I'm back! Sorry for my lack of updating A Rare Delicacy, but RL hasn't been kind to me these past few months. I'm ready to write again and I hope you all are willing to read again! Enjoy this new little ficlet, hope every one had a great holiday and has a happy new year!

"Think we'll be able to catch ol' Seymour tomorrow night?" Lula asked me around a mouthful of chocolate Häagen-Dazs.

I scoffed. "Of course," I said. "He's thirty-five years old, still lives with his mother, and makes cremation urns for a living out of his basement. If he's not home, then the Pope isn't Catholic."

"Damn skippy," agreed Lula. "Losers like him have nowhere else to be but home. Now us? We're out and about. We're at the mall, having dinner. With tons of other people." She looked around the Food Court and nodded in satisfaction. "We've got lives."

I was sitting on a cold metal mall chair in jeans soaked with grape juice. I had mustard in my hair, mayonnaise staining my tee shirt, and boots sporting Dumpster crud. My bruised shins ached from being slammed into the edge of a truck bumper, and the beginnings of a black eye, courtesy of Rita Garafaglio, were making my left eye swell shut.

Now, what the hell kind of life is that?

"I must reek pretty bad now," I said to Lula after awhile. "People are starting to stare."

Lula finished off her ice cream and licked the spoon clean. "Yeah," she said, looking at me like I was pond scum. "You need a shower. And a bonfire for those clothes."

We scraped our chairs back against the tile and gathered up our bags. Lula tossed her ice cream cup and helped me limp over to the trash can so that I could discard my Sbarro garbage. Since my legs didn't seem to want to cooperate much after sitting in the Food Court for so long, Lula offered to bring my car around to the nearest mall entrance so that I didn't have to walk far.

"You just wait here," she commanded, assisting me onto a bench and piling our bags up on the seat next to me. "I'll only be a minute." Lula, in a pair of shocking-green spandex leggings and a hot pink wrap jacket, took off with my keys and left me sitting by myself in the middle of the mall.

Several shoppers walked by and sniffed the air before grimacing or turning their noses up. A group of older ladies walked by and asked each other, "What is that smell?"

I sighed, tired of all of the stares and comments. "It's me, okay?" I called after them. "I had a bad day at work!"

The ladies ducked their heads and hurried on by, no doubt mortified. Where the hell was Lula?

Ten minutes later, Lula hurried up to me and began scooping up all of our purchases. "I'm parked in the fire lane out in front of the East Entrance," she informed me. "We'd better hurry or they'll tow your Jeep."

Swell. "My legs hurt too bad to hurry," I muttered. I lifted my ass off of the wooden bench and hobbled after Lula. She stopped and waited until I grabbed hold of her elbow before taking off again.

A crash behind us caused me to quickly turn around. Lula had dropped one of our bags.

"My boots!" she screeched. Lula dashed behind me where a tall guy with a ponytail was holding up her Macy's bag.

"I believe you dropped this," he said, smiling a million-dollar smile at Lula.

"Thank you," Lula exclaimed. She took the bag from the man. "You know a woman's gotta have her boots."

He continued to smile. I noticed that he'd been standing in front of a small table set up near the entrance to the Food Court. An older woman sat behind the table with a pen and notebook, watching us. "I'm sure they'll look divine on you."

If Lula could blush, I was certain that she'd be bright pink by now. "Ain't you a charmer," she remarked, fanning herself. "You and that Rambo ponytail." She nudged me. "Don't he look like your boy?"

I shrugged, not really caring about much besides finding my Jeep and driving home to clean clothes and a shower.

"What's this you've got set up here?" Lula wanted to know, motioning toward his table. Several black and white photos lined the top of the table. Joseph Casale Modeling and Career Agency was scrawled on a banner across the front of the tablecloth.

"We are recruiting for modeling contest," the man replied smoothly. I noticed that he had a slight accent and that his lips seemed programmed to constantly smile. "The lucky winners will receive a photo shoot with Annie Leibovitz and a six-day, seven-night cruise in the South of France. Not to mention a complete new wardrobe, a hair-styling session with Pierre Alexandre, and the chance to become world-famous."

Lula's eyes lit up. "Yeah? Well, sign me up," she exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes and limped over to where Lula and the man were standing. "Um, Lula," I began. "My Jeep -

"This'll only take a second," Lula chided me.

The man chuckled, interrupting us both. "Ladies, I regret to inform you that we are recruiting gentlemen only. The photos from the shoot will be made into a 2011 calendar."

"Oh," Lula said, not able to hide her disappointment. "Well. Can't help you there."

The man laughed again. "Certainly not."

While Lula and the man were talking, the cog wheels in my brain began cranking. By the time the casual banter between Lula and Mr. Model had dwindled down, a master plan had formed in my head and was now in full swing.

I ignored the pains in my legs and the stares from everyone around me as I hobbled up to the woman sitting at the modeling table.

"Have you had much luck here today?" I asked her, gesturing around the mall.

She shook her head. "Not really," she admitted. "No one's really been male-model material."

