Seven Up (Stephanie Plum 7)

Morelli pressed his lips tighter together. “Jesus.”

“I was worried the pig heart would be discovered and revenge would be taken out on Mooner and Dougie.”

“Very admirable, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Christ, I'm getting an ulcer. You've got me drinking bottles of Maalox. I hate this. I hate going through the day wondering wh

at harebrained scheme you're involved in, wondering who's shooting at you.”

“That's so hypocritical. You're a cop.”

“I never get shot at. The only time I have to worry about getting shot is when I'm with you.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying you're going to have to choose between me or the job.”

“Well, guess what, I'm not spending the rest of my life with someone who gives me ultimatums.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

And he left, slamming the door behind him. I like to think I'm a pretty stable person, but this was too much. I cried until I was totally cried out and then I ate three doughnuts and took a shower. I toweled off and still felt overwhelmed so I decided to bleach my hair blond. Change is good, right?

“I WANT IT blond,” I told Mr. Arnold, the only hairdresser I could find open on a Sunday. “Platinum blond. I want to look like Marilyn.”

“Darling,” Arnold said, “with your hair you won't look like Marilyn. You'll look like Art Garfunkel.”

“Just do it.”

MR. MORGANSTERN WAS in the lobby when I got back. “Whoa,” he said, “you look like that singer . . . what's the name?”

“Garfunkel?”

“No. The one with the breasts like ice-cream cones.”

“Madonna.”

“Yep. That's the one.”

I let myself into my apartment and went straight to the bathroom and looked at my hair in the mirror. I liked it. It was different. Classy in a slutty sort of way.

I had a stack of mail on the kitchen counter that I'd been avoiding. I got a beer to celebrate my new hair, and I sorted through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. I thumbed through my checkbook. Not enough money. I needed to capture DeChooch.

My guess was DeChooch had a money problem, too. No vig coming in anymore. No money from the cigarette fiasco. Little to no money from The Snake Pit. And now he had no car and no place to live. Correction, he didn't have the Cadillac. He drove away in something. I didn't get a good look at it.

There were four messages on my machine. I hadn't checked them because I was afraid they were from Joe. I suspect the truth is that neither of us is ready to get married. And instead of facing the real issue we're finding ways to sabotage the relationship. We don't talk about important things like kids and jobs. We each take a stand and yell at each other.

Maybe it's just not the right time for us to be married. I don't want to be a bounty hunter for the rest of my life, but I certainly don't want to be a housewife right now. And I really don't want to be married to someone who gives me ultimatums.

And maybe Joe needs to examine what he wants from a wife. He was raised in a traditional Italian household with a stay-at-home mother and domineering father. If he wants a wife who will fit into that mold, I'm not for him. I might be a stay-at-home mother someday, but I'll always be trying to fly off the garage roof. That's just who I am.

So let's see some guts, Blondie, I told myself. This is the new and improved Stephanie. Check out those messages. Be fearless.

I pulled up the first one and it was from my mother.

“Stephanie? This is your mother. I have a nice roast for tonight. And cupcakes for dessert. With sprinkles. The girls like cupcakes.”

The second was another reminder from the bridal shop that my gown was in.