a/n-Tonight for your reading enjoyment [?] I have a joint songfic for you all-Bon Jovi & Springsteen. Good old Jersey boys, for sure.
Bed of Roses-Jon Bon Jovi
Cadillac Ranch (Meadowlands Arena, 7/6/81)
Bruce Springsteen
Cadillac, Cadillac
Long and bright, shiny and [black]
Eldorado fins, whitewalls and skirts
Rides just like a little bit of heaven here on earth
Well buddy when I die throw my body in the back
And drive me to the junkyard in my Cadillac
This story takes place right after Take a Chance & Half Past Eleven and BEFORE Shelter from the Storm/Prolog, so we are going back in time a little, to before Zoe's birth. Ranger has given Stephanie his rings...but still...life with Steph is no bed of roses, lol.
Shelter from the Storm
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Chapter 2 ~ Cadillac, Cadillac/ Bed of Roses
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My name is Stephanie Plum and I looove to sleep. So you can imagine my dismay tonight as I lay in my now-unfamiliar bed in my unfamiliar apartment, unable to sleep, wracked with worry about Ranger's whereabouts. This time. Again. Whatever.
Recently Ranger and I made some changes—OMG, he even gave me an engagement ring! And we've allowed ourselves to slip into an intimate if relentlessly un-discussed relationship that was, in my opinion, working out amazingly well. Why am I amazed? I guess I shouldn't be—when fully clothed and on his feet Ranger is quiet, even-tempered, affectionate and often polite, though always armed and dangerous, of course. Get him naked and horizontal, and—wow!
Actually horizontal isn't even a necessity. I almost giggled, remembering some primo time spent in the shower...in the kitchen...in his Porsche...
But the thing is, he still sometimes disappears, is in the wind, as they say, or to use Tank's favorite phrase, is off-line. Nowadays Ranger always tells me that he is leaving and when I expressed surprise that he did so, he said, "I've been seeing you to say goodbye before every job for years, babe. Almost since we met."
"You have?" I said stupidly.
"Yeah. You just never noticed…." He dropped a kiss on my head and went back to packing his weapons. And the next morning he was gone. Again! Freakin' again. This could get old, fast. That was a couple weeks ago. Now I shivered in my dank sheets and rubbed my eyes, refusing to cry.
The apartment was quiet. No Rex running on his wheel. Rex lived at Rangeman. Heck, I live at Rangeman. I think I only kept this place for a bolt hole in case things went bad with Ranger. Last summer, after we'd been sleeping together for a few weeks, Ranger asked me why I was keeping my place, "You're here with me all the time, babe. You have space in my closet, Rex lives in my kitchen. Your gun's in your cookie jar on the counter." He pulled open a cupboard and added, "We have a big supply of cheap Skippy peanut butter and Frosted Flakes, too."
"You need your privacy," I said, "You like your own space."
"I like my own space with you in it, Stephanie," he answered.
Then, so priceless, I think he heard what he said and he looked just for a moment aghast or amazed. Then the zillion watt smile spread wide across his face and he grabbed me and whirled me around, saying, "Stay here with me, babe. Okay? Stay?" And so mostly that's what I did, but I kept my place for these long sad absences that seemed a big part of Ranger's life.
This time , before he left I got up the nerve to ask him what would happen if God forbid, something went wrong...who would tell me, what would I do…? And he came and sat by me on the sofa, reaching out for the remote to mute the huge TV. He said, "This job isn't like that, you don't need to worry."
"Okay…?"
"But I did put you down as next of kin, babe. However, if you want to be sure that you get an army chaplain and a senior officer or someone official, if you wanna be there to get the flag that they fold up off my coffin…we'd need to be married, Steph. Otherwise you might just get Tank and Anthony or Lester, or—who knows? My mother will call you?"
Actually that sounded better than some strange officials, but I said, "Married? Flag?"
"Yeah, the military might want to go through the motions but Anthony, if he—or—well, whoever, will make sure my ashes are scattered to the winds and the ocean."
I poked him. "Married?"
"What's the problem, Steph? I've told you I love you, I gave you the rings... It would be better if we were married, safer, more secure. You'd be protected and provided for, for the rest of your life. I wouldn't have to—" he hesitated, whispered with a tiny catch maybe in his voice, "—worry about you all the time." He cleared his throat and added, "We could have kids."
"I, I , I—" I mumbled, leaning away.
He said, "If you want them, babe. It's not a deal breaker."
After a few beats of silence from me, Ranger gave me a little hug and said, "Okay, well, maybe someday, you let me know, babe."
