Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

movie.
    “What’s up?” she said.
    “Not much. Everything okay out here?”
    “As good as it could be, considering I’m in deprivation central.”
    I closed and locked my door again. Damn. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Especially the one that was black-and-blue and swollen. I set my alarm on low for four o’clock, turned my light out, and crawled under the covers.

SIXTEEN
     
    IT WAS DARK when I woke up. The alarm hadn’t gone off. I had to pee. I stumbled out of bed, unlocked my door, and squinted out into the black apartment. Joyce had finally gone to sleep. Good deal. I could quietly pee, and then I could zap Joyce.
    I tiptoed into the bathroom, where I’d left a dim nightlight burning. I felt my foot brush against something furry, and I jumped away. I ran back to my bedroom with my heart racing, got the Glock, and ran back to the bathroom door.
    I saw the animal backed into the corner. Too big for Rex. Rat, I thought.
Big
rat! I could see its tail and hideous fat body. I drilled about ten holes into it. It wasn’t moving. I flipped the light on and looked at the carnage. It took a couple beats for me to figure it out. It was Joyce’s hairpiece.
    “What the hell?” Joyce said, standing behind me. “You just killed my piece.”
    “I thought it was a rat.”
    “You ever see a redheaded rat? I paid big bucks for that piece. It was real hair.”
    “I’m sorry. It was dark.”
    “I don’t know why I’m living with you,” Joyce said. “You’re such a loser.”
    “Be careful,” I told her. “I’ve still got the gun in my hand. And I’m caring less about my rug.”
    I looked at Joyce and realized she was naked.
    “You’re naked,” I said. “What’s with that?”
    “That’s how I sleep.”
    “That’s disgusting. I don’t want to see you naked. And I don’t want you naked on my couch. I’m going to have to fumigate it.”
    “What, I suppose you haven’t got an STD?”
    “Eeeeuw. No!”
    I scurried into the bathroom, wiped the toilet seat down with rubbing alcohol, took care of business, and went back to my bedroom. I locked my door and moved my chest of drawers in front of it.
• • •
    When I ventured out of my bedroom a few hours later, Joyce was dressed and watching television. Her hair was withoutenhancement, looking freaking scary, and she hadn’t removed last night’s makeup. The overall effect was Bride of Frankenstein.
    I slipped into my bathroom and looked at the floor. The dead hair had been removed, but there were ten rounds embedded into the tile. The good news is that I obviously know how to shoot the Glock. One less thing to worry about.
    I studied my face in the mirror. The swelling had gone down, but the bruising would stop traffic. I took a fast shower, got dressed, and hustled to the kitchen.
    “Coffee!” Joyce yelled at me. “I need coffee.”
    “Coming up. Why didn’t you make it for yourself?”
    “I couldn’t find any Kona. Where do you keep your good coffee?”
    “The same place I keep my crappy, cheap coffee. Oh wait a minute, I only have one kind of coffee.”
    If she stayed here long enough, I would for sure kill her. I needed a new plan. Something that didn’t involve hair pulling and bitch slapping, because I’d lose that one. I’d missed my chance to zap her last night. I had to think of something better today. Maybe I could tag team with Lula. One of us could distract her and one of us could zap her.
    I made coffee, but beyond that, there wasn’t much. My mom’s leftovers were gone. I had half a box of crackers, half a box of Froot Loops, and hamster crunchies. No milk, no juice, no fruit, no bread. The peanut butter jar was empty. I ate a handful of Froot Loops and brought the rest of the box to Joyce with her coffee.
    “This is all I’ve got,” I said. “I have to go shopping.”
    “Froot Loops?”
    “They’re almost like fruit,” I told her.
    “I need cream for my coffee. And I like a croissant for breakfast.”
    “Turns out I’m all out of cream and croissants, but I’ll bring something good back for lunch.”
    Plus, I would bring Lula and the stun gun.
    “I want chicken salad from Giovichinni’s,” Joyce said. “And get a bottle of chardonnay.”
    “You bet.”
    What I was going to get her was enough volts to light up a small city.
    I chugged my coffee, shoved my computer between my mattress and box spring, put the tools of my trade back into my messenger bag, and grabbed a sweatshirt.
    “There are a bunch