I stand in front of Harper Avenue’s door. Apprehension creeps up my spine as I look up and down the block, expecting the other store owners to be waiting much like me, but each storefront is abandoned. A black stretch limousine pulls up. I look around again, expecting it to take off down the street. Rafael wouldn’t have ordered a limo for the shop owners, would he? The street my shop is on is hardly ever quiet, and the eerie silence makes me wary of the black car in front of me.

A tall man with broad shoulders steps out of the driver’s side door and strides around the limo. He doesn’t acknowledge me as he steps to the back door closest to me. I start taking slow steps back toward the front of my store while digging for my keys inside my bag. I’m really regretting not taking more self-defense classes with my best friend Savannah right now. I could stab him with my key. Or my heel. James, the local gym owner, showed me moves to break from an attacker’s clutches, but none are coming to mind. The only thing coming to mind is ripping the shoe from my foot and throwing it at this man while I run for my life.

Harper, I scold. Focus. Finally locating my keys hidden in a pocket of my purse, I look down, trying to find the right one while putting the others between my shaking fingers. James’ words enter my mind, use anything you have.

A throat clearing grabs my attention, making me look up at the driver. The back door of the limo is open, showing nothing but blackness. I can’t see anyone inside. My wary eyes find the driver again. His eyes are hidden behind black sunglasses, a single, thick brow is arched over one eye. He motions toward the open limo door.

“You are Harper, right?” the driver asks in a deep, grumbling, heavily accented voice.

I scan around, even more apprehensive than I was before. If this is for Rafael’s meeting with the tenants, why am I the only one here? Why is no one else getting in this creepy limo with me?

“How do you know my name?” I try to sound strong, but my voice trembles on the last word.

“Mr. Bazán sent me to pick you up.”

“Can’t you tell me where to go and I’ll find my own way?”

“Are Mr. Bazan’s accommodations not up to your standards?” The driver asks in a mocking tone, his eyes scanning me from head to toe.

“It’s not that,” I try to say, but he turns his back to me while sliding a phone out of his pocket. The door is still open, daring me to get inside. The back of the car feels just as dangerous as the man who sent it.

The driver is speaking low in Spanish, still turned away from me. A vibration in my purse has me sinking my hand back inside, looking for another lost item in the giant bag. I gasp when I read the message from an unknown number on the screen.

No, thanks, Rafael. I think I’ll stay right here. I glare at the driver, knowing the person on the other end of his call is Rafael. The driver hangs up the phone, turning back toward me. When he sees my glare, he smirks, placing his hand on the door, waiting for me, taunting me to step inside. Not today, bucko. Not today.

I resist the urge to stomp my foot and scream. I angrily hit my screen, typing out my message.

I turn my head to look back at my store. This store is everything that I have. I opened it with the inheritance my parents left me. In so many ways, this is the only place I still feel tied to them. Every possession that was once theirs doesn’t hold the same value as this store. Harper’s Avenue has been my dream since I was a little girl. My father taught me how to write a business plan while my mother taught me to express myself through my own style. This store is the marriage of what they both gave me. Business savvy and style. I close my eyes, willing myself to turn and get in the limo. If I have to dance with the devil to keep my store, I’ll do it.

I toss my hair over my shoulder and march toward the limo, keeping my chin up, not looking at the driver, showing the confidence I found deep within me. I stop right before I sink into the car and turn toward the driver still holding the door. He’s facing forward, not looking at me, but I see his lips twitching. I glare at the side of his face again, before saying, “Just so you know, you’re on my shit list.”