Wrong Number, Right Guy

by Elle Casey

  He ignores me, of course. He’s a Chihuahua on a mission, and I’m just the woman who feeds, bathes, cuddles, and fawns over him 24/7.

  “No treat, Felix. No treats for a week. I’m not kidding.” I stare into the bleak corner of the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sorry little butt.

  I see a flash of his brown and cream fur near one of the weight machines and change my trajectory to intercept his next move. He’s working his way toward the door we drove through earlier. If he gets out and starts running around the port, I’ll cry. I swear to God, I’ll cry like a big, blubbering baby. He’ll surly get squashed by a forklift or something equally deadly out here. The port is no place for six-pound Chihuahua mutts.

  He’s busy sniffing the part of the machine where the black metal weights are stacked up, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  “No, Felix! No! Don’t you dare!”

  He lifts up his back leg and takes a wee on the metal.

  I look over my shoulder in a panic, sure that someone’s going to come down the stairs and bust my dog for having the worst manners a mutt can possibly have.

  Strike that. Make that the second worst manners a dog can have. Felix is now squatting next to the place he peed. A two-fer! Hurray for Felix! I’m going to kill him as soon as I get my hands on him.

  I run back to my car and grab my purse. Rummaging through it, I find a small bag and some baby wipes. Felix is just finishing up his business when I arrive on the scene of the crime.

  I snatch him up before he can get away, and shove him into my purse. I trap it between my ankles as I take care of the other mess he left behind. When I’m all done, I look around for a garbage can.

  Dammit. Where do they put their trash around here? I walk briskly over to the automatic door and put the plastic Baggie down near the edge of it, my purse clamped under my arm. When I leave, I’ll take the evidence bag with me, but there’s no way I’m storing it in my car before then.

  I open my purse as I walk back to the car. “No more Houdini-ing tonight, Fee, you hear me? You stay with me. Stay. Stay.” I glare at him.

  He smiles and tries to lick me. I hate when he does that. I can never stay mad at a smiling Chihuahua.

  I stop outside my car door. It’s so damn hot inside there, I really don’t want to get back in. But what else am I supposed to do? Call the police? That seems kind of silly at this point. Sleep on the concrete floor? I look over at the weight-lifting equipment. I don’t think I could sleep on the bench press. I’d roll over and fall off, probably breaking something in the process, like my nose. And I’m particularly attached to my nose keeping the same, small, straight shape it’s had my whole life.

  My watch says it’s getting close to eleven o’clock. My clients are arriving at nine in the morning at my studio, and I’m going to need an hour to set up. That gives me seven hours to sleep, an hour to get home and shower, and then time to get to work. What in the hell am I going to do for seven hours? Because at this point, I’m starting to feel comfortable with the idea that I’m not going to be killed here, but that the guy who shot at me could still be roaming the neighborhood near my house. Surely The Beard and Hollywood would have already done the deed if that were their intention, right? I’m probably safe. I’m about sixty-five percent sure I am.

  The big warehouse door begins to open again, and I immediately duck down, using the side of my car as a hiding spot. Who the heck is coming in now? Another hot guy? Another biker beast? Another murderer or another savior?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It’s an SUV this time, black, with tinted windows. It reminds me of an FBI truck like they have in all the movies. Half the time they carry around the good guys, but the other half . . . not so much. I peek over the edge of my car door to see through its windows. The SUV parks on the other side of the truck. I’ll have to wait until the people get out and move away before I’ll be able to see anything.

  I hear voices, one male and one female.

  “I don’t care what he says. I’m not on board with that,” says the male voice.

  “I’d love to see you tell him no,” says the female.

  “Just watch, then. Watch and learn, little grasshopper.”

  The woman laughs. “Yeah, okay. Got my phone all charged up. I’ll run video for posterity’s sake.”

  “Go to hell,” he says in response.

  “Been there, done that¸ got the T-shirt,” she says. “Not going back. Not tonight, at least.”

  They both laugh.

