Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

“You see, already you are treading in very dangerous waters.”

I squelched a grimace.

“So, you were a bounty hunter,” he said, skimming over my resume, eyebrows

raised. “That is a quite exciting job. Why would you want to quit such a job?”

“I'm looking for something that has more potential for advancement.”

“Oh dear, that would be my job you would eventually be seeking.”

“Yes, well I'm sure it would take years, and then who knows . . . you might be president of the company by then.”

“You are an outrageous flatterer,” he said. “I like that. And what would you do if I were to ask you for sexual favors? Would you threaten to sue me?”

“No. I guess I'd ignore you. Unless you got physical. Then I'd have to kick you in a place that hurt a lot and you probably wouldn't be able to father any children.”

“That sounds fair,” he said. “It happens that I have an immediate position to fill, so you're hired. You can start tomorrow, promptly at eight o'clock. Do not be late.”

Wonderful. I have a real job in a nice clean office where no one will shoot at me. I should be happy, yes? This was what I wanted, wasn't it? Then why do I feel so depressed?

I dragged myself down the stairs to the lobby and out to the parking lot. I found my car and the depression deepened. I hated my car. Not that it was a bad car. It just wasn't the right car. Not to mention, it would be great to have a car that didn't have three bullet holes in it.

Maybe I needed another doughnut.

A half hour later, I was back in my apartment. I'd stopped in at Tasty Pastry and left with a day-old birthday cake. The cake said Happy Birthday Larry.

I don't know how Larry celebrated his birthday, but apparently it was without cake. Larry's loss was my gain. If you want to get happy, birthday cake is the way to go. This was a yellow cake with thick, disgusting white frosting made with lard and artificial butter and artificial vanilla and a truckload of sugar. It was decorated with big gunky roses made out of pink and yellow and purple frosting. It was three layers thick with lemon cream between the layers. And it was designed to serve eight people, so it was just the right size.

I dropped my clothes on the floor and dug into the cake. I gave a chunk of cake to Rex, and I worked on the rest. I ate all the pieces with the big pink roses. I was starting to feel nauseous, but I pressed on. I ate all the pieces with the big yellow roses. I had a purple rose and a couple roseless pieces left. I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat any more cake. I staggered into my bedroom. I needed a nap.

I dropped a T-shirt over my head and pulled on a pair of Scooby-Doo boxers with an elastic waist. God, don't you love clothes with elastic? I had one knee on the bed when I saw the note pinned to my pillowcase,

BE AFRAID, BE VERY AFRAID. NEXT TIME I'll AIM HIGHER.

I thought I'd be more afraid if I hadn't just eaten five pieces of birthday cake. As it was, I was mostly afraid of throwing up. I looked under the bed, behind the shower curtain, and in all the closets. No knuckle-dragging monsters anywhere. I slid the bolt home on the front door and shuffled back to the bedroom.

Now, here's the thing. This isn't the first time someone's broken into my apartment. In fact, people regularly break in. Ranger slides in like smoke.

Morelli has a key. And various bad guys and psychos have managed to breach the three locks I keep on the door. Some have even left threatening messages. So I wasn't as freaked out as I might have been prior to my career in bounty huntering. My immediate feelings ran more toward numb despair. I wanted all the scary things to go away. I was tired of scary. I'd quit my scary job, and now I wanted the scary people out of my life. I didn't want to be kidnapped ever again.

I didn't want to be held at knifepoint or gunpoint. I didn't want to be threatened, stalked, or run off the road by a homicidal maniac.

I crawled under the covers and pulled the quilt over my head. I was almost

asleep when the quilt was yanked back. I let out a shriek and stared up at Ranger.

“What the heck are you doing?” I yelled at him, grabbing at the quilt.

“Visiting, Babe.”

“Did you ever think about ringing a doorbell?”

Ranger smiled down at me. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

“I didn't know you were interested in fun.”

He sat on the side of the bed and the smile widened. "You smell good enough