pudgy woman with a Meg Ryan haircut Meg Ryan hasn't seen in years. On the other side was a very hot Italian guy with a badge discreetly shining on his belt. I had the feeling he'd have been a lot hotter if he hadn't been lecturing like a pissed of criminal justice professor.

I shook my head as the Italian guy kept ranting and calling me "Cupcake." I don't like pet names. I can handle "sunshine" or "sweetheart," maybe the occasional "baby," but "cupcake" is pushing it, even on a good day when I've had caffeine and a shower and a possible nervous breakdown wasn't involved. Today wasn't one of those days.

June Cleaver was chiming in too, griping about my job (I don't have one, lady) and how I apparently kept trying to get myself killed, which the cop seemed to agree with. All of this I wasn't awake enough to truly worry about though- what I was hung up on was their accents: New Jersey ones. Atrocious, drive-a-nail-through-my-ear New Jersey accents that were grating on my sensitive, hung-over senses. Bleck.

Okay, the question is now, who put what in my drink? I knew there was a reason they told you to say no to drugs, but this is ridiculous. The only explanation I can come up with here is that I got really drunk last night and hitched a ride to--- hang on a minute. My hair's brown.

I snagged a curl and pulled it in front of my face. Yup, a curl. My hair is brown and curly... and it needs a trim. Look at those split ends! Wouldn't be any biggy if it weren't for the small fact that last time I checked I'd died it blonde and had it all cute and flippy. And shorter. Lots shorter. Inches shorter... Of course, looking at my hair brought my hand into view. My very white, pasty pale, and manicured hand. Fake nails? I don't do fake nails. No one does fake nails unless there's a formal and a corsage involved. And what the hell happened to my tan? I just stared at the hand holding the lock of hair, lost in the dawning horror of the moment.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Stephanie?" June demanded. I blinked at her. What was she yelling about? Hm, oops. I looked to Old Tony and the Meg impersonator but they apparently knew better than to interrupt the rampaging housewife... The granny lady gave me a sympathetic look, but stayed quiet. No help there. I looked back at June and the cop, then down at the hand that wasn't mine holding hair I knew wasn't mine.

"I am never drinking again," I said, meaning every word. God, I had the accent too. I sound like a Yankee! My inner Scarlett was sobbing now. My Southern ancestors were rolling in their graves. I want my mommy. I want my hair and my tan and my twenties back. I want a dialogue coach.

The cop was giving me a Look. Guess that wasn't the right answer.

"Why I never!" shrieked June. "You were drinking last night?" she sounded shocked. Come on, lady, it's homecoming! Who in this town doesn't spend this week plastered? "You and those friends of yours, boozing it up and you try to arrest some one..."

My eyes widened at that part. Arrest someone? Me? Shit, we weren't acting out Varsity Blues again were we?

That would explain the pissed off cop though...

"Did I steal your car?" I asked him, not sure I wanted to hear the answer. June's jaw dropped open.

"You stole Joseph's car again? Why me!" She looked ready to go into hysterics. "Edina's daughter never steals cars! Carla Martucci's daughter doesn't go drinking and steal cars! Oh no! I'm the one whos daughter blows up funeral parlors and goes on crime sprees!" She threw her hands up and stomped out of the room. The Meg impersonator shot me a baleful glare and took off after her, the arm chair quarterback following them.

Wait a minute. Funeral parlor? There's only one funeral parlor I ever heard of being blown up, and that was in a book. A fictional book... And Joseph the cop? The Italian Joseph... from Jersey. No way. Nope. Not possible. Not going there.

"You know, Stephanie," Grandma Violet said, "You get to have all the fun. I wish I got to go stealing police cars!" I had to grin at her. Damn, I wish my grandma had her sense of fun!

"Next time we go bar hopping, I'll give you a call." She'd make a great frat boy repellent. The old lady smiled widely, like I just made her day.

"I'm holding you to that!" she cackled. "Now I'm going to go see your mother. Don't worry about her, she just doesn't know how to have fun." And the old lady turned and scampered off. Heh, I like her.

"You shouldn't encourage her," Joseph Cop said, pulling my attention back to him. Guh, he was way too hot for his own good.

"Why not? She's cool."

"She's a menace." Hey, buster. You might be hot, but that's my new idol you're insulting. I glared at him.

"Excuse me?"

He sighed. "I know you love her, but Cupcake, your grandmother is scary. She's still got that gun in her purse."

Sweet, Granny Violet packs heat! I don't know who she is (unless that unsettling idea creeping up on me is right), but she is so my idol.