  And then she comes into view. She’s petite, thin, and has long jet-black hair. I can’t tell if her pants are denim or leather, but man, they’re tight. Paired with her airy white spaghetti-strap blouse and high-heeled boots, they make her look about nineteen. I suppose if I had a body like that I’d be in skinny-wear too. I can’t hate her for making the most of things. She does make me feel kind of frumpy though, crouching down here in my Ann Taylor ensemble.

  The man is behind her. He’s on the short side as well, same color hair, maybe slightly lighter, and compact. He’s in jeans and a black shirt, rolled up at the elbows. His shoes are black, something I’d expect to see on a guy going out clubbing. Both of them have Cajun accents, one of my favorite things in the world. It’s part of what drew me here to New Orleans from New York two years ago. That and my sister. Our family home in Florida didn’t interest me after I left it at eighteen.

  I stand up a little as they climb the stairs, trying to get a better view and stop the circulation from backing up at my knees.

  “You coming up?” the man asks me as he turns in my direction.

  I look behind me.

  Nope. No one there. There’s just me and Felix, stinking up the joint.

  “Who, me?” I ask, just in case.

  “Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to?” He laughs good-naturedly. I swear I can see his eyes twinkle from here. He must smile a lot.

  I shrug, feeling colossally stupid. Beard guy must have called them and told them all about me.

  He gestures, waving me to join them. “Come on. Dinner’s on.”

  I frown. Dinner? My stomach growls in response, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch.

  The woman has reached the door at the top of the stairs and opened it. The man is waiting for my response.

  “No thanks,” I say, still not certain that I’m not the one on this evening’s menu, although I realize the likelihood of that becomes less and less as more people join the party. Group murder plans went out in the seventies, right?

  “If you change your mind, just bang on the door.” He disappears behind the woman, and the heavy door slams shut behind him.

  Felix whines at me again.

  “What?” I ask him. “You want to go up there?”

  Felix pants, his eyes bright and excited.

  “You have no idea who they are. They could be criminals. This could be a Mafia hangout. If I go up and see too much, I’ll have to join. Then I’ll get a nickname like May ‘the Meatball’ Wexler. Or they’ll force me to use some kind of crazy weapon in my initiation, and then they’ll put it in my name like May ‘the Axe’ Wexler or May ‘the Machete’ Wexler. You know I can’t stand the sight of blood. It’ll never work. I’ll fail their tryouts, and they’ll throw me into the wet foundation of a new building, drowning me in new cement. My body will never be found. Jenny will die of a broken heart. My nieces and nephew won’t have anywhere to go when they want to run away as teenagers.”

  Felix tilts his head and stares at me for a few seconds.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It could happen. And don’t think you won’t be lying right next to me in that cement too, buddy.”

  The door behind us had started to shut, but now it stops and goes in the other direction. Headlights tell me someone else is about to join the party. It can’t be a murder party, right? Right?

  I don’t even duck down this time. I watch from the opening of my car door. I could get away pretty quickly from this p
osition. I’m still relatively safe from immediate harm.

  An old vehicle that should have been left in the seventies pulls in, sliding to a slow stop next to the SUV. It’s an orange-gold color with whitewall tires. The man driving has his arm out, resting on the windowsill. He waves at me once before he disappears from view.

  The brakes squeak as he pulls to a stop. I’m holding my breath as I wait to see what will happen next. Will he ignore me too, going up the stairs and leaving me to wonder what’s for dinner? Or will he go on the attack, rushing me from behind the SUV? I glance over, just to be sure. There’s no one there.

  A car door slams shut.

  Footsteps grind grit into the concrete floor.

  And then the tallest man I have ever seen in my entire life comes around the corner of the SUV, heading right for me.

  I take a step back, but it does me no good. All he needs is three strides with those stilts for legs, and he’s right in front of me.

  “Hey there,” he says, holding out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Devon. You can call me Dev.”

