Thanks to Janet for providing the original material. If you know the characters, they're hers, and the only reward I get is the satisfaction of playing with them.
AN: This may be a short w/ a few chapters or I may expand it and add depth depending on how it's received. First entry, so let me know what you think! And thanks to my sis Christina for being me critiquing editor.
Checking the mail as an adult pretty much sucks always. Every year, two days after my birthday, I get a card from my Aunt Rose with a five dollar bill taped inside. She always inserts my age into the pre-printed greeting card Happy Birthday line, and it's always one year off. Being fourteen when you are really thirteen is great. Being thirty-four when you don't even want to admit that you are thirty-three, sucks. But hey, at least I still got my five dollars every year. Since my birthday was five months ago though, there was no reason to expect a happy-dance at the mail box any time soon.
In fact, ten months out of the year I dread getting my mail. I'm willing to give an entire month for Christmas card season, three weeks around my birthday and, on a good year, a week of holding my breath around Valentine's Day. But the rest of the year? Who gets excited about ad flyers for places you never go and things you never want even if you had money, credit card offers that you know you'll get turned down for anyway, and bills from the ones who didn't? Especially big, scary bills with things like URGENT and OVERDUE stamped on them. Ugh.
Today, though, I sorted through the pile of crap to find a big red envelope hand-addressed to me. You know it's something good when a machine didn't print out your name.
My name is Stephanie Plum and I am a bad-ass bounty hunter. Ok, maybe not bad-ass. And maybe it's not the most financially stable job for me and maybe I have no real skills except an acute intuition and the ability to lie like a politician. In truth, I tend to attract maniacs like flies to sticky paper. So while hovering over the trash can in the miniscule lobby of my apartment building, I ripped open the envelope, hoping that I hadn't acquired any new, creepy stalkers. It seems fate isn't that kind.
Instead, I pulled out an invitation to my fifteen-year high school reunion. Just when a girl starts to think she's made some progress in life. Boooo! I shoved the card back in, not ready to face the reality of this Burg tradition held dear to gossip mongers and house wives Trenton-wide.
"What's wrong dear, did someone die?" Poor old Mrs. Abernathy asked as she, too, stopped to check her mail at our mini post-office. She must be used to getting notices by mail of her friends checking out. I wonder if they still have seventy-year class reunions.
A shudder ran through me as I mumbled, "Not that lucky."
I closed up my little mail depository, chucked what I could in the trash, and headed up the stairs to my little home-sweet home.
I hung my handbag and keys on a hook by the door and plopped the bulls-eye envelope on the kitchen counter. Desperate for a cold one, but knowing I'd been out of that commodity for several weeks now, I opened the fridge anyway hoping that the grocery fairy had paid a visit. No such luck. I looked at the same expiring grapes that had been there when I looked this morning and thought maybe I should turn them into raisins. Since I had no idea how to actually do that, I plucked a few off and dropped them in my roommate's cage. Did I mention that my roommate is a hamster? Rex stuffed them in his fat little cheeks and went back to running on his wheel.
Maybe Rex was onto something. Maybe if I ate Tastykakes while exercising, I wouldn't be struggling to button my size eight jeans. Maybe it said something that the grapes were the only thing left in my fridge.
The envelope was staring me down so I decided the best place for it was where I put all my other scary things; the cookie jar. I pulled off the bear's head, mentally noting that the designer had a sick sense of humor, and the scent of Bvlgari body wash drifted out. The little sex-in-a-bottle kept my gun company when I didn't feel threatened enough to take my gun on fugitive apprehension escapades. Well, even when I did feel threatened enough, it usually stayed there. Both items made me think of Ranger, my bounty-hunting mentor, for very different reasons. Truth is, I'd stolen his body wash during a brief interlude of staying in his apartment. Yeah, I have issues. I tossed the red envelope into safe keeping and put the head back on. Much better.
I looked at the clock on my wall as Mickey Mouse rang out six o'clock and decided that if I floored it, I could be eating pot roast in about six minutes from now. Drastic times and all that, I sighed and resigned my fate to dinner with my parents. I thanked Mickey for the timely reminder and grabbed my gear to head back out.
~*~*~
After a grueling, but filling, two hours, I apologized again to my mom for breaking the cardinal sin of being late to dinner and dragged my hoard of leftovers home with me. I put everything but the pineapple upside down cake into the fridge. I'd probably eat it within the next ten minutes, so really it would just be a waste of expensive energy to open the fridge again so soon.
It seemed that at least one person still loved me as I had a blinking message on my home machine. Since my many-times boyfriend Joe Morelli and I were currently off-again, a small part of me hoped it might be him calling for a night of on-again. After three months, a girl has needs. The smarter part of me hoped it wasn't him since it seemed I was having difficulties remembering why we'd broken up this time. Instead I was remembering how good a make-up tumble could be.
