"Please have a seat," the receptionist said, giving a surfer hang-loose, wagging gesture with her gothic bejeweled thumb and pinkie. "We're running a bit behind."

Gina touched her fingertips to her lopsided wig, straightening it with a quick tug before giving a furtive glance around the crowded waiting room. There was a single empty chair in the corner.

She had to make a decision fast. Stay ... and eat tomorrow, or leave, only to have her prestigious family finally discover the awful truth about her. She was a dismal failure.

She'd rather become a bag lady than go to her well-to-do family and tell them she was penniless. She'd been to enough cattle calls to ace this job. Right?

She pivoted on her crutches and headed for the chair before she lost her nerve. How bad could it be? She'd walked the runway for some of the most prestigious fashion houses in NYC. Back stage realities had long ago stripped away any modesty she'd once had. How hard would it be to lie on a table and spread her legs? Five-thousand dollars would come in handy. Three dollars would come in handy.

Gina had her subway card with six trips left on it. If she didn't get this job, she'd be walking. That would be the end of her last pair of Prada heels, the only pair of designer shoes she hadn't sold or hocked.

"That's some cast. Are you here for the consumer products job?" the young woman next to her asked once Gina sat down.

Gina glanced down to the monstrous cast running from her foot to mid-thigh and then thought about what the woman said. "Did you say consumer products?" Gina perked up. She'd been afraid the five or so women sitting in the small room were vying for the same job as she. The two men were a complete mystery. Gina didn't want to think about what they were doing there. One stared at her blatantly, while the other picked his teeth with a match book cover.

"You haven't tried a vibrator until you try the Ball-Peenis Hammer 2000," the woman said above the sound of head-banging, glam rock filtering from the sound system. "Now they're coming out with a new and improved model. I can't wait to give it a try."

Gina held her hand in front of her mouth in case anyone could read lips. "And you get paid for--um, using this vibrator? How much do they pay?"

"So you aren't here for the Ball-Peenis-Hammer 3000 trials? The 2000 is to die for. One can only imagine the new and improved model."

"I have an interview to model," Gina explained, trying to keep her voice low.

The curious woman stared pointedly at her cast again.

"Model body parts," Gina clarified and held her breath, waiting for questions she couldn't answer.

"How do you get a job like that? Haven't I seen you before?"

Not likely. Gina had worn an ugly blonde wig and dark glasses large enough to cover half her face. No way could anyone recognize her. "Have we met? I don't remember," Gina said.

Narrowing her expressive eyes, the woman leaned closer to examine Gina. "I don't think so, but something about you looks familiar. Are you famous?"

"Ms. Peterson?" The receptionist called twice before Gina recognized the fake name she'd used for the appointment.

Saved from further explanation, Gina pulled herself to her feet, hopping on one foot while she positioned the pesky crutches.

"Break a leg," the woman said and giggled.

"Thanks," Gina said and shuddered. Her broken leg had ruined her life! She went from making four-thousand a week to bubkes. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Less than nothing. And since she spent three-thousand-nine-hundred and ninety-nine dollars a week, she had no savings, no insurance or any benefits to fall back on during the hard times.

"Right this way, Ms. Peterson," the receptionist said. "Mr. Thompson is waiting for you."

Gina had a hard time negotiating the narrow doorway of Mr. Thompson's office on crutches. Mr. Thompson's very distastefully decorated office. Somehow he'd managed to take faux-fur to a whole new level of disgusting.

He gave her a warm smile. "Virginia Newman, I'm glad you came. When the receptionist said the name Peterson, I wasn't sure it was you. You're more beautiful than I remembered. With that dark hair and pale skin, you are striking. I saw you once at a fashion show my ex dragged me to."

Please don't let him be hitting on me! Gina didn't know what to say, but this welcome from him answered a lot of her questions. Then again, who in New York City didn't know Virginia Newman? Until she'd broken her leg, she'd made the society pages on a weekly basis.

"I'm so glad you've come," he continued to gush. "You're our first choice for this job. You have the perfect tush."

"Tush?" Gina breathed a sigh of relief and wondered about sitting in the faux tiger-fur chair next to his desk. "You want to give me five grand for a replica of my tush?"

"Well, not exactly. We need your pussy and your tush. The whole enchilada. That's how it's done."

Gina decided against the chair and took a step back.

Mr. Thompson extended his hand toward her and stood. "Please, wait. We'll pay you five thousand for the mold, and another five when the product hits the shelves."

"Ten thousand?" If she was careful--and stayed out of the shoe stores--she could make the money last until her cast came off. Then there was the little matter of the physical therapist demanding cash up front. "What exactly do I have to do?"

"I won't lie to you. The actual process is a little longer when we need both. But it should take no more than one day of your time. And if we're lucky, we'll get it right the first time. You could be in and out of our factory in a couple of hours."

"Ten thousand for two hours?"