"That rocks!" I said, laughing. "Beats the crap out of that can of pepper spray I've got."

The cop frowned at that. "You know, if you'd carry your gun--" Gun? Moi? I can't shoot! I guess my expression upset him because he took a deep breath like he was trying not to lecture again. "You need to get a new job, Cupcake." And we're back to this.

"I'll take that under consideration." I nodded to seal the deal. Just humor him until I can get out of here, get home, and get a hair appointment. He was giving me a funny look.

"You aren't mad?"

"Huh? So you don't like my-" uh oh. Wait a second. If I'm supposed to be who I think he thinks I am then I should be launching into a tirade. And if he finds out I'm not the person he thinks I am, if he's the person I think he is, then he's going to be really difficult... "Look, Joseph," I said, letting my irritation with the whole thing show, "I have a pounding hangover, I'm nauseous, and I just want out of this hospital gown so I can get a shower and caffeine and aspirin. Lots of aspirin."

This eased his expression into a smile. "All right. Let's get out of here then," he offered me a hand to help me out of bed.

"That's it?" I asked in disbelief. "What am I even here for if I can just go home?" He winked.

"I promised the doctor I'd keep an eye on you myself," he said, with a very sexy look in his eyes. Somehow I just knew he was thinking about naked horizontal sorts of things. Great, but I'd like to know your name first, dude.

"Umm... " I stared at him, trying to think a way out of this one. Just go away and let me call a cab, damn it. Or let me wake up for real, because I'm starting to think you really are the fictional hallucination...

"You don't remember last night at all, do you?" Joseph asked, his eyes looking suddenly very calculating. Uh oh. Deep breath. Don't think about what you're thinking about. Don't think about the possibility you just woke up in a fictional hallucination.

"Nope. Look, if I stole your car, I'm really sorry ok? I'm sure there was a really good reason." Like acting out a vapid teen movie by riding around naked playing with handcuffs... Damn you Jack Daniels. If I go to jail for that I want to remember it. I smiled at him, trying to look apologetic.

"You didn't steal my car," he chuckled. "Look, the doctor said there might be some short term memory loss- you hit your head pretty hard on the way down."

"Way down?" I asked as he pulled me to my feet. Yipes. Cold floor.

"You fell down the stairs at the club chasing that skip." Skip? SKIP? Oh holy hell, batman. "You wouldn't have been here at all except that you were unconscious after Lula landed on you."

LULA? My mind was screaming. Lula. Skips. Connie. Joseph. Jersey accents. Funky granny with a gun. Stephanie. Italian guy with a badge. Sniping maternal type. Silent arm-chair-quarterback paternal type. Dyed blond shag-topped sister type.

Sweet Mother of God. I stared up at Joseph the Italian Cop from Jersey, taking in the chiseled features, the scar through the left eyebrow, the dark hair, the really sexy chocolate eyes.

"Morelli..."

The chocolate eyes were looking much more yummy suddenly. "Yeah, Cupcake?" he asked, his voice going very husky. His hands were on my waist, warm and solid, holding me steady as I rode out the wave of dizziness. I closed my eyes as he pulled me a little bit closer. He felt so real. I could even smell him- he was wearing Drakkar. It really worked for him. The whole package was making me think really, really NC17 thoughts.

Too bad he was named Joseph Morelli and was therefore imaginary.

Oh god. I was having one of those hideous Romance Novel Body Switch experiences. Probably I was in a coma. Probably I had overstressed about that last hellish Medieval History test and I was having a psychotic episode. I knew those essay tests were going to kill me. I knew it. And I was going to wake up any moment now in a padded room with a guy in a white coat who happened to wear Drakkar.

"Don't call me that," the words spilled out before I even realized I meant to say them.

"What?" He stiffened, leaning away from me, those lovely brown eyes suddenly confused.

"Cupcake. Quit calling me Cupcake," I said, taking a deep breath. Good, let's do this right. I'm not Stephanie and you're not real. No need to get carried away and do something stupid. "Just tell me what you're charging me with and how I'm getting home." Without you. I don't have sex with figments of my imagination. No matter how really sexy they are.

The confusion was being replaced with hurt. "Stephanie, you're not under arrest." His voice was quiet, and sounded like the one my ex used to get when I'd just said something really bitchy without meaning to. I felt a pang of guilt for being mean to him (Morelli, not the ex. The ex can go to hell).

