Disclaimer: The characters and their world belong to Janet Evanovich. I'm just playing with them for fun, and all mistakes are my own.

AN 1: This is my first fanfic, so constructive criticism is always welcome. One thing that has always gotten to me about the books is Stephanie saying "It's not my fault!" and then the next chapter or book it's like the stalker, explosion, etc. never happened. In real life, most of us would have gotten some training after the first gunshot wound and/or would be in some serious therapy. So I started thinking, what would happen if she started to listen to that little voice that said "Hey, wouldn't it be a good idea if…."

AN 2: I start with a car explosion and an argument with Joe, which has been done a time or two. But bear with me – it's just a starting point on Stephanie's journey. I've outlined the story so my plan is a total of 7 or 8 chapters, with rest of the chapters corresponding to items on Stephanie's list.

Warnings: Mature rating for language, for now, though there may be some smut in later chapters. It's a Babe, but Morelli isn't really abused in this story.

Chapter 1: The beginning

I've been thinking a lot lately. I know – it's pretty fudgin' unbelievable, as my friend Sally Sweet would say, but sometimes even the Bombshell Bounty Hunter has to take stock of her life.

It started a couple of months ago when my sister Valerie and her snuggle-umpkins decided they needed a romantic weekend in Amish country. Pretty scary, huh? The thought of Valerie and Albert Kloughn in the Jacuzzi suite of the Lancaster Inn was enough to send even my hormones on a permanent vacation, but the upshot was my mom watched Lisa and the baby and MA and Angie and I had a girl's weekend. We spent the whole weekend in our pajamas eating junk food and watching TV Land. It was a good time.

Anyway, during a 'Highway to Heaven' marathon, I started to wish that a guardian angel could just swoop in and fix my train wreck of a life. Of course, even if I did have a guardian angel, he wouldn't be caught dead in New Jersey.

But I did have one thought before I dropped off into a Chunky Monkey and Butterscotch Krimpett-induced coma. Didn't we all have a little angel on our shoulder letting us know what's what? I call mine 'Smart Stephanie' and I'll have to admit I've been ignoring her lately…

R&S~R&S~R&S

Smart Stephanie was screaming at me a week later. It was a typical pleasant summer day in Jersey, meaning that you could practically drink the air and my curls were extra crazy. The sun was shining and I bet even the birds were singing, though I couldn't hear them over the sirens as Trenton's finest made their way to the burning remains of my latest car – a mostly blue Ford Escape that I'd only made one payment on.

Yep, just another day in the life of Stephanie Plum.

With a sigh, I nudged my skip with the toe of my boot as the first cop on scene made his way over to me. Eddie and I used to trade lunches in grade school and he was married to my cousin, Shirley the Whiner. In the Burg, where we both grew up, that made us practically brother and sister, so he was nice enough to haul my very groggy skip to his feet.

"Just another day at the office, Steph?" He asked as he handed the skip off to a couple of Rookies I didn't know.

"You're a real funny guy, Eddie," I grumbled as I showed my capture paperwork to the rookies. "This is Melvin Brubaker, arrested for flashing his wiener during Friday night Bingo at Sacred Heart."

Eddie snorted. "Let me guess, he forgot his court date and let you know how he felt about rescheduling?"

I rolled my eyes. "Something like that." The next few minutes went like usual. The Fire Department hosed down my ride, and I finished giving my statement to Eddie. The rookies were just escorting my skip to their cruiser when Joe Morelli's unmarked police issued POS screeched to a stop next to the curb.

Joe is my sometimes boyfriend and I have to admit he's easy on the eyes. He has one of the best asses in Trenton, but unfortunately sometimes he acts like one, too. We were currently in an on phase of our relationship, but going by the shade of purple he was turning, I figured that was about to change.

"What the hell, Cupcake?" He yelled as headed toward me.

I sighed again. "It wasn't my fault, Joe."

"Like Hell," he muttered. "It's never your fault, is it?"

"What do you mean?" I wasn't quite to full Rhino mode yet, but I was getting close.

"For Christ's sake, look around you, Steph." Joe raked his hands through his hair. "It's the same as always – you screwed up another take down, and I got half a dozen calls before ladder 13 over there could even put out the flames."

Usually about this time, I would yell back and we'd spend the next few minutes trading insults. Then I'd storm off and we wouldn't talk for a week or two. But something, maybe it was Smart Stephanie, stopped me. I looked around.

It was like an out of body experience, and I didn't like what I saw.

Joe was pacing around in a circle, gesturing wildly. He was still yelling, but I tuned him out. Over by the smoking remains of my car, Crazy Carl and Big Dog were joking around with a couple of firefighters and I was pretty sure money was changing hands. I wasn't too crazy about the whole betting on every aspect of my life thing.

At some point, a familiar Porsche and Hummer had shown up. Knowing Ricardo Carlos Manoso, AKA Ranger, I wouldn't be surprised if they had just magically popped into existence behind Joe's unmarked. Tank, Ranger's right hand man, had stopped to talk to the cops. And the man himself? He was headed straight toward me.

Ranger is in one word, a bad-ass. He's a better bounty hunter than I'll ever be, his cars and wardrobe come in only one color – basic black – and he is a man of few words and even fewer facial expressions. He'd once told me I was a line item in his budget under entertainment, which hurt more than I'll ever admit. But I knew two things about him: He would always show up to check on me and he wouldn't yell. He stopped about two feet from me as his gaze slowly swept over me.

"Babe." That one word could mean a hundred things, and I didn't always have my decoder ring handy. Today, I was pretty sure he was asking how I was.