Hunh. "I've got some friends who might be interested in auditioning," I said quietly. "May I have your contact information so that I can email you their photos?"

The woman's eyes lit up. "Certainly," she exclaimed. She pulled out a business card containing several phone numbers and web addresses. "I'd love to hear from you."

Lula came lumbering up to the table with all of the bags. "What's going on here?"

"I'll tell you later," I hissed to her. I turned back to the woman and smiled. "My name's Stephanie Plum. I'll contact you as soon as I've got everything gathered up."

"Wonderful," she replied.

I practically dragged Lula over to the East Entrance. "Tell me if I'm crazy, but I'm thinking of entering the guys in that modeling contest. They're all so sexy that they could have a chance at winning!"

Lula's eyes bugged out of her skull and her mouth was gaping-goldfish quality. "You serious? They'd never go for that."

"Did you hear about all of those fantastic prizes? Come on, Lula. They'll definitely go for it."

"I can see some of them maybe being interested, but Batman'll put a damper on this plan so quick -

"Forget Ranger," I hissed. "I can talk him into letting the guys do it." My legs were killing me from hauling Lula just now and all I wanted to do was shut myself into my Jeep. We exited the mall and came face-to-face with a tow truck in the fire lane.

"Ooops," Lula said quietly. My Jeep was on the lift, preparing to be carted away.

"Wait!" I shouted to the driver through his open cab window, but he gunned the engine of the tow truck and roared away in a cloud of diesel exhaust fumes. "SHIT!"

Lula sighed. "Guess we spent too long at the modeling table."

I turned to her. "If you hadn't gotten friendly with Fabio back there, then we'd have made it to the Jeep before mall security called the wrecker!"

"Hey," Lula said defensively. "Who was chatting it up with the modeling lady, exchanging information and shit?"

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled. I took my cell phone out of my shoulder bag and hit speed dial #1.

A few rings sounded before, "Babe. Headed to the towyard?"

I sighed. Those damn trackers of his. "No. But my Jeep is."

"Need a ride?"

"Quaker Bridge Mall, East Entrance. We're outside. You'll probably see Lula before you see anything else."

"Give me twenty." The line went dead.

Ice packs were on both of my shins and a bag of frozen peas was situated over my left eye. I'd showered and shaved after throwing my clothes off of the fire escape in a fit of rage. To my horror, I'd watched from my bedroom window as old Mr. Wolesky inspected them before picking them up and disappearing back inside the building with them. I prayed that he wouldn't recognize them and try to give them back to me.

Someone knocked at my door ten minutes after I'd sat down with the ice packs. I hobbled over to the door and checked out the peep hole. Shit. It was Mr. Wolesky!

I threw open the door. "What's up?" I asked him.

He held out my clothes. "These flew off of a fire escape a little while ago," he said, making a face. "I figured they were yours. They smell pretty bad."

"Thanks," I mumbled, taking my ruined jeans and rancid tee shirt from him.

"Somebody roll you in garbage again today?" he asked.

I nodded. "Rita Garafaglio. Tossed my keys and stun gun into the Dumpster right after she got me in the eye."

"Yeah, she's a pip. She plays bingo at the Polish National Hall with me on Tuesdays. Someday you'll have a job where you won't have to go through this anymore," he said with a smile. "I'm sure of it."

I grinned back half-heartedly. "Thanks," I said.

"You got it, chickie." Mr. Wolesky pointed a bony finger at me. "Keep your chin up."

After Mr. Wolesky left, I took the clothes and bagged them in a Hefty bag. "Hasta la vista," I exclaimed to the bag. I put on a pair of flip flops and hobbled the bag down to the large garbage bin near the rear entrance to my apartment building. I tossed them inside and slammed the lid shut before painfully hiking back up to my apartment.

I sat down on the couch with my ice packs in place and my laptop up and running in my lap. The card for Joseph Casale Modeling and Career Agency was on the cushion next to me.

Should I? Sane Stephanie was asking.

Go for it! exclaimed Stupid Stephanie.

Stupid Stephanie won, fair and square. I got to work. I made a list of the guys who I thought might be interested and saved it as Potential Calendar-Boys. By the time I'd finished, I realized that I'd only saved eleven names. I figured I'd give myself some time to think about the twelfth guy while I posted pictures onto the other guys' bios.

Hmmm. I didn't exactly know a whole lot about the eleven that I'd picked, because most of them use one-word answers and rarely initiate conversation with me.

A slow, devious smile spread across my face as I devised yet another plan. Since I had hardly anything on them, I was going to have to make it up.