  I stare first at his giant, dinner-plate-sized hand and then at his face. I want to say something, but no words come to mind. He’s devoid of hair. Like, any hair. No eyebrows, no eyelashes, no beard, no five-o’clock shadow, even. Is he part of a religious cult? Am I about to initiated into the Hare Krishna movement?

  He grins and points to his head. “Alopecia. No hair. I don’t shave it off or pluck it out, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  I shake my head, not even sure at this point what I was thinking. I go ahead and take his proffered hand, just because not doing it seems so rude now that he’s shared his personal medical history with me.

  “You coming up for dinner? Burgoo night. Otherwise known as Rundown Soup. You don’t want to miss it, trust me. Ozzie’s the best cook, and it’s his night in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.” It feels so good to confess to this complete stranger.

  He lets go of my hand and gestures to follow him. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the group.”

  “Group?”

  “Yeah, the group.” He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, turning to look at me. “You’ve met Ozzie already, right?”

  “If you mean the giant beast with the beard, then yes.”

  Dev’s eyes open wide. “Oh boy.”

  I’m worried now. “Oh boy? What’s that mean?”

  He laughs, his smile back in place. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Come on. I don’t want to miss out on getting a second helping.” He takes the stairs two at a time, obviously expecting me to follow.

  “What about Felix?”

  “Who’s Felix?” he asks, not even looking at us.

  “My dog.” I take Felix out of my purse and hold him up for viewing.

  Dev is at the top of the stairs. He punches in some numbers on a keypad and opens the door. “Bring him along. Does he like sausage?”

  I walk over and put a foot on the first stair. “He likes sausage, but I’m not sure sausage likes him.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Dev assures me. “His stomach can’t be that big.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I say, halfway up the stairs. “He ate an entire running shoe once.”

  “Just keep him away from Oz. He’s not a fan.”

  “Not a fan? Of Felix?” I’m standing on the landing next to Dev. I look down at my tiny dog and wonder how anyone could not love him on sight.

  “Of small dogs. He’s a big dog kind of guy. You’ll see what I mean.”

  I follow Dev inside, wondering what kind of trouble I’m about to get in. I really don’t want to be called May “the Meatball” Wexler, and there’s no way I’m touching a machete.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wow. Nice machete,” I say, walking into what I think is a living room of sorts. There are couches, an area rug, and a coffee table, but that’s where all resemblance to a home’s interior stops. The heavy metal door clanks shut behind me.

  Weapons are on display everywhere, some of them set up like artifacts and some that appear to be for everyday use. I have a hard time swallowing as my fear takes over again. Who uses weapons like these? Ninjas? Not the good guys, I know that. No way. I haven’t seen any Asians around, though, so this has to be a Mafia lair. Looking behind me, I see that the door I just went through has a digital keypad on the inside wall. I’m locked in. Trapped!

  I’m in such deep doo-doo right now, it’s not even funny. Maybe I’ll be able to excuse myself to the bathroom and send out an emergency text to Jenny or the police or the National Guard.

  “It’s not a machete,” Dev clarifies. “It’s a samurai sword.”

  May “the Samurai” Wexler. Hmmm . . . No. I still don’t like the idea of joining their Mafia gang or whatever this is. Can I go home now? I hesitate in the entrance of the room, trying to decide what my next move should be. Nothing is coming to mind. Everything is scaring the crap out of me, with the exception of this guy. He makes me want to buy a box of popcorn and watch a movie, more like a brother-slash-friend kind of guy, not a murderer. That thought helps me get my breathing under control.

  Felix apparently grows tired of waiting for me to make a decision about what to do, and makes it for me. He launches himself out of my purse and runs off, disappearing around a corner into what I can only assume is another room.

  “Felix!” I yell, afraid for his tiny life.

  “Oh, shit,” Dev says. Then he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Incoming! Chihuahua on the loose!”

  I hear furniture scraping, tiny barks, and then something that could possibly be the hounds of hell being unleashed to bring their murderous fury down upon our heads. I run past Dev, knocking him out of the way, heedless for my own safety as I rush to save my baby’s life.

