Somewhere in an A/U. Characters belong to Janet Evanovich; I'm just playing, not making any money on this project (sadly).

Babe story; HEA; smut alert and graphic language ahead, so be warned.

THIS NEVER HAPPENED

By Jude

Chapter 1

"If he moves that sad little sock puppet of his any closer to me, I swear to God I'm going to show him how much damage 4 inch stilettos can really do," I guaranteed my giggling companions as we watched the almost naked male dancer gyrate in what had to be the absolute worst attempt to turn a woman on that I'd ever seen in my 26 or so years.

Not that I've been the object of that many men trying to turn me on, mind you. Sadly. And certainly not lately: I'd been off men completely since my 5 minute marriage to that primo horse's ass Dickie Orr had gone sour after I'd caught him boinking my life-long nemesis and champion skank Joyce Barnhardt on our dining room table. I hadn't had an orgasm in a dog's age…an old dog, at that. And frankly, it didn't look like that was going to change anytime soon. Nope, men were pond scum, not to be trusted in a relationship; I'd learned that the hard way. But, hell, I admit I'd kinda been looking forward tonight to seeing a really hunky well-endowed guy up close and personal as he strutted his stuff in just one step above his birthday suit. My hormones weren't dead, after all; they were just on a very long sabbatical.

My name, by the way, is Stephanie Plum. Formerly Orr, but thankfully the papers I'd received from my attorney yesterday had legally wiped that unfortunate chapter out of my life and restored my maiden name to me once and for all. I'm 5'7", with an unmanageable riot of curly brown hair, blue eyes, and a Hungarian-Italian ancestry that I readily admit is truly scary. I might be unlucky in the men department, but Life had blessed me with my Hungarian genes which had allowed me (thus far) to indulge in my passion for junk food and sweets without hauling the results around on my ass. From what my Grandma Mazur tells me, that blessing lasts only until age 40, so I'm still safe for another 14 years. That's a lot of TastyKakes and Pino's pizza; but since I'm giving up men, I intend to make the most of my genetic advantage. Hey, a girl's gotta live a little, right?

I'm currently employed as a lingerie buyer for EE Martin in Newark, NJ, and my companions this evening were a dozen or so of my female co-workers. While the job isn't anywhere near as sexy or exciting as it may sound to some, it pays the bills just fine and allows me to rent my own one bedroom apartment in Chambersburg where I grew up. EE Martin is a far cry from Victoria's Secret, another addiction of mine. I spend my days haggling over the price of nylon panties and dealing with guys who are hoping to get into mine. Not happening, either before or after Dickie Orr. Nope, like I said: I'm steering clear of the male population for the next 20 years or so. They just aren't to be trusted. But damn, I'd still hoped to get myself a floor show tonight of what all I'd been missing out on. Damn hormones!

The pasty-skinned stripper--now down to only a black satin g-string and wiggling desperately--was truly pathetic. No muscles. Not a very impressive package either, as my over-sexed Grandma Mazur would say. Whoever the hell had hired him for this bachelorette party ought to be shot for her efforts. I had strong suspicions who that was, but that was neither here nor there. A dozen of us had all contributed $75 each to the office kitty to fund what was supposed to be a really great bachelorette party for our well-liked office manager Stella Markowitz. Clearly we'd gotten hosed for our efforts. Not the first time, unfortunately. Wouldn't be the last, either.

Let me assure you that I can appreciate a nearly naked man gyrating in front of my face just fine, thank you very much. Just not this particular guy--no matter how drunk I might get or how hormonal I happened to be at the moment. Nope, this damned fool was about as appealing to me as watching my old high school history teacher Elroy McFurkle strip. Hell, for all I knew, this could well be good old Elroy's progeny: I could kind of see the resemblance in the beady eyes and the nerdy vapid face, now that I thought about it. Good God Almighty, that was more than scary!

"I need another drink," I blurted suddenly, shaking my head to drive out the unwelcome picture. Thoughts of Elroy in a g-string were enough to make me want to toss my cookies, and now every time I looked at this guy I was gonna have that picture burned into my poor brain. "Anyone heading to the bar for a refill?"

"Nah, I'll pass this time around," said my long time EE Martin co-worker Tina as she took another sip of her martini and rolled her eyes long-sufferingly, "Hey? Question for you, Stevie. Do you think we can slip him dollar bills to put his clothes back on?"

