Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

I slipped out from under the arm and rolled out of bed. “You don't have to get up early. I have lots of things to do.”

“Again? You're not going to bring Lula back, are you?”

“No. Based on your performance last night, I'd say you're not in the least impaired.”

I didn't want to give details on the day's activities, so I hurried off to the bathroom. I showered, did the blow-dry thing, slathered on some makeup, and bumped into Morelli when I opened the bathroom door.

“Sorry,” I said. “Are you waiting to use the bathroom?”

“No, I'm waiting to talk to you.”

“Jeez, I'm in kind of a hurry. Maybe we can talk after I walk Bob.”

Morelli pinned me to the wall. “Let's talk now. Where are you going today?”

“I need to go back to my apartment for clothes.”

“And?”

“And I have a job.”

“I hate to ask. Your jobs have been getting progressively worse. I can't imagine who would hire you after the Cluckin-a-Bucket fiasco. Is it the personal products plant?”

“It's Ranger.”

“That makes sense,” Morelli said. “I should have guessed. I can hardly wait to hear your job description.”

“It's a good job. I'm doing phone work from the office. Nothing in the field. And I get to park in the Rangeman garage, so my car will be secure. Is this where you start yelling?”

Morelli released me. “Hard to believe, but I'm actually relieved. I was afraid you were going to be out there trying to find Spiro today.”

Go figure this. “You love me,” I said to Morelli.

“Yeah. I love you.” He looked at me expectantly. “And?”

“I ... 1-1-like you, too.” Shit.

“Jesus,” Morelli said.

I did a grimace. “I feel it. I just can't say it.”

Bob padded out of the bedroom. “Gak,” Bob said, and he barfed out a slimy mess on the hall carpet.

“Guess that's what's left of my sneaker,” Morelli said.

I parked Morelli's SUV in my lot and ran upstairs to change my clothes. I unlocked my apartment door, rushed inside, and almost stepped on a small, gift-wrapped box. Same wrapping paper Spiro had used for the clock. Same little ribbon bow.

I stared down at the box for a full minute without breathing. I didn't have a gun. I didn't have pepper spray. I didn't have a stun gun. My toys had all gone up in smoke at Cluck-in-a-Bucket.

“Anyone here?” I called out.

No one answered. I knew I should call Ranger and have him go through the apartment, but that felt wimpy. So I backed out, closed the door to my apartment, and called Lula.

Ten minutes later, Lula was standing alongside me in front of the door.

“Okay, open it,” Lula said, gun in hand, taser on her hip, pepper spray stuck into her pocket, bludgeoning flashlight shoved under the waistband of her rhinestone-studded spandex jeans, flak vest stretched to the max over her basketball boobs.

I opened the door and we both peeked inside.