I pressed play and instead of a sexy voice calling to seduce me, my best friend Mary-Lou sang out, "Oh my God, Staphanie! Did you see it? You must just be hating the theme!" Theme, what theme? I thought. "Don't worry, it's not that bad. You're probably going to think it's worse than it is. Don't listen to what your mom says and you'll be fine. Can you believe it's been fifteen years? Yikes! Call me."
With a growing ball of ice in my stomach, I peeked inside my porcelain teddy bear to take a better look at my invitation to pubescent memory lane. Damn that Bvlgari again. Added to my wandering thoughts of Morelli, images of Ranger in the shower - naked, wet, and lathered in that heavenly scent – had me thinking of a date with my shower massager. Focus, Stephanie!
My hormones hit a brick wall as I took the time to actually open the card and read about the festive night of torture I was supposed to suffer through. Are you kidding me? The theme was "Yearbook Predictions, Psychic or Psycho?" The invitation included a request to submit a picture either contradicting or confirming your year book projected fate for a photo montage that was going to be published in the newspaper.
Well let's see, since high school, I had been married just long enough to move out of my parent's house before I found prince charming bumping uglies on our new kitchen table with my arch nemesis, Joyce Barnhardt. Him and the table got dumped in two seconds flat. I've since moved into a one bedroom craptacular apartment which is decorated with the likes of Mickey clocks and other eclectic garage sale findings given to me by friends trying to be helpful. I've lost a job as a lingerie buyer for a less than upstanding company, only to find myself so unemployable that I had to take work as a Fugitive Apprehension Agent for my slime-ball cousin Vinnie's bonds office. Several near-death experiences and four years later, I still can't rely on my job to bring in steady money. The whole town knows the details of my yet-again failed relationship with everyone's favorite bad-boy cop, Joe Morelli, and the rumor mill never ceases to speculate on my involvement with Ranger, the local Cuban-American man of mystery. Oh yeah, and I've managed to blow-up, burn-up or otherwise maim close to thirty cars in about four years.
Sounds like my curse of "Most Likely to Be a Walking Disaster" was spot on. Shit.
I grabbed the cake and a fork and crawled into bed. Then I remembered my goal to be more like Rex and entertained the thought of taking bites in between sit-ups. I decided that probably wasn't good for digestion and focused on stuffing my face instead. I promised myself that I would go for a run tomorrow. Or maybe a jog.
My fork struck plate and I looked down to find nothing but crumbs left. "Who ate all my cake?" When I spotted the telltale crumbs spilling down my shirt, I had to sigh.
I got up and popped the invite back into its dark hiding place and decided to call it an early night in hopes that my mind would drift to happier things, like good-smelling Cuban sex gods.
The next morning I jumped out of bed, anxious to go for a run. Ok, that's not true. I actually hit my snooze button six times enjoying my deep sleep for the four minutes and fifty-eight seconds between each disruption.
When I finally did slide out of bed, I consigned myself to going for a jog, convincing myself that it might give me energy to face the day. The thing is, I never really experienced the high, energized feeling that running is famed for. All it ever gave me was a side cramp and a longing for a nap.
Despite my positive thinking, I threw on some grey sweat pants and a little white tee-shirt, stuffed my wayward bed head curls under my SEALS cap and left the apartment. I used the elevator ride as a last chance for a catnap before I faced the cold March morning. I silently thanked Otis for what had to be one of mankind's greatest inventions.
The good news about running at eight in the morning is that the Jersey funk is a little less pungent. The flip side is that every upstanding citizen here in the Burg, my hometown neighborhood of Trenton, New Jersey, was on their way to work and could see me in all my sweaty, bouncy glory.
That stupid invitation was still on my mind as I set out on my usual one mile circuit. I thought about taking a vacation the week of the reunion so that I had a verifiable excuse for not going. Then I remembered that I had no money for a vacation. Well I couldn't be in town and not go. That would be like admitting to my mother that my life wasn't where I wanted it to be. There was no way in hell I would give her that satisfaction.
Well if I was going to be scrutinized, then I better look damn good while it's happening. Clearly one mile wasn't going to be enough. I had four weeks to ensure that I was smoking hot. Thanks to my Hungarian gene pool compliments of my Grandma Mazur, my figure was never terribly out of whack. Still, there's always room for improvement right?
I veered of my normal route, careful to avoid passing McDonalds or the Tasty Pastry. I managed to get through what had to be close to three miles before I was called home by the sweet thought of a hot shower.
I took the stairs to the second level and walked down the hall to my apartment. My sports bra doubled as a pocket while running, so I nonchalantly reached my hand in to fish out my key. Which wasn't there. You've got to me kidding me. I thunked my head against my apartment door and sighed.
