Author's Note: The good responses to this fic have made my week. I was a little hesitant to write Steph this dark because it's very easy for me to get super bitter and very existential and that can become annoying to read. There will be some comedy in this one. The "screwball" comedy element is one of the few redeeming qualities left in the canon book series and I don't want to diverge from that too much. The difference with me is that Steph isn't going to be the butt of every joke, though. Comedy can happen without shitting on the heroine all the time, letting her stubbornness get her into mortal peril every five minutes or making her look and act like a halfwit tramp in front of every attractive dude, good or bad, that gives her a second of their attention.
Feel free to ignore the last part of the last sentence. That was slut-shameish and just too salty. Sadly accurate but I could've said it better. The bitterness is obviously still very strong within this BABE about canon Stephanie Plum's behavior and treatment by The Creator. I haven't forgotten about Lock but I'm still not in the mood to write a Happily Ever After for Stephanie there, even if she does get to kick CatWoman's ass beforehand…
Disclaimer: "Honestly, it's not mine!"
The Next Morning- 8:15AM EST…
To paraphrase from Criminal Minds: I don't believe in guns but they do exist.
They exist and they have their uses. And really, you cannot be in law enforcement, even "slum it" as a BEA without an armed gun that you're willing to use, especially in New Jersey. I mean, I guess you could but it would be way harder and a lot messier. The Skips around here will not hesitate to chuck you in a nasty dumpster or make you run through a minefield of steaming dog shit to stay out of the pokey. I still hate guns though. I hate the sound of them and the very idea of me killing someone or maiming them for life makes me want to barf but I have to be realistic.
Everybody over the age of 18 in Jersey has a piece on them and maybe some who are younger, too. I don't know for sure and it's not my place to judge other people. I leave judging people up to God and The Burg. Folks have to do what they have to do to make it from dawn to dusk.
And if there's a choice between a Skip getting shot in the ass and me getting shot in the head, you can double goddamn guarantee that it's going to be the former. It's way easier to recover from an ass wound than a head injury. I have plenty of experience with both unfortunate situations. Not from a Skip's gunshot, thankfully but acrobatics, especially the branch I've chosen, have their perils and you can't get good at it until you learn what doesn't work. Gravity can make or break an aerial silk routine and sometimes, you've just got to eat it. It's unavoidable and it's like of rite of passage, especially if you break a bone or two.
I've sprained things, bruised things, strained things, and I can recite the protocols for dealing with minor to major concussions backwards and forwards but I've never gotten a cap busted in my gut or a cast on a limb.
I hope that taking on Joe Morelli's bond doesn't cause me to pop those Cherries but knowing my luck, I brought 2 huge packs of Sharpies for plaster cast customization and I looked up how to fish a bullet out of a person's body just in case.
Don't Google that shit after you've just eaten, by the way.
Pino's doesn't taste as good coming back up as it does going down.
Going down…it's been a little over 18 hours since I met Ranger Manoso and I still have images of his head between my legs dancing through my head. Between those images, there are ones with me happily returning the favor and an impressively kinky one involving him being tangled up in my performance silks in a way that would have me unable to use them again without blushing.
Contrary to The Dick's bitter complaints, I'm no prude between the sheets but I'm not a super freak, either. I'm more of a Tab A into Slot B type of girl and my ass is an 'exit only' orifice. I'm open to the idea of experimenting with lingerie, some light bondage (my safe word is 'kiwi') and a can of ReddiWhip can go a long way but yeah, no. If you want that Red Room of Pain shit and to reenact some of PornHub's Greatest Hits with me, you're barking up the wrong tree, Buster Brown. I won't apologize for it, either. The Dick had expected me to and he paid for it with interest in more ways than one…
I don't even know why I'm still dwelling on Ranger, anyway. Yes, he's beautiful but he probably has a girlfriend. He probably has a wife. Hell, with the way he looks, he could have a wife along with harems of a dozen women in every state of the Union plus the territories. Besides, what the hell would a guy like that want with me? He's gorgeous, he's loaded, he's driven, and probably has his life scheduled down to the millisecond.
