Get a grip! I told myself. We're talking about a simple sex act here. This isn't a medical emergency like having a heart attack. This can wait twenty-?four hours.
I took a deep breath. Twenty-?four hours. I was feeling better. I was in control. I was a rational woman. I put the Porsche into gear and cruised down the street.
Piece of cake. I can last it.
I got to the corner and noticed lights in my rearview mirror.
Not many people out in this neighborhood, at this hour, on a work night. I turned the corner, parked, cut my lights, and watched the car stop in front of Morelli's house. After a couple minutes Morelli got out and walked to his door, and the car began to roll down the street toward me.
I gripped the wheel tight, so the Porsche wouldn't be tempted to go into reverse and zoom back to Morelli's. Less than twentyfour hours, I repeated, and my legs would be smooth as silk and my hair would be clean. But wait a minute! Morelli has a shower and a razor. This is all baloney. There's no need to wait.
I shifted into reverse just as the other car came into the intersection. I caught a glimpse of the driver and felt my heart go dead in my chest. It was Terry Gilman.
Say what? Terry Gilman!
There was an explosion of red behind my eyeballs. Shit. I was such a sap. I hadn't suspected. I'd thought he'd changed. I'd believed he was different from the other Morellis. Here I was worrying over leg hair, when Morelli was out doing God knows what with Terry Gilman. Unh! Major mental smack in the head.
I squinted at the car as it cleared the intersection and motored on. Terry was oblivious to my presence. Probably planning out the rest of her night. Probably going off to whack someone's grandmother.
Well, who cares about Morelli, anyway. Not me. I could care less. There was only one thing I cared about. Chocolate.
I put my foot to the pedal and careened away from the curb. Clear the streets. Stephanie's got a Porsche and needs a Snickers bar.
I reached the 7-Eleven in record time, blasted through the store, and left with a full bag. Hey, Morelli, orgasm this.
I entered my lot at warp speed, screeched to a stop, stomped up the stairs, down the hall, and kicked my door open. “Shit!”
Rex stopped running on his wheel and looked at me.
“You heard me,” I said. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Briggs sat up. “What the hell's going on? I'm trying to get some sleep here.”
“Don't push your luck. Don't speak to me.”
He squinted at me. “What are you wearing? Is that some new form of birth control?”
I grabbed the hamster cage and bag of candy, carted everything off to my bedroom, and slammed my door shut. I ate the 100 Grand bar first, and then the Kit Kat, and then the Snickers. I was starting to feel sick, but I ate the Baby Ruth and the Almond Joy and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.
“Okay, I'm feeling much better now,” I said to Rex.
Then I burst into tears.
When I was done crying I told Rex it was only hormones reacting with a prediabetic surge of insulin from eating all those candy bars . . . so he shouldn't worry. I went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Crying is fucking exhausting.
I awoke the next morning with my eyes crusty and puffed from crying and my spirit lower than slug slime. I lay there for about ten minutes wallowing in my misery, thinking of ways to kill myself, deciding on smoking. But then I didn't have any cigarettes, and I wasn't in a mood to traipse back to the 7-Eleven. Anyway, I was working with Ranger now, so probably I could just let nature take its course.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom where I stared at myself in the mirror. “Get a grip, Stephanie,” I said. “You have a Porsche and a SEALS hat, and you're broadening your horizons.”
I was afraid after all those candy bars I was also broadening my ass, and I should get some exercise. I was still dressed in my sweats, so I wriggled into a sports bra and laced up my running shoes.
Briggs was already at work at his computer when I came out of my bedroom. “Look who's here . . . Mary Sunshine,” he said. “Christ, you look like shit.”
“This is nothing,” I told him. “Wait until you see what I look like when I'm done running.”
I returned drenched in sweat and feeling very pleased with myself. Stephanie Plum, woman in charge. Screw Morelli. Screw Terry Gilman. Screw the world.
I had a chicken sandwich for breakfast and took a shower. Just to be mean I put the beer on the top shelf in the refrigerator, told Briggs to have a rotten day, and zoomed off in my Porsche to the Grand Union. Dual-?purpose trip. Talk to Leona and Allen and shop for real food. I parked about a half mile away from the store so no one would park next to me and ding my door. I got out and looked at the Porsche. It was perfect. It was a totally kick-?ass car. When you had a car like this you didn't mind so much that your boyfriend was boinking a skank.