All familiar characters are JEs, not mine. I make no money. Just doing this for fun and cause I'm bored at work! Also first story so reviews and constructive criticism welcome! ENJOY!

"SHIT! Shit, shit, SHIT!"

"OW! God Dammit!"

My name is Stephanie Plum, and I'm currently staring at my toenail turning purple, which was just stubbed on my ugly hand me down coffee table, in my dated late 50's era ,one bedroom apartment ,just outside the Burg.

The coffee table is just one more thing to remind me how my life really is just a hot mess. Literally. My apartment was fire bombed and pretty much everything in my living room went up in flames. Hence the whatever decades old coffee table.

I mean the creepy stalkers, whack jobs, and Italian mobsters who like to break-in, firebomb, and leave dead bodies in my apartment were part of that problem, but I can't blame all my messes on them. The mess I'm currently in, I'm having a hard time placing blame on someone else and using "It's Not My Fault!".

Denial land is also not allowing me entrance. Bastards.

No. My current mess is allllll my fault.

Well, mostly my fault.

50% my fault really, if I think about it.

The more I think and allow myself to rationalize and absolve myself from any wrong doing I scream out, "Ya know what. This is all HIS fault!"

I look at Rex as he pops his little whisker clad face out of his soup can and look up at me, probably wondering why I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, much less why the hell am I awake at 7AM.

He damn well knows I've been up since 5 because there was no way he didn't hear me throwing up my vital organs all morning. Or the last 3 mornings for that matter.

I was all warm and snuggly in bed, dreaming of Ranger covered in Boston Cream. Like that scene from that movie Varsity Blues where the hot blonde comes out in a whip cream bikini.

Yeah. Like that. Only a mocha skinned, hard muscled, sex God covered in delicious custard all for the purpose of me to lick off.

Right as I was about to run my tongue along the sweet concoction covered abs that I'm pretty sure were actually chiseled out of marble, I was jolted out of my dream by the excess saliva in my mouth and cold sweats.

I barely made it to the bathroom in time to heave up the Cold leftover Pizza I ate from my fridge last night.

This has become somewhat of a morning ritual for me this past few days. And I don't like mornings to begin with. Add in violent, sudden bursts of nausea and I'm just a pissed off honey badger.

I limp over to my new K Cup coffee maker I splurged on when I actually had money and make myself a cup of sweet, sweet liquid bliss.

Only today it no longer smells like the morning elixir sent from the Gods. No. Now it smells like rotting bitter feet. The putrid smell sends me right back to the porcelain throne to dry heave the water and mouth wash from 2 hours prior.

As I hang my head against the toilet seat Im incredibly thankful is not only clean, but mine, I look over to the mess I made on the floor this morning after rushing to the drug store at 5:45.

The good thing about going to the drug store at 5:45 AM is there is no one there. No one to report back to my mother or grandmother or Morelli about what Im buying.

Pink and blue boxes, wrappers, instructions just scattered all over the green tiled floor. Different brands all promising to be the best, giving results the soonest, the most accurate, blah blah blah.

$97 worth of drugstore and name brand tests scatters across every counter, bath tub ledge, and sink.

And they all same the wrong result. Doesn't matter if its 2 lines, a plus symbol, or a digital readout.

Pregnant

Shit.