tapdancing in my chest. I was at a total loss. I didn't know what to think or what to say. I didn't know who he was or how he got into my kitchen. He was frightening, but even more than that he had me flustered. It was like going to a birthday party and arriving a day early. It was like ... what the heck's going on?
"How?" I asked. "What?"
"Hey, don't ask me, lady," he said. "I'm as surprised as you are."
"How'd you get into my apartment?"
"Sweet cakes, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." He moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and helped himself to a beer. He cracked the beer open, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know how people get beamed down on
Star Trek?
It's sort of like that."
Okay, so I've got a big slob of a guy drinking beer in my kitchen, and I think he might be crazy. The only other possibility I can come up with is that I'm hallucinating and he isn't real. I smoked some pot in college but that was about it. Don't think I'd get a flashback from wacky tobacky. There were mushrooms on the pizza last night. Could that be it?
Fortunately, I work in bail bond enforcement, and I'm sort of used to scary guys showing up in closets and under beds. I inched my way across the kitchen, stack my hand into my brown bear cookie jar, and pulled out my .38 five-shot Smith & Wesson.
"Gripes," he said, "what are you gonna do, shoot me? Like that would change anything." He looked more closely at the gun and shook his head in another wave of disgust. "Honey, there aren't any bullets in that gun."
"There might be one," I said. "I might have one chambered."
"Yeah, right." He finished the beer and sauntered out of the kitchen, into the living room. He looked around and moved to the bedroom.
"Hey," I yelled. "Where do you think you're going? That's it, I'm calling the police."
"Give me a break," he said. "I'm having a really shitty day." He kicked his boots off and flopped onto my bed. He scoped out the room from his prone position. "Where's the television?"
"In the living room."
"Oh man, you don't even have a television in your bedroom. Someone's really sticking it to me."
I cautiously moved closer to the bed, and I reached out and touched him.
"Yeah, I'm real," he said. "Sort of. And all my equipment works." He smiled for the first time. It was a knock-your-socks-off smile. Dazzling white teeth and good-humored eyes that crinkled at the corners. "In case you're interested."
The smile was good. The news was bad. I didn't know what
sort of real
meant. And I wasn't sure I liked the idea that his equipment worked. All in all, it didn't do a lot to help my heart rate. Truth is, I'm pretty much a chickenshit bounty hunter. Still, while I'm not the world's bravest person, I can bluff with the best of them, so I did an eye-roll. "Get a grip."
"You'll come around," he said. "They always do."
"They?"
"Women. Women love me," he said.
Good thing I didn't have a bullet chambered as threatened because I'd definitely shoot this guy. "Do you have a name?"
"Diesel."
"Is that your first name or your last name?"
"That's my whole name. Who are
you?"
"Stephanie Plum."
"You live here alone?"
"No."
"That's a big fib," he said. "You have
living alone
written all over you."
I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me?"
"You're not exactly a sex goddess," he said. "Hair from hell. Baggy sweatpants. No make-up. Lousy personality. Not that there isn't some potential. You have an okay shape. What are you, 34B? And you've got a good mouth. Nice pouty lips." He threw me another smile. "A guy could get ideas looking at those lips."
Great. The nutcase who somehow got into my apartment was getting ideas about my lips. Thoughts of serial rapists and sex killings went racing through my mind. My mother's warnings echoed in my ears.
Watch out for strangers. Keep your door locked.
Yes, but it's not my fault, I reasoned. He's a crazy alien. How do you keep aliens out?
I took his boots, carried them to the front
"How?" I asked. "What?"
"Hey, don't ask me, lady," he said. "I'm as surprised as you are."
"How'd you get into my apartment?"
"Sweet cakes, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." He moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and helped himself to a beer. He cracked the beer open, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know how people get beamed down on
Star Trek?
It's sort of like that."
Okay, so I've got a big slob of a guy drinking beer in my kitchen, and I think he might be crazy. The only other possibility I can come up with is that I'm hallucinating and he isn't real. I smoked some pot in college but that was about it. Don't think I'd get a flashback from wacky tobacky. There were mushrooms on the pizza last night. Could that be it?
Fortunately, I work in bail bond enforcement, and I'm sort of used to scary guys showing up in closets and under beds. I inched my way across the kitchen, stack my hand into my brown bear cookie jar, and pulled out my .38 five-shot Smith & Wesson.
"Gripes," he said, "what are you gonna do, shoot me? Like that would change anything." He looked more closely at the gun and shook his head in another wave of disgust. "Honey, there aren't any bullets in that gun."
"There might be one," I said. "I might have one chambered."
"Yeah, right." He finished the beer and sauntered out of the kitchen, into the living room. He looked around and moved to the bedroom.
"Hey," I yelled. "Where do you think you're going? That's it, I'm calling the police."
"Give me a break," he said. "I'm having a really shitty day." He kicked his boots off and flopped onto my bed. He scoped out the room from his prone position. "Where's the television?"
"In the living room."
"Oh man, you don't even have a television in your bedroom. Someone's really sticking it to me."
I cautiously moved closer to the bed, and I reached out and touched him.
"Yeah, I'm real," he said. "Sort of. And all my equipment works." He smiled for the first time. It was a knock-your-socks-off smile. Dazzling white teeth and good-humored eyes that crinkled at the corners. "In case you're interested."
The smile was good. The news was bad. I didn't know what
sort of real
meant. And I wasn't sure I liked the idea that his equipment worked. All in all, it didn't do a lot to help my heart rate. Truth is, I'm pretty much a chickenshit bounty hunter. Still, while I'm not the world's bravest person, I can bluff with the best of them, so I did an eye-roll. "Get a grip."
"You'll come around," he said. "They always do."
"They?"
"Women. Women love me," he said.
Good thing I didn't have a bullet chambered as threatened because I'd definitely shoot this guy. "Do you have a name?"
"Diesel."
"Is that your first name or your last name?"
"That's my whole name. Who are
you?"
"Stephanie Plum."
"You live here alone?"
"No."
"That's a big fib," he said. "You have
living alone
written all over you."
I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me?"
"You're not exactly a sex goddess," he said. "Hair from hell. Baggy sweatpants. No make-up. Lousy personality. Not that there isn't some potential. You have an okay shape. What are you, 34B? And you've got a good mouth. Nice pouty lips." He threw me another smile. "A guy could get ideas looking at those lips."
Great. The nutcase who somehow got into my apartment was getting ideas about my lips. Thoughts of serial rapists and sex killings went racing through my mind. My mother's warnings echoed in my ears.
Watch out for strangers. Keep your door locked.
Yes, but it's not my fault, I reasoned. He's a crazy alien. How do you keep aliens out?
I took his boots, carried them to the front
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