… … …
What the hell was wrong with me, anyway? Ranger is a good man, I love him, I've loved him for years. And yet, instead of shrugging off my stupid "baggage", my qualms about marriage and parenthood—I just let him walk out the door. Sure, he smiled, he kissed me…and if his heart ached from my stupidity, if he was hurt or even feeling hopeless, he showed no sign.
Now I listened carefully, thinking I heard whispers in the outer hall beyond my door. There was another reason I was hiding here, not a very good reason, but as I just showed you, analytical thinking is not my strong point.
What's wrong now, you want to know?
Junkman's brother was in town, flew in from LA last week to hunt down "da bitch who killed my bro."
I desperately if somewhat chickenshit-ly was hoping he'd look for Sally Sweet not me. And I was hiding here in my old place. I rolled over and sighed, drifted off to a restless sleep. Woke up when my door busted in, been there/ done that, and heard the trash-talking Trashman (cute names, boys, real catchy) yelling in my foyer. Heavy footsteps, two or three men, no attempt at hiding. In the five seconds before they burst into my bedroom I scrambled out of bed, wrenched open the window and rolled out onto the fire escape. I righted myself, turned and slammed the window shut in Trashman's face. He was screaming muffled obscenities and pounding on the glass, the old brittle cheap glass. But not for nothing had I lived with Ranger for the past six months. I wrenched the small revolver out of the side tape of my lace trimmed thong underpants and pivoted to level it at Trashman. And the metal slats underfoot fell away with a sad crumble of rotten metal. My shot went wild and my bare foot slid through the old rusty treads of the fire escape.
The pain was excruciating. I was caught almost up to my knee and when I fell sideways, I had also scraped my other knee somehow and both elbows. And of course I dropped the gun.
When I looked back at the window, though, it was empty of leering black faces and I looked around, saw Trashman and his posse slither through the parking lot and disappear down the alley past the dumpster.
Forcing back the tears I took a second to assess. The old window must have jammed shut because Trashman couldn't open it. So I was locked out here in my thong and my little cotton camisole. Actually it probably didn't matter because I was pretty sure my leg was stuck tight. I saw a tetanus shot in my future and I wasn't too happy. On the plus side, it was warm late-spring night, almost summer-like. And maybe some of my elderly neighbors would still be around. I scanned the parking lot hopefully….
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Bronkowski from 4 G chugged into the lot in his ancient but well maintained '87 Subaru wagon.
"Yo! Mr. Bronkowski! Help! " I screamed and waved. "Help me!"
He looked up at me, tipped his ball cap and wandered off inside.
…. …. ….
Over the next half hour I watched and yelled and was ignored by Ms Patty and Ms Missy Bayer, who toddled in with their ancient peach-colored poodle after his evening "walkies"; by Mrs. Rivera, who did glance up from her new grandbaby's stroller and wave before she hustled off after her older grandkids; and half a dozen other folks, who smiled and waved and yelled Nice night!
I'm guessing I've spent way too much time on this balcony in my undies. Everyone thinks it is normal, I thought with an oncoming sob. I bit my lip to no avail and just as the tears finally began to really flow, yet another big old behemoth of a car rolled into my lot. It was big, it was pink and it was blasting Jon Bon Jovi. The car rolled to a stop and I stared. It was a boat of a car—no, an oceanliner of an automobile! Shit, it was the friggin' Queen Mary on steroids!
I want to lay you down on a bed of roses
For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails
And lay you down on bed of roses
Oh yeah, I know that song, shades of hot summer nights at the Jersey shore with Mary Lou, two silly teenagers strutting on the boardwalk….
The hotel bar hangover whiskey's gone dry
The barkeeper's wig's crooked
And she's giving me the eye
I might have said yeah
But I laughed so hard I think I died
want to lay you down on a bed of roses
For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails
And lay you down on bed of roses
lay you down on bed of roses
The car was a 50s era Cadillac, a candy pink convertible, white leather top folder down to show white leather interior. It was covered with chrome and had fins the size of Rhode Island. The red taillight bullets looked like a pin-up's nipples on a vintage girly calender.…it looked like Gram's Buick's cross-dressing big brother. It stopped below my perch and the driver glanced up at me. I was expecting another senior citizen, but no. It was a young man and he was wearing rose-tinted heart shaped Lolita sunglasses. A gay guy, in a pink LaCoste shirt, collar flipped up just so, peroxide blond-tipped dark hair, diamond encrusted watch on seriously limp wrist. Nice tan.