  “Felix, noooooo!”

  I round the corner, praying I’m not going to see my dog torn to bits all over the floor. I’m not sure what’s going faster, my legs or my heartbeats.

  What I see when I enter the next room stops me in my tracks, though. I think everyone is pretty much as stunned as I am.

  There’s a dog bigger than any domesticated animal I’ve ever seen, standing in the middle of a large commercial-style kitchen, stock still, its tail erect and pointed straight up. The people I saw coming in earlier are frozen nearby, staring at the dogs. There’s a guy at the sink who’s got his hands out in a calming gesture, a dishtowel over his shoulder.

  Whoa, he’s amazingly hot. I’ve never seen such nice muscles outside of a health magazine. I’ll have to check them out better later. After I rescue my dog from certain peril.

  Felix could care less about this guy’s physique. He’s dancing around the big dog, trying to lick its face, its ribs, its butt—anything he can get his little tongue on. He can’t reach anything but the dog’s ankles, though, so he quickly decides that’s good enough for him.

  The dog-beast’s tail falls into a more natural position, and it tips its head down to Felix, licking him hard enough to send my little dog over sideways. Felix jumps right up, of course, and goes to town on the dog’s legs again. Lick, lick, licklicklick. He’s a lick-o-matic right now. I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about cleaning ankles before.

  “Holy shit, man,” the small man who drove the SUV says to the man standing at the sink. “Your dog’s a total pussy.”

  The guy throws the dishtowel lightning fast, hitting him right in the face. “Say that again and see what happens.”

  My heart skips a beat when I recognize the voice.

  I stare at him, forgetting everything else around me. He must be related to my savior. Same voice, same eyes, same giant body, but everything else is different. The hair is short, buzzed in a military style. His face is clean-shaven, his eyebrows neatly trimmed, and there isn’t a bandana or leather jacket in sight. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt like his friend across the room, and his biceps are stretching the sleeves enough that I’m
worried for their seams. There’s a small emblem printed over his left breast and some words: “BSB Security Specialists.”

  “Cute dog,” says the woman, looking up at me.

  She’s gorgeous, like pretty much everyone else here is, making me wish I’d at least brushed my hair before I’d left the house tonight. I can only imagine what these people are thinking about me right now standing here in my espadrilles.

  “Thanks.” I turn my attention back to the dogs. “Come here, Felix. Stop being a pest.” My pulse is calmer, now that I can see my dog is not going to die today.

  The big dog flops down onto his elbows and rolls over onto his side. Then I realize it’s not a he, it’s a she. I don’t know why my brain was telling me that big dog means male dog when I have a six-pounder who I carry around in my purse and who is definitely not a girl.

  Felix climbs on top of the she-beast’s rib cage, turns around several times, and then lies down, laying his head on his paws. Apparently, he has mistaken this giant man-eating wolf for a couch cushion.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the cook says, sounding seriously offended. “Sahara, have a little pride, would you?”

  She tips her head up to look at him but then lays it back down and groans loud and long. She blinks a few times, but doesn’t otherwise move. It’s like she wants Felix to be comfortable and is willing to be tortured as part of the deal.

  My heart melts just watching her. Obviously she’s a pretty amazing dog, even if her poops are probably as big as Felix himself.

  “Let’s eat!” Dev says enthusiastically.

  The cook gestures at the stove with another towel. “Have at it. Bread’s in the oven.” He tosses the towel to the counter and walks out of the kitchen, leaving the room for parts unknown.

  Everyone moves at the same time, walking to the sink to grab a bowl off the counter and then over to the pot on the stove. A line forms quickly.

  “What’s going on?” I ask anyone who might answer.

  “Soup’s on. Bon appétit,” says the small Cajun with a grin.

  I watch as each person fills a bowl, grabs a slice or two of bread out of the oven, off a tray, and then sits at a long metal table at the other end of the kitchen.