Cal Chambers
Enjoys long walks on the beach, wine-tasting, and lovely blondes.
Fly fishes when the weather is nice. Favorite holiday is Valentine's Day.
Age: 32. Sex: Male. Marital status: Single. Height: 6'3". Weight: 240.
Email address: Cal Chambers at RangemanTrenton . com

Pierre "Tank" LaPeter
Likes dark chocolate fondue and Mexican food. Has a thing for full-figured Black women.
Enjoys Christmas, romantic chick-flicks, and playing the harp.
Age: 29. Sex: Male. Marital status: Single. Height: 6'4". Weight: 252.
Email address: Tank LaPeter at RangemanTrenton . com

Lester Santos
Loves hanging out on the beach in Speedos and tanning. Has several large pet tigers.
Enjoys reality TV, cooking Spanish food, and sunny spring showers. Is obsessed with whitening his teeth.
Age: 28. Sex: Male. Marital status: Playboy. Height: 6'2". Weight: 190.
Email address: Lester Santos at RangemanTrenton . com

Robert Brown
Enjoys yoga on his Wii and windsurfing during the summer. Was an amateur chess player in college.
Has a thing for petite brunettes who drive Italian sports cars. Once got married in Vegas to his third cousin.
Age: 28. Sex: Male. Marital status: Divorced. Height: 6'1. Weight: 200.
Email address: Bobby Brown at RangemanTrenton . com

By the time I was finished writing Bobby's "bio", I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. I definitely needed a beer before starting Hal's bio. I limped into the kitchen for a Bud Light and carried it back to the couch. It was surprisingly easier than I thought to come up with stuff about the guys because I was certain that not one bit of it was even close to being true. My only fear was that someone from the modeling agency would call and request a picture of one of Lester's tigers or ask Tank to play a harp.

My twelfth and final guy came to me as I was finishing up Hector's bio. I must have had a death wish with this last one because the war between Sane Stephanie and Stupid Stephanie amped up to Desert Storm quality and, eventually, Stupid Steph kicked Sane Steph's ass. I finished off my second beer and sat back against the couch cushions with a smile on my face.

I found photos of all of the guys on my hard drive, in my picture file. Some were of us all at company functions, some were of us out on the field, some were of us partying after a distraction job. I cropped several of the pictures and attached them to their respective bios. They were ready to send to Joseph Casale.

I hit send and sat back against the couch again. My stomach felt slightly queasy when I thought of what the guys would do to me if they ended up being outraged by all of this, but there was nothing I could do about it now. The bios were officially the property of Joseph Casale Modeling and Career Agency.

Lula called me not long after I'd sent the email to Joseph Casale.

"White girl. Did you do it? Did you send those people the info about the guys?"

"Yeah," I replied. "I'm not sure if I'll get a response, though. The guys might not be what they're looking for."

"They for damn sure are what they're looking for," Lula objected. "Once those modeling folks get a load of all that muscle and pure male sexiness, they'll be calling them up for certain."

"I don't know," I said slowly. "I hope this doesn't backfire. I mean, so what if they get called to audition? It's not like they can't say no. They don't have to do it. It's just a good opportunity that I didn't think they should pass up."

"I hear you. Well, call me if you or the guys hear from the agency. I'm dying to know here!"

"I will."

I disconnected and went to bed, praying to God that they guys don't kill Lula and I when they find out what we've done.

My cubicle isn't very big. It's large enough to fit my desk and chair, and my office equipment, and two guest chairs. I'd gotten up early to allow myself enough time to get ready, because I still wasn't quick on my feet. Damn that Rita Garafaglio to hell. I punched in at the timeclock and carried a cup of coffee back to my desk.

"Morning," I said cheerfully to Ram, who was on monitors as I passed by on my way to my cubicle.

"Morning, Steph," he replied. He turned back to the monitors.

Hunh. I was guessing that the woman from Joseph Casale received my emails either last night or this morning, but hadn't gotten a chance to get back to any of the guys yet. Ram was number eight on my list.

I sat down at my desk and got to work on a few of the Rodriguez searches. In between files, I sipped my coffee and repeatedly hit the refresh button on my inbox. I'd told the woman from the agency to email me when she received the bios, but it was already ten o'clock and I still hadn't heard from her.

Suddenly, at ten-thirty, I refreshed and found an email.

Hi Stephanie,

Thank you for the pictures and bios of your friends! I've gone through them all this morning and I will be contacting each one directly by email. They are absolutely fantastic for what we're looking for, so I expect to get in touch with each of them right away. Thanks again, you've been a tremendous help!

Linda Franzetti
Talent Search Specialist
Joseph Casale Modeling and Career Agency

Ohmigod! She liked them! I panicked, not sure as to why I was worried, but I supposed it was because I never thought she'd respond. Shit. In a matter of minutes, the guys would receive emails from Linda and if they got mad about all of this, my ass was for sure grass.

My pounding heart was the only sound I heard for ten straight minutes. I sat in my chair, wondering what the hell to do.

Lester was the first to start yelling.

"Teeth whitening?" I heard him holler from his office. "Pet tigers? STEPHANIE!"

Tank was next. "I can't play the fucking harp," he shouted. "STEPH!"

"Married to my COUSIN? STEPHANIE!" Had to be Bobby.

Cal. "Since when the hell do I fly-fish?"

Seven more similar shouts followed, all from different areas of the floor.

Last but not least, the twelfth guy on my list finally spoke up, and he didn't sound happy.

"Babe."

Yikes!

A/N: TBC...find out what happens when the guys finally get their hands on Steph!