I start freaking out all over again. I swear I can smell B.O. now too. Ugh.

“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” he says, “but I would if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because your car is easy to spot by anyone who might be looking for it.”

I bark out a quick laugh. This is getting ridiculous. “As if someone could find me way out here. I left that guy behind in suburbia twenty minutes ago.” I look in my rearview mirror just to be sure.

“That guy doesn’t work alone. He has associates all over the city. All he has to do is put the word out to look for your car, and you’ll be found. That bright red is kind of hard to miss.”

My heart sinks and my voice doesn’t seem to want to work very well. It comes out as a squeak. “Are you serious? Who is he? And why does he want to find me? I’m no one. I don’t even smoke pot. I don’t even smoke anything, for God’s sake.”

“Drive in,” says the voice, like it has lost patience with me.

Felix whines.

I reach over and scratch him under his tiny chin. “Just relax, buddy. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Are you telling me to relax?” He sounds a little incredulous.

“No, I’m telling Felix to relax.”

“Who’s Felix? I thought you were alone.”

“Felix is my dog. I’m coming in.” I decide to do it for Fee. He doesn’t deserve to be hunted down like a dog, even if he is a tiny angel wearing a canine costume.

Putting the car in first gear, I slowly roll past the large door that’s finally finished opening. As soon as the rear bumper is past, it begins to close. As I watch it slide into place behind me, I try to keep my respirations at a normal level, but it’s difficult. I’m afraid I’ve just sealed my doom by coming into this place. A quick look around my car confirms that I have no weapons at my disposal. The best I can hope for is that Felix will bite my attacker’s ankle before he’s sent heaven bound with me.

I quickly tap out a message to my sister.

Me: Can’t come for wine. I’m in a building at the port. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow morning, call the cops.

I’m about to press the “Send” button, but then I hesitate. I think about her and the kids and the fact that she really has no backup for babysitting purposes, and how she’s barely hanging on to her sanity by a string sometimes. The last thing she needs in her life is me going off the rails.

I read my message again, wondering if I should send it off.

Nope. Can’t do it. She’ll see this text and freak out, guaranteed. No way can I launch it like this. I hit the backspace key and try again, thinking about what I can say that will not alert her to anything being wrong, but will also guarantee that someone will come looking for me sooner rather than later if I fail to make it back to the real world within a reasonable time.

Me: Can’t come for wine. With someone at the port of New Orleans. Will call tomorrow around 8am.

There. That looks innocuous enough. And if I don’t call, she’ll know where to tell the cops to start looking. I send it off and turn the ignition key backward. My engine dies immediately, and I’m left with the tick-tick-ticking of my Swatch watch. It’s going about half as fast as my heartbeat.

Felix jumps over onto my lap, puts his front paws on my chest, and starts licking my chin like crazy.

“Oh, God, your breath is horrible, Fee—stop.” I pull him away so I can take the leash I keep in the glove compartment and attach it to his collar. Together, we wait for The Beard to arrive from wherever he was sending his instructions. I pray he’s not going to show up with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

I wait for ten full minutes before I finally unbuckle my seat belt.

“Are you going to come out here, or what?” I look down at my phone and remember that the call between us was disconnected a long time ago.

Okay, so I’m talking to myself now. Excellent.

I press the “Home” button and my latest call comes up. I hit the green button to dial it again.

“Yes?” says The Beard. I think it’s him, anyway.

“So, what’s next? Am I going to sleep in my car tonight or what?”

“If you want.”

A heavy sigh expels on its own. I’m so tired of the cloak-and-dagger game. I mean, really. Can’t we act like normal people now?

“Actually, what I want is to go home and sleep in my bed, but apparently your little drug deal or whatever that was at Frankie’s went bust, and I got thrown in the middle of it, so now I’m stuck at the smelly port in a dingy warehouse, and my dog has to go to the bathroom.”

He doesn’t answer. I look down at my phone and see that the call has been disconnected again.

“Dammit!” Looking out the windshield tells me nothing. The room is lit up, but it’s mostly empty, save for a scarred wood table with chairs around it, a punching bag in the corner that’s hanging from an overhead beam, some weight-lifting equipment, a row of lockers, and a set of metal stairs. There’s room for maybe six cars inside here, but mine’s the only one around. Does this guy live here? It might explain the beard, but not much else.

As I’m contemplating my options, the big door behind me begins to open again. I put my hand on the ignition, ready to fire my Sonic up and get the hell out of here if necessary.

The big black pickup that I had a ride in earlier pulls into the space next to me. I can’t see the driver because of the tinted windows.

Now I’m completely confused. The Beard said he could see me from the window, and I assumed he meant from the warehouse. Was he outside the whole time? And why would he wait out there and not be in here? And why is he in here now? And what’s he been doing this whole time, just sitting in his car? Maybe he’s afraid of me. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to decide to come in. Maybe he thinks I’m the bad guy.

The rumbling engine cuts off and the door cracks open. It bounces a few times and then swings out wide. My brain cannot compute what I see getting out.

First of all, there’s no beard. And he’s missing about four inches of height. And half a foot of shoulder span. This is definitely not my rescuer.

The guy leans down and looks in my passenger window. “Hello, there,” he says before flashing a grin at me. Perfect teeth. Of course. Why do guys like him have to have perfect teeth anyway? Shouldn’t they have some kryptonite, like coffee stains or twisted incisors?

Okay, so if this guy is going to murder me, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it. I always pictured killers as big, hairy, gross people. Kind of like The Beard. But this guy? No way. He could be a runway model. If he tries to kill me, I’ll be bitter. To have been so wrong all my life will make me mad. Guys this good looking should not be criminals. It’ll throw off the balance of the universe or something.

“Hi,” I say, not sure what the rules are when it comes to greeting strange men in warehouses after running from gunshots at a biker bar.

“You going to come up?” he asks, gesturing toward the stairs.

I look where he’s pointing and frown. Do I want to come up into their lair and offer myself up for killing? No, I think not.

“No, that’s all right. I think I’ll just stay right here.”