I'm loaded, too and I'm far from ugly. I've got some serious drive but I'm unpredictable on a good day. I'm still pretty sheltered and naïve, too. I've done some travelling and I've got life experience but nothing on his level.
Ranger has travelled all over the world, done all sorts of amazing things for the military and otherwise. I'm just…me. Don't get me wrong, I like me. I like my unpredictable ways. I like my distinct lack of brain to mouth filter. I like that I have a backbone and I certainly don't want to go back to the Stephanie Plum of old. I don't want to be that insecure, unhappy little girl ever again but…I can lust after him but I can't dwell on him.
Ranger Manoso is out of my league and this is supposed to be a professional alliance, anyway.
Mixing business and pleasure is like playing Russian Roulette with an AK-47.
I'm musing about all of this while dithering about what I'm supposed to wear today, by the way.
I want to look nice for him.
No, I want to look hot for him, even though it's likely that we'll spend the whole day working.
God, am I pathetic or what?
Why do I always do this to myself?
What the hell is wrong with me?
One would think that I would've learned by now that guys to me are like a cell in Arkham to Harley or Kryptonite to Superman. I attract immature jerks and complete assholes. Ranger doesn't seem to be an immature jerk or a complete asshole but as my time with The Dick proved, nice first impressions can be deceiving. The Dick seemed to be a knight in shining armor but he turned out to be a dirty bum wrapped in cheap tin foil.
At least with Joe Morelli, I knew that he was a pig from when I was 6 years old playing 'choo-choo' with him in his father's garage.
What's 'choo-choo', you ask? It was a game and it had simple rules.
His fingers were the train, his brain was the engineer, and my pussy was the tunnel.
I didn't know better until Helen found out and grounded me for the rest of the summer, including the 4th of July, and his Uncle Leonardo took a leather strop to him in the street. 8 year old Joey Morelli had to be chased down and dragged back home by his enraged uncle. Leonardo Morelli couldn't be considered a good man. He was too drunk and gamble addicted but he really had tried his best to do right by the younger generation, tried his best to break the cycle. He had even forced Joe to make me an apology macaroni art zebra and when I'd been paroled, he gave me the Wonder Woman cape that had later inspired by infamous garage roof Leap of Faith.
Poor dumb bastard. If his liver had held out long enough to see who little Joey had grown up to be, he'd be so ashamed and so sad. I know Angie Morelli has to be, even though the old bat is definitely stupid and deluded enough to help her precious prostitute murdering baby boy dodge the authorities. Allegedly. I have to remember to say allegedly.
Although they had charged him for Carmen Sanchez, Morelli hadn't been convicted and the evidence against him, according to my cop cousin by marriage Eddie Gazarra was mostly circumstantial but still very damning.
In my mind and heart, he's guilty as sin. I don't care if somehow he proves his innocence to the law and to the community. To me, he will always be guilty of something bad towards women.
Joe Morelli is trash and a bitch. He always has been and he always will be.
I had a big fixation on him, though. It lasted from that Summer to the Donut Shop. He was the quintessential 'bad boy' and I was still determined to be a good Burg girl but my rebellious streak just wouldn't die, no matter how much I tried to make it. I immediately regretted giving into him at the Tasty Pastry and the aftermath yanked all forbidden fondness I had for him out by the short and curlies.
He fucked me horribly, fucked me over, and then had the nerve to try and move on with his life without even a fake apology. He became nothing but a little punk ass bitch to me from that day on and even if there wasn't 50K for my nieces at stake, I'd still be determined to take him down.
The fool called me Cupcake. I get that nicknames are common and there are worse ones out there but…Cupcake? Really? Cupcake's a nickname for a little kid or a puppy, not a woman!
He ruined one my favorite desserts for me for the longest time and to this day, although I'll happily devour one, I still wince a little inside at the sight of them.
When the idiot calls me Cupcake after Ranger helps me snag him, I'm shooting him.
Whether the non lethal shot will come from my KSG shot gun, my .45 Magnum pistol, or my brand spanking new Tazer remains to be seen but I'm definitely gonna shoot him and enjoy it.