"Oh, okay then." I gave him a pathetically fake smile. "How about home then?" His eyes were studying me carefully- he was trying to figure out what was wrong. Hah, go right ahead RoboCop. You aren't going to get this one in a million years.

"I told you, you're staying with me. Doc's orders."

"Fine," I said, giving up. "But can we snag some advil or something somewhere?"

"Yeah, Cu- Stephanie. McDonald's for lunch even."

McDonald's? Ick. I hate McDonald's. But it is good for a hangover. "Okay."

While Morelli left to go get everything sorted out with the doctors, I set about getting dressed. Well, I wouldn't call it dressed exactly. Looks like Stephanie was either partying last night or she channeled the soul of Fran Drescher because he scrap of navy blue spandex I was wriggling into was something I had only seen on The Nanny or maybe Bridget Jones. Looking in the mirror I was leaning more toward the Bridget Jones idea. Eeek. Someone get this girl a treadmill!

And she was a bounty hunter? The mind boggled. Crap- what was I talking about. She wasn't the bounty hunter now. I was the bounty hunter. I looked at the reflection staring back at me from mirror over the sink. Blue eyes, pale skin, curly brown hair. That wasn't me. That was Stephanie Plum, fictional Bombshell Bounty Hunter, fiancee of equally fictional Vice Cop Joe Morelli.

I closed my eyes to escape the visual. Don't Panic, I repeated to myself over and over. I took a deep breath and pictured calming blue light washing away the icky red of anxiety and confusion. I focused my attention on my head chakra to begin with and took a few moments at each of the other six to relax myself.

It worked, like it always did. I'm not sure it's the chakra points or the simple act of taking the time to calm down but it helps. Now I was ready to face my memories of the night before. Start at the beginning and search for anything to help me get out of my hallucination. Or zapped back into my own body. Which ever.

Okay, let's think The Griffins won the game, we went out to celebrate. And we did. I smiled at the memories replaying through my head. No one would ever call my friends boring, that was for sure. So far so normal, though. Bar hopping, party hopping, lots of drinks, the cages at Lucky's, a bar top dance at Molly's...

I remembered the walk back, calling for pizza. The pizza guy got there and we went down-- oh shit. No we didn't. We started to go down. I could almost see those old wavy lines for a flashback coming up in my head as I recalled Chelsea, Renee, and I skipping our merrily inebriated way down the hall to the stairs. I should have realized what could happen. I really should have. But there's something so relaxing about acting like stupid drunken ten-year-olds with your best friends. I didn't even think of the possibilities until we hit the stairs.

Chelsea was still hammered and she was in Fuck Me heels.

I was still in my Fuck Me boots. I was just as hammered.

Renee wasn't quite as plastered, but she was drunk. In fuzzy bunny slippers.

Three drunken girls, two pairs of Fuck Me shoes, and one pair of fuzzy slippers. Have you ever heard a more absurd recipe for disaster?

We made it down the first three steps before Chelsea over balanced and grabbed onto me for support, sending me lurching forward. Renee tried to grab both of us, but her fuzzy slippers weren't exactly the non-skid kind and she started to fall with me, while she still had a hold on Chelsea's arm.

I had the sickening realization of what was happening, caught a flash of the institutional green paint on the stairs, and the lights went off. Now here I am, just as bumped and bruised but in someone else's body. In someone else's life. And not just someone else, oh no, I'm someone else in a fictional universe created by a former romance novelist.

I sat back down on the bed and buried my face in my hands. As my darling friend Chelsea would say: Bloody Hell. This was going to be a long day. Before I could work myself into a nice therapeutic crying jag, Morelli came back with a nurse. Time to sign some papers and get on with this farce.

I picked up the pen and signed it, making damn sure I signed it with the right name: Stephanie Plum.

The nurse smiled stiffly and said I was free to go. I got the feeling she didn't approve of my outfit. Huh, she wasn't the only one. I like spandex, I like sequins, but not in the same space.

Morelli on the other hand seemed to be very appreciative. His hand kept trying to wander south. When that attempt failed it started trying to wander north. Good god, the guy didn't take a hint... Finally I grabbed the meandering appendage and held it to my waist. Yeah, yeah, I know- he's totally sexy and all, but I prefer it when the hot guy groping me knows my damn name, okay? I mean, it's kind of icky to be getting all heavy-petting with some guy who thinks you're someone else. Morelli looked at me sideways, a little smirky, but was wise enough not to make a comment.

We were halfway to the red SUV he was aiming us toward when he finally spoke. "Since when are you left handed, Cupcake?" He was watching me closely now, with a really weird look on his face.

Shit.