I originally started writing this under a different account and have decided to pick it back up again under my regular one. It's a bit different from my uszhe - I'm having a crack at writing in the style of the books. My intent with this is for it to feel like you're reading an actual Numbers Novel just with more character development and less stagnation, so wish me luck!

I started this way back after book 21 came out so now obviously it's become out of sequence, hence I have retitled it. This story itself is rated T, but if you want to read any sexytimes interludes, please do let me know, and I'll write an extended scene that will fit with the story, but post it as a separate fic.

Please note: this story will contain elements of Stephanie/Ranger, Stephanie/Joe, and Stephanie/Lester.

Prologue

...

There are few things in life I enjoy more than cake. Not being dead is a choice I would make over cake - unless I'm in a dumpster buried below a layer of deli garbage - death is far better than smelling like day old baloney. Specific kinds of cake, in particular my mom's pineapple upside-down cake, are better than the general concept of cake. I'd like to eat Ranger or Morelli like a slice of cake sometimes, but only if I've been cake deprived for an extended period.

Really what I'm saying, is cake is the pinnacle of enjoyment. Better than booze, sex, or illegal substances, and only hazardous when combined with certain variables. Considering my genetics seem to be okay, and today I was able to buckle my belt one notch tighter than yesterday, I'm doing okay in the variables department.

My name is Stephanie Plum. I'm thirty-four years old, drive a 1992 Nissan Sunny, and all my relationships - romantic or otherwise - are worthy of a telenovela. I'm a train wreck who has her image plastered on the side of every bus stop in the Burg, thanks to my not-so-chosen career as Vincent Plum Bail Bonds' sole bounty hunter. I'm also currently trying to decide between the gluten free chocolate cake with an inch of frosting on the top, and an enormous passionfruit and lemon monstrosity, that looks as if it has an entire industrial sized tub of cream cheese icing as the filling.

"The gluten free is basically just chocolate, butter and sugar with some other shit to make it all cakey-like. It's not healthy or nothin'. Don't go feelin' bad just because it's got gluten free in the name."

Lula is the filing clerk at the bonds office. She used to spend her days having sex for cash to pay for her Ferragamos, nowadays she chases after criminals in the Ferragamos, thanks to her aversion to any kind of actual filing, and a disturbing episode that we don't tend to talk about much. Lula is big, black, and probably the coolest person I know. She too, enjoys cake.

"Yo yo, don't go squishin' that chocolate cake in next to the cherry pie. I like my cherry pie chocolate free thank you very much. Stick that baby in another box, I get contaminated cherry pie, I know where you live, Jenny Cipriani. Givin' me one more box than your boss says is okay gonna be the least of your problems."

Lula is also very protective of cherry pie.

Jenny hurriedly grabbed another cake box from beneath the counter and put the pie in it, handing it off to Lula, who promptly passed it to the enormous man next to her. Everyone calls him Tank, which I'm assuming is on account of his size. It could be something to do with an actual tank, I guess, seeing as he's ex military. Regardless, his real name is something French and fancy sounding, and he takes up most of the space in the Tasty Pastry queue line. He tucked the pie box under one arm, and happily continued drinking his Mango Guava juicebox, while Lula paid for her haul.

Jenny then turned to me, and I ordered the gluten free chocolate cake. I'd been feeling a bit bloated recently, and gluten seemed as good as anything to blame it on. To balance out the chocolate, I also ordered a slice of the lemon and passionfruit. I wasn't prepared to lose out on it over some bloating, which could just as easily be attributed to PMS.

I stuck my finger in the icing, shoved the glob in my mouth, and decided it was definitely PMS.

Lula and Tank got in the front of the black Discovery parked outside, and I trailed after them, trying not to get cream cheese on my black tank top. I was dusting powdered sugar off my chest as I got in the SUV, momentarily forgetting about the fourth occupant, who was leering at me in a way that could only be described as creeptastic.

"Keep looking at me like that, Scoletti, and Tank's boot will accidentally connect with your balls."