Of course I'd lost my key. Of course I had three miles of possible hiding places to search.
After a much practiced eye-roll, I turned around and knocked on Mr. Wolesky's door and asked to use his phone. My next door neighbor Mrs. Karwatt used to have a spare, but since she bought the farm last month, I'd never designated a new safe keeper. The only other person I'd trusted with a key was currently on my list of people to avoid. Instead, I dialed Ranger, knowing that keys have never stopped him from getting into my apartment before.
"Yo" he answered.
"I think I'm in need of your skills."
A beat when by before he replied with, "Babe."
I blushed and clarified, "Your lock picking skills. It seems I'm on the wrong side of my apartment door."
I swear I heard him chuckle before he disconnected the phone. Why couldn't that man ever say goodbye?
As I hung up the phone I was assaulted with freezing air being blown at the back of my head. I turned around to find Mr. Wolesky holding a can of air freshener like it was the most normal thing in the world to make your neighbors smell like morning rain.
"Thought you might not want to smell so bad when that man-toy of yours comes around." he suggested.
"He's not my man-toy! And for god sake, couldn't you have used something that actually smelled like perfume?" Instead I smelled like outhouse chemicals.
He shrugged his shoulders and wandered back towards the bathroom to return his eau de toilette.
I let myself out and sat down in the hall. I took stock of my current presentability and it wasn't good. My mouth tasted like a trash can since I hadn't bothered to brush my teeth before leaving for my run. I had noticeable sweat stains on my neck, back, underarms, and of course the area right under each boob. Damn the clingy shirt! I now smelled of a mixture of B.O. and fabricated rain forest turned Ozone cloud. All in all, Ranger has seen me look worse.
Ranger, born Ricardo Carlos Manoso, has bailed me out of more doo-doo than I care to remember. He's seen me covered in garbage, passed-out drunk, fresh out of bed (and I don't do mornings), and covered in blood, wreaking of fear. And twice he's seen me completely naked. He's also been my partner for bringing in skips that gave me grief, my car-rental company when my transportation meets an untimely demise and he's watched my back when I've had insane people trying to break me. He's rescued me, taken a bullet for me and he's killed for me. He's my always friend, one-time lover and occasionally even my boss.
The difference between Joe and Ranger is like the difference between stress and worry. I felt more like a burden to Joe. He bought Malox by the case and we had shouting matches about him wanting a traditional Burg wife who stayed out of trouble and me giving him my best Italian hand gesture as I sped away, shouting through my rolled down window that it was never going to happen. Ranger is protective, but I never feel like he wants me to be a different person. Except maybe a silent wish that I wasn't a magnet for the crazies. Ok, well maybe that wish isn't always silent.
Within ten minutes, my black knight came walking towards me, ready to be my hero. Again. I was really getting sick of other people, especially Ranger, having to bail me out all the time.
He was dressed in his trademark black head-to-toe with his hair cropped short. He was dressed for work in his cargo pants and combat boots and his muscle shirt peeked from beneath a black jacket making me bite my lip at the thought of his perfectly toned body. He came to a stop standing over me and with an arched brow said, "This is new."
I gave him my hand to help me up and said, "I thought it was time I start exercising."
He let go of my hand and turned to do the door and within seconds it swung open. Granted his large frame had kept me from actually seeing how he'd done it, but I'm pretty sure it was magic. There's a reason he's was sometimes known as the Wizard.
He leaned against the door jam and I stepped past him as he asked, "So what has you so inspired that you've finally come around to my way of thinking?"
I groaned, "My high school reunion." I carefully left out that it was my fifteen-year reunion. I'm sure he knew my age, but no reason to be willingly honest.
I looked over my shoulder to see him give me a 200 watt smile, a Ranger delicacy to be savored.
The admiration must have been plain on my face because the next thing I knew he had me pushed against the wall and his hands were sliding up my arms. With his lips a breath away from my ear, he growled, "Next time you need to break a sweat, call me first."
He turned and left and I stood and stared. It was an offer I just might have to consider. In fact, I decided the best place to consider it was while I was in the shower.
After I was squeaky clean, I wrestled with my curly brown hair and did the make-up thing, adding an extra layer of mascara for a needed confidence boost. I was hoping the day would look up so I opted to skip out on eye-liner. I got dressed in my usual uniform of stretchy shirt, jeans and CAT boots and looked in the mirror. Not bad, but I could do better. I swapped the t-shirt for a red one with a lower neck-line, figuring I might as well take advantage of today's Victoria's Secret enhanced chest. I smiled with the end result and headed into the office, hoping that somewhere out there was an idiot who forgot to show up to court so that I could haul him in for some grocery cash.