Of course, if I don't pry my stupid head out of my horny ass and put some clothes on, my shooting and catching Joe Morelli won't happen anytime this century.
A good outfit starts with shoes.
Since this isn't a sit down business meeting and I have a Skip to pick up before sundown tomorrow, I pulled out my black steel toed Timberland work boots with the laces the same color as my last name. That was a good choice since my bra, panties, and knee sock set for today is neon purple or heliotrope, as the packaging said. I like to match clothes without being too matchy-matchy.
One of the very few things Helen and I manage to agree on is the importance of wearing nice and clean undergarments at all times in case one runs into trouble.
My Tims are cute but practical. Practicality is crucial.
Just because I can sprint in 5 inch heels doesn't mean I necessarily want to, especially since the guy I'm going after today, Samuel Adams (yes, that's his real name…) is known for making a run for it. Sammy used to be a big track and field star around here until he blew his knee out during his first track meet at Rutgers. The career ending injury plus two bad surgeries and subsequent depression had him hooked on Oxy.
Oxy addiction is a gateway to Heroin addiction, at least according to the Drugs INC episodes I watch on the Nat Geo Channel. It's a lot cheaper to get the Heroin than the pills, which is sad as hell but what can you do?
Anyway, he got collared for possession plus an open intoxicant in his vehicle, leading to a brief high speed chase first in his Jeep and then on foot near the river. Hopefully, I can catch him while he's holding still outside his favorite Psychedelic Shack after he shoots up and have him in the Cop Shop before sundown today. I like to be proactive with my Skips. Procrastination can lead to them going to ground or skipping town and that makes the job even harder than it already is.
My Tims meant that my usual skinny jeans were out of the question so I pulled on a pair of gunmetal gray cargo pants. I know that cargo pants and shorts get a bad rap amongst fashion bloggers and women in general but they're perfect for Bounty Hunting. They can hold a gun, extra ammo, a phone, some band aids, and even an emergency Snickers bar, provided that it's not too hot outside.
Once the pants and boots were on, I opened my two shirt drawers. One of them held all my fun t-shirts like the Adventure Time one and the other held other tops ranging from plain white to lacy ones that make my tits look divine. Since I'll be hanging around with Ranger all day, I put on the cherry red long sleeved cotton v-neck. It was practical for field work but it emphasized the hourglass shape I have going on and showed a good amount of cleavage without being indecent.
I do have some indecent tops and skirts but those could saved for later, if Ranger was ever interested in getting indecent with me, which he probably won't be so why am I still dwelling on him?
Good Lord above, I'm pathetic!
Damn it, I need to get laid.
After The Dick, I swore off of men, even for a tumble between the sheets. I dealt with my various sexual needs via sugar, my showerheads and a very nice Rabbit but I haven't had actual sex with a partner since before The Divorce.
I haven't had good sex in…shit. I don't think I've ever had good sex and that's sad enough to make me want to turn my usual morning tall glass of OJ into a morning tall glass of Screwdriver, hold the OJ and double the tequila. Yeah, I just said tequila. My brand of choice is 1800.
After everything that went down with The Dick and The Burg, I finally learned how to hold my liquor. I didn't have a choice if I wanted to keep what little sanity I had left at the time. I still have a low alcohol tolerance compared to other folks but I'm no longer a one and done gal.
Ranger would give me good sex and multiple Doomsday Orgasms. I know he would.
Ranger would give the best sex of my fucking life and I'd be ruined for all other men.
Ranger would…stop it, Plum!
Pull yourself together! This is supposed to be a professional alliance and nothing more!
Pull yourself together and stop being so thirsty for Ranger fucking Manoso!
And for God's sake, when he shows up, do not pull your panties down for him!
Men aren't the Devil's children (except for Morelli…) but they're no good for you!
You've gone 0 for 2 with men and there's no need to make it a Turkey of failure!
Do you want to get hurt again?
Do you want to be used again?
Do you want to be the laughingstock and Hester Prynne of The Burg again?
No, I really don't but…goddamn it…