Jerry Scoletti was the latest cretin to cross my path, and I was no longer in the capture just for the income boost. He'd started out as a high bond FTA, and had eventually become another in a long line of stalkers and people out do do harm against my person. Jerry was a rapist and a suspected serial murderer, who my scumbag cousin Vinnie should never have bailed out in the first place. He was also the son of Vinnie's wife's half sister. It sounds like a tenuous connection, but when the meat in the connective tissue is a guy called Harry the Hammer, you tend to not ask too many questions.

"Man, I sure would love one of those treats you've got in there." Jerry's eyes weren't on my box of cake, so I zapped him with my taser. He'd be drooling into the leather upholstery for the remainder of the short trip to Trenton PD.

"You still want me to get creative with his nuts?" Tank put the car in gear and drove off, not waiting for my response.

"I got a cock ring in my purse for emergency situations. You need the magic touch to get it off, even if the dick's done for the evening, it's a bit tight for anyone with equipment bigger than a number two pencil. You give me the rest of that passionfruit cake and I'll put it on him before he wakes up. I haven't had a reason to bust it out since I was a ho, but this asshole deserves to have his dick fall off for what he did to them girls."

Tank grimaced, but nodded. I think he was relieved Lula never tried it out on him when they were an item.

"If you want to get on the wrong side of Harry, then be my guest. I'm just going to stick with zapping him for now."

"Harry don't scare me. He don't scare Tank either. Does he, Tank?"

Tank grunted and kept driving.

"I bet he don't scare Ranger. Nothin' scares Ranger."

Lula's right. Scoletti wouldn't scare Ranger even a tiny bit. The only thing that scares Ranger is commitment. Commitment, and trans-fat laden foods.

Ranger is tall, built, dangerous, and a large part of my ongoing Spanish soap opera. He started out as my mentor, became my friend, and has caused me more sexual frustration than he's resolved. He's one of two men in my life who are as bad for me as they are perfect.

The other is Joe Morelli. He's a cop, and spends most of his life worrying the next homicide he attends is going to feature me in either a body bag, or a jail cell. I'm currently living with him while my apartment is being redecorated, following an incident with a rocket launcher and a vertically challenged man with an anger problem. If the best way to describe my relationship with Ranger is frustrating, Morelli is a rollercoaster. We've been on and off more times in the last few years than I've had destroyed cars. Which is to say a lot, because my car gets destroyed about once every two weeks. Sometimes more frequently if if there's stalkers, murderers, or angry short guys involved.

This week, my car had lived to survive another day. After collecting the body receipt for Scoletti, Tank dropped Lula and I off at the bonds office, where my Sunny sat in all its early nineties rustbucket glory. Lula got out of the Discovery and stood with the door open for a few moments.

"I swear, Plum. Every time you trade up, the only thing that's bein' upgraded is the rust factor."

I climbed out of the SUV and pulled off the FLAC vest I'd been wearing, thanking Tank for the loaner and the helping hand as I moved around the car to put it with the rest of his kit. Lula was already sashaying away, she hadn't worn a vest, despite Scoletti's high risk nature, claiming it ruined the lines of her leopard print and bright yellow bustier. I was inclined to disagree, as the bustier took away from the pink hot pants with gold trim that were barely covering her generous posterior. Tank leaned around the drivers seat just before I closed the back door.

"Ranger wants to know if you can help out at the office for a few days. Said something about needing your Burg expertise for a sensitive client."

I frowned. "Has he suddenly forgotten how to use a phone?"

Tank shrugged, and I slammed the door and headed for the bonds office, shouting out my agreement as I walked. Tank roared off, and I stomped into the building and flopped down on the cheap vinyl couch. Connie Rossoli, the office manager, looked up from her tabloid and made an expectant face.

"Well?"

"Well what?" I asked.

"Lula said you had some kind of incredible cream cheese cake that I could probably take off your hands, on account of your bloating issue."

I groaned. I had left the cake in the Discovery. "The bloating was from PMS. Besides, I gave the rest of the cake to Tank."

"What about that slice of chocolate what you had in there. You give that to Tank too?" Lula was incredulous. "That man's got enough chocolate hunk already, you don't need to be facilitating his transition from hunk to chunk, you know what I mean?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and was about to share Tank's parting remark, when the door opened, and in walked six feet of Cuban magnetism. He nodded at Connie and Lula, before fixing his gaze on me.

"Babe."

Oh boy.