Hunh! Why me? But always an optimist, I leaned over the edge of the fire escape and yelled, "Hey! Help."
The man leaned forward and cranked Bon Jovi up a dozen notches.
I want to lay you down on a bed of roses
For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails
I want to be just as close ….
And lay you down on bed of roses
Drown me out, eh? I screamed, "Helloooo? Hey, I need heeeelp!"
The man finally really looked up at me and that awful sensation of the floor dropping away hit me.
The man was Ranger.
No! The man looked like Ranger? Anyway with a few exquisitely languid moves, he extricated himself from the pink Caddy and looked at me again. His outfit was so gay, so gay—worse than I'd thought, who knew LaCoste made XS pink belly shirts? He teamed it with skintight, absolutely nothing left to the imagination palest blue D&G jeans—strategically delicate rips and frays in all the crucial places. White leather flipflops. Bright red pedicure.
He settled his little tush on the side of the car, gave me a swishy little finger wave, and called up to me, "Sweetie! I called the fire department." He pulled off the pink sunglasses and hooked them in the front of his shirt.
Omigod, was that not Ranger's voice? Unsure I yelled, "Trashman is after me! He was here with his crew."
The guy threw me some kisses and did some shrugs, waffling haplessly. Then he clutched his hands to his chest and shuddered dramatically.
I yelled, "Call Tank!"
He shook his head and stared up at me, fluttering his hands again. But the eyes were Ranger's eyes, and they were saying, No fucking way!
I started to cry again.
But when he turned to reach down into the car, I saw he had Ranger's gun in the back of those lowrise pants. Thank God.
My tears stopped immediately and I yelled, "Cute dimples, sweetie."
The man ignored me and contemplated the old rusty stairs with a shudder and then swiftly climbed up to my side. When he got near and I smelled the familiar Bulgari, I burst into tears yet again and gibbered nonsense about how much my foot hurt and how scared I was and how I dropped my gun. The man put his arm around me and somehow produced a white hanky from the painted-on jeans . He wiped my tears. He wrapped me up in his pink Juicy Couture hoodie. He whispered, "You'll be okay," and handed me his extra gun. "It's loaded, babe," he added, all the while doing the flutters and swishes for anyone watching.
It was creepy in an oddly hilarious way.
When you close your eyes
Know I'll be thinking about you
While my mistress she calls me
To stand in her spotlight again
Tonite I won't be alone
But you know that don't
Mean I'm not lonely I've got nothing to prove
For it's you that I'd die to defend
I sniffled a few more times then said, "Is it Halloween?"
"Job."
"Do I want to know?"
"No."
"You couldn't call Tank?"
"Babe."
"Not even for me?"
"Not even for you. I'd never live it down, I'd be laughed back to P-town for good, babe." [Provincetown, MA]
"Actually, I think I like the hair, Ranger. I think it looks hot. And maybe this shirt, I like this shirt—it's cut very short." Yes! The tables are turned! I ran my hand over his exposed and always awesome abs, and he shuddered.
His skin felt like hot silk velvet under my fingertips.
Our eyes locked just before our mouths did. Then our moment—or hours?—our moment was rudely invaded by three Trenton Fire Department trucks, including the bomb squad van, sirens blasting; half a dozen TPD cars, both black and whites and unmarkeds, all with the sirens and lights too…and yes: Morelli—banging on my window from inside. So far no shiny black Rangeman Explorers though. I'm pretty sure Ranger was grateful for that.
Ranger whispered, "My work here is done, babe," and he scampered down the fire escape, hopped the door into the pink Caddie and disappeared down the street, just as the window popped open and Morelli popped out.
Morelli watched him go, then turned to me, "Either the guys laced my coffee with LSD or that was Ranger. Wearing pink."
I shrugged.
Morelli said pensively, "I always think of him as a badass Batman or Spiderman. I never pictured his as, I don't know—Lord Fancy Pants? Pinkman?"
"A man of mystery," I managed and shrugged again.
"I guess," said Morelli. And then he snickered.
…. …. ….
I'm not lonely I've got nothing to prove
For it's you that I'd die to defend
I want to lay you down on a bed of roses
lay you down on bed of roses
He sang along to the old BonJovi song, and thought I love you, babe….
end of story/ series tbc
a/n If you want to know WHY Ranger was wearing pink, what the job is, pls leave me a review and a request and I will PM the follow up to you within a few days. It doesn't "go" in this group of stories. But...it's, uh, interesting? Remember: review [NOT a PM , NOT an email] including a request. Your choice.
Of course you can just leave a review, I LOVE reviews. Thx!