"Try it, couldn't hurt any." I advised. Hell, I'd contribute $20 to that cause myself.

"Geez, Louise! Is this guy the absolute dregs or what?" Stella, our petite no-longer-bubbly bride-to-be wailed unhappily as she flounced over to our table, "I swear, this just plain sucks! I get probably the one opportunity of my entire life to get a hot stud muffin peeling his clothes off especially for me, and instead of a Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt look-a-like, Gladys picks a guy who could double for Drew Carey. What the fuck kind of a bachelorette party is this, anyway?"

"I knew it was Gladys," I snorted, rising unsteadily to my feet and grabbing my bag, "Bitch! She probably spent our money in Atlantic City and asked one of her loser cousins to fill in tonight. Probably told him he was a sure thing to get laid."

"Not even if I'd had a dozen of these. I'm horny, but I'm not desperate," Tina waved her martini glass at me, wiggling her eyebrows like Groucho Marx. We all broke out laughing. "Go, go, get your refill and get back before he takes anything else off."

"Threaten me with that visual, sister, and I'll stay gone," I warned, giving her a quick wink, "Expect me when you see me. I'm strongly considering calling it an early night."

"Not fair," came a chorus of replies, "If we have to suffer, you do too."

"We'll see about that," I laughed, "I feel a headache coming on." I headed out the door and ambled towards the hotel's bar. I really really didn't want to go back inside to the party; I just wasn't in the mood any longer. I checked my watch, debating a trip upstairs to my room for the night. The wedding was tomorrow afternoon, so we'd booked a block of rooms in the hotel for a long weekend. After this bust of a party, I was looking forward to a long relaxing soak in the tub and a good Pay Per View movie. With Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt--or hell, anyone but Drew Carey. EEEEUUU. My poor eyes.

Still undecided on whether to stay or go, I parked myself on a stool and waited to catch the busy bartender's attention. I didn't have to wait long: I was wearing a tight red dress that showed my figure off to perfection and revealed long tanned legs that were drawing very appreciative stares from several of the men in the vicinity. I ignored them; hell, they were probably married and--like Dickie had been during our brief marriage--just out looking for a booty call. Creeps!

"What can I get you, pretty lady?" the bartender gave me the once-over. He wasn't bad looking, but he wasn't my type so I didn't give him more than a polite smile.

"Chocolate martini, please."

"You got it," he grinned, and set to work efficiently making my current favorite drink. I couldn't hold my liquor worth a damn, and this was my third--or was it my fourth?--of the night. At this rate I would be lucky not to be so hung over for the wedding that I'd have a hard time hauling my ass out of bed in the morning. Whatever.

I gave a long sigh and considered my now empty ring finger. It didn't seem that long ago since I myself had been a bride-to-be happily anticipating spending the rest of my life as Mrs. Richard Orr, making my mother euphoric at the thought that I'd landed a good catch and would soon start churning out her long-desired grandchildren. Not that I'd ever really considered myself mother material, mind you. It was just what was expected in the Burg; all my friends had been settling down at that age, as well. It just had never occurred to me not to do the same. And look how well that turned out, I reminded myself.

What a prime A fool I'd been to trust the bastard. The ink hadn't dried on our marriage license before I caught him cheating--in our own house yet! Well, at least I hadn't gone quietly. Nope. I was single handedly responsible for making Dickie Orr persona non grata at his stuffy law firm and sinking every opportunity he'd ever have of stepping up the ladder in future--as well as torching his planned foray into the political arena. The Burg grapevine had been focused on us for months, and by the time I'd finished with The Dick, he'd been damned lucky to keep his current job. Son of a bitch. God, I hated Dickie Orr with a passion that knew no bounds. And the sex hadn't even been that good. What a gyp!

"Men totally suck. Here's to nothing," I muttered quietly, pushing a few bills over the counter and hoisting my glass in a private toast. I tossed back the drink in a few quick gulps, and quickly spun out of my chair headed for the elevator. I'd finally decided--I was definitely making a break for it!

Instead I crashed into a solid wall of muscle and found myself up close and personal staring at the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen in my life. Holy Moly Mother of God! What a hunk! Why the hell wasn't he stripping for me?

His dark chocolate eyes sparkled wickedly and he gave me a wolf grin. "You never asked me to, Babe. But we can talk about it upstairs if you'd like."

Oh crap. I'd said it out loud! Me and my big mouth!

Damned chocolate martinis!