Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“He’s hot,” Lula said, “but he’s a pig. All men are pigs.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No, but it’s a point of view to keep in mind. You don’t want to go around thinkin’ shit is your fault. Next thing you know, they got you makin’ pot roast and you’re cutting up your MasterCard.”

“I don’t know how to make pot roast.”

“Good for you,” Lula said. “I don’t suppose you got anything that would fit me. Like a big T-shirt. I’m all covered in barbecue sauce, and I’m beat.”

I gave Lula an extra quilt and pillow and a worn-out T-shirt that belonged to Morelli. I said good night and I closed the door to my bedroom. I didn’t especially want to see Lula in Morelli’s T-shirt. Lula was a lot shorter than Morelli and a lot wider. Lula wearing Morelli’s T-shirt wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

I woke up in a panic a little after midnight, thinking someone was sawing through my bedroom door. A couple seconds later, my head cleared, and I realized it was Lula snoring in my living room. I put my pillow over my head, but I could still hear Lula. Three hours later, I was thrashing around, plotting out ways to kill her. I got out of bed, marched into the living room, and yelled in her face.

“Wake up!”

Nothing.

“Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!”

Lula opened her eyes. “Huh?”

“You’re snoring.”

“You woke me up to tell me that?”

“Yes! My first choice was to suffocate you, but I don’t have the energy to drag your lifeless body out to the Dumpster.”

“Well, I happen to know I don’t snore. You must have dreamed it.”

“I didn’t dream it. You snore loud enough to wake the dead. Roll over or something. I have to go to work in the morning. I need my sleep.”

Brrrrrp. Lula let one go.

“Holy Toledo!” I said, backing away, fanning the air. “That’s disgusting.”

“I don’t think it’s so bad,” Lula said. “It smells a little like ribs.”

I DROVE TO Rangeman in pouring rain. The temperature had dropped overnight, and the heater was broken on my car, so I was freezing my butt off. I parked in the underground garage, took the elevator to the fifth floor, and shuffled past the control desk to my cubicle. I turned my computer on, and next thing I knew, Ranger was standing over me.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“You were asleep at your desk. I was afraid you were going to fall out of your chair and get a concussion.”

I told him about Lula and the meat cleaver giggler, and the shooting, and the sleeping and snoring.

“Go to my apartment and take a nap,” Ranger said. “I’ll be out all morning on a job site. I’ll catch up with you when I come back.”

Ranger left and I finished a computer search I was doing on a job applicant. I took the elevator to the seventh floor and let myself into Ranger’s apartment. It very faintly smelled like citrus, and everything was in perfect order. No thanks to Ranger. This was Ella’s handiwork.

First thing in the morning Ella went through, polishing and straightening. Ranger’s bed was made with fresh linens. His bathroom was gleaming clean, his towels neatly folded.

I kicked my shoes off, wriggled out of my jeans, slid under the covers, and thought this might be as close as I’d ever come to paradise. Ranger’s three hundred thread count sheets were smooth and cool and heavenly soft. His pillows were just right. His mattress was just right. His feather quilt was just right. If Ranger were the marrying type, I’d marry him in a heartbeat just for his bed. There were other good reasons to hook up with Ranger, but the bed would be the clincher. Unfortunately, there were also some major reasons not to hook up with Ranger.

SIX

I OPENED MY eyes and looked at my watch. It was almost one o’clock. I rolled out of bed, pulled my jeans on, and was tying my shoes when I heard the front door to Ranger’s apartment open. Keys clinked onto the silver tray on the hall sideboard. A beat later, there was a heavy clunk, and I suspected this was his gun getting dropped onto the kitchen counter. Moments later, Ranger strode into the bedroom.