"I'm OK," I answered, suddenly feeling about a hundred years old. "I wasn't anywhere near the car when Melvin threw the Molotov cocktail."

He nodded once and inclined his head toward the police cruiser that was pulling away from the curb.

"I got the skip anyway." I smirked. "He met an unfortunate accident with the neighbor kid's tricycle." Bless the little ankle biter for leaving it out. Ranger's lips twitched slightly, which on any one else would translate into a full on belly laugh.

"Proud of you." He inclined his head toward the Turbo.

"I'd love a ride," I said, as I hitched my messenger bag over one shoulder. I might be a walking disaster, but I'd learned to never leave my purse in the car. I'd just turned to follow Ranger when Joe grabbed me by the arm.

"Hey, I was talking to you!" Judging by the bulging vein over one eye, it was more like he was still yelling.

"Can we skip the rest of the argument if I agree that this is indeed a f'd up mess?" I sighed yet again, but managed to keep my voice level. "Joe, it's not even 10 AM and I'm already really tired. I'll catch up with you later."

I pulled away and he let me. I'd probably shocked him and everyone else, going by sudden silence that descended over the crime scene and Joe's dropped jaw. Heck, I shocked me. I decided to just go with it and leave while I could. But Joe's last shouted comment followed me for a long, long time.

"You're an embarrassment, Cupcake!"

R&S~R&S~R&S

Sitting in Ranger's Porsche 911 Turbo is the next best thing to sex. The leather seat cradled me like a lover and the car smells just like him, which is good enough to make my hormones do the mambo at the worst of times. However, that day I couldn't enjoy it because I couldn't get Joe's words out of my head.

"I'll have someone drop a car off for you."

Okay, that was enough to snap me out of my funk. No way. "Please, don't," I pleaded. "I'll never escape the bad Karma if I blow up another one of your cars."

Ranger's lips twitched again, but his expression was solemn as he stopped for a light. "Cars are replaceable, you're not."

I'd heard this before, but it never failed to choke me up. I managed a wobbly smile. "Thanks, but could you drop me at my parents' instead? No one's using Big Blue right now." Uncle Sandor's 1953 Buick Roadmaster was hardly inconspicuous, but it was free and it could take a beating.

Ranger nodded and took the turn for my Mom and Dad's. "Okay, Babe, Big Blue is the next best thing to a tank, anyway."

Huh, Ranger humor. Five minutes later, I was walking up my parents' driveway as the Turbo ghosted away from the curb. Normally, I'd text Grandma to meet me outside with the keys, but since I'd turned off my phone at the scene of the crime, I decided to do the semi-responsible thing and let my Mom know I was still alive.

Grandma met me at the door. "Ain't this a pip? We had to turn the ringer off on the phone already."

I groaned. "Mom's ironing already, isn't she?" The Burg grapevine never rests. With my luck the whole thing was already on youtube.

"Yep, but she just knocked back a couple, so she should be feeling pretty mellow right now."

I know it's wrong to be thankful to Jack Daniels and Southern Comfort, but I was. I poked my head into the kitchen, assured my Mom I was fine and promised to come to dinner in a couple of nights. I grabbed the car keys from Grandma after promising to drop her by the Clip N' Curl on my way back home. She didn't need her hair done, but Grandma could never sit on prime gossip. I love her, so I really don't mind that my crazy life keeps her supplied.

I was sprawled out on my couch with a tub of Ben and Jerry's by 11 AM. I just couldn't get what Joe said out of my head. Was I really an embarrassment? Well, I'm from New Jersey, so even if I was, I was bound by state law to not give a crap.

Now, I wasn't sure how I felt about my on-and-off boyfriend telling me I was an embarrassment, but I decided to think about that later. Yeah, I know it sounds like I was headed straight for Denial Land, but for once I wasn't. I made a firm date with myself to figure me and Joe out – just as soon as I figured out what I was going to do about my job. So – maybe in a year or two – right?

Was it really my fault that my FTA chucked a Molotov cocktail at my car? Well, no. That kind of crazy was all on him.

But, I had to be honest, if only to myself. I'd had Melvin's file for three days. The first time I showed up at his door, he was still half drunk from the night before and if I'd bothered to charge my taser, I might still be driving something smaller than a baby whale. The second time, he'd outrun me. The third time, he was waiting for me, homemade incendiary device in hand.

I liked to say I wasn't the best Bond Enforcement agent (BEA) out there, but I got the job done. Maybe it was time to examine that statement. The first question was: did I want to keep doing the job, or did I make my mother a very happy women and go see if the button factory was hiring? That answer came pretty easily. Most days I liked my job. I never had to wear panty hose and it was never boring.

The next question was whether or not I was really getting the job done? That was a little harder to answer. I finished my pint of Half-Baked and rummaged around in my kitchen for lunch. I found some raisins and a box of TastyKakes in the cupboard. My hamster, Rex, got the dried fruit.

"Hey buddy," I said to him as I dropped his lunch into his bowl. "Do you think I need more training?" Rex stuffed a couple of raisins into his cheek pouch and darted back into his soup can. Huh. He was never much of a conversationalist, but I could have sworn he twitched his whiskers at me.

I decided to take that as a yes. I grabbed another Butterscotch Krimpett and sat down with pen and paper. Making lists wasn't a Burg or Stephanie Plum – approved decision making tool, but my friend and occasional wheel-man Lula had been listening to a lot of self-help books on tape lately. List making seemed to be a common starting point on all of them, so I was willing to give it a try.

Three hours later, I'd mapped out what looked like a reasonable plan of action and I was on my way to the Y for their monthly free self-defense class. I had to start somewhere, right?