"Bear County," Shott answered. Wilbur knew where that was. It was the next county over from Junction City. He watched out the window as he was driven home.

When the truck pulled into his driveway, he glanced at Stripper again, but the man was looking straight ahead. T-Rex got out and opened the back door, helping Wilbur from the vehicle. He dug into his pocket and handed Wilbur a card.

"Since we owe you one for this, call if you ever need a favor."

Wilbur glanced at the card. The company was Executive Bodyguards. Wow. These men were legit. They were professionals. It made Wilbur all the more thankful that he'd come out of this alive. He nodded and pocketed the card.

"Thanks for not torturing me," he said and then shook T-Rex's hand, "and for feeding me lunch."

The man smiled. "You truly are one of a kind."

Wilbur stood in his driveway as the SUV pull away and took off.

Chapter Five.

Wilbur was on his way to his parents' house that following weekend. He hadn't been fired, and his life had fallen back into place as if his kidnapping had never taken place. But there was no denying that he missed Stripper something terrible. Every single night he'd fallen asleep with the man's T-shirt tucked under his head, inhaling Stripper's masculine scent.

Too many times he'd picked the phone up to call the number on the card, but he'd hung up at the last second. He needed to forget his adventure and put that day behind him.

"God dang cell phone," Wilbur growled as he lifted his phone above his head and still couldn't get a signal. It kept displaying "No Signal."

He tossed it aside on the passenger's seat as he drove. If he didn't believe in not wasting things, he'd throw the phone out of the window and watch a semi run it over.

Besides, it was late, and he wasn't thinking straight. He needed to find a cheap motel and get some rest. His back was killing him from sitting for so long, and his eyes burned from staring at the lines in the road. He wasn't sure a visit to his parents had been such a good idea. They lived ten hours away. Maybe he should have just called.

He'd taken off right after work, and now he was regretting not waiting until morning before he began his drive. But he wanted to spend as much time with them as possible before he had to head back for work on Monday.

Wilbur told himself that this trip would help him forget Stripper. It wasn't working. If anything, the long hours in his car only made him dwell on the man. By ignoring Wilbur for the entire ride home, Stripper had pretty much shown him how he felt. Wilbur didn't need someone like that in his life.

He spotted a sign up ahead that had an icon for a motel displayed on the green reflective backboard. After taking the exit for the motel, he followed the signs until he pulled onto a winding back road with no streetlights. Wilbur had to use his high beams to make sure he didn't hit any critters wandering across the road.

The low-lying fog was thick and eerie. The darkness, mist, and occasional light from a house made for a scene from one of Stephen King's novels. He shouldn't be thinking that right now. His imagination wasn't doing him any favors.

Finally, Wilbur spotted a red neon sign flickering dimly in the darkness. It was like a beacon guiding him to safety. This place was remote and he highly doubted real creatures existed. Nothing Stephen King-ish would come after him.

After parking, Wilbur got out and headed to the office. The door squeaked as he opened it, and a tiny bell jingled above him. A small television sat on a table behind the counter, the picture snowy and the volume low. There was a lamp on the counter to light the room, but it wasn't very bright.

Wilbur walked across the aged linoleum and glanced around. "Hello?"

There was a creak and a groan and then the sound of shuffling feet. His pulse beat a little faster. Maybe he should have just slept in his car. He wasn't going to allow his imagination to scare him. He wasn't. Wilbur curled his fingers over the scarred wood of the counter and waited.

After his ordeal with Stripper and the others, he shouldn't be scared of anything. He'd faced professionals and lived to tell about it, although he had no one to tell. Not that he would say a word anyway. Those men had been on a mission, and Wilbur wasn't going to blab to anyone and possibly compromise their work. Not that he could. He didn't know anyone important enough that would care.

There was another groan, and then it sounded as if something had fallen over.

A mugging? Someone having a heart attack? Zombies? He wasn't sure and was ready to haul ass when an elderly gentleman came around the corner, cursing as he shuffled closer. "Sorry about that. I knocked over the book I'd been reading."

That hadn't sounded like a book falling to the floor. But Wilbur let it go. The guy was short, as round as a barrel, and had thinning grey hair-what hair he had left. His face was chubby, and his eyes seemed too small for his face. He looked like someone's creepy grandpa.

The elderly man grabbed a card from the back counter and laid it in front of Wilbur. The guy's hands were riddled with liver spots, and his skin looked paper-thin. Shouldn't his grandson or someone more able to deal with such late hours be manning the desk?

"Just fill this out and I'll get you a room." The man tapped a pudgy finger on the yellowing card. "My rates are fair, and the rooms aren't fancy, but they're comfortable."

Wilbur heard a noise coming from the room the man had just ambled from. He glanced at the doorway and then at the gentleman standing in front of him.

He gave Wilbur a wide smile, all dentures, and then nodded. "Go ahead. Fill the card out."

"I need a pen."

"Oh!" The guy's smile widened as he searched the counter. "How thoughtless of me."

Wilbur's eyes flickered back to the doorway, but no one emerged, and he didn't hear anything else. He filled the card out and signed the bottom. Most places used computers, but he didn't see one. There was an old-fashioned box on the back wall with ten slots. Two of the slots had aging cards in them. The others held only a key with a large plastic piece hanging from it, displaying the room number.

This motel was as retro as retro could get. Everything looked as if it had been frozen in the mid-fifties or early sixties. Nothing was updated. Wilbur nearly jumped when a cuckoo clock sounded twice. Midnight. He looked at the clock and could tell it was a cheap plastic replica. It had a layer of dusk over the top and clinging to the pinecone cords.

"Now let me see." The man turned and gazed at the keys. He squinted and shook his head, as if undecided. It shouldn't be that hard. There were eight keys. Just pick one.

"How much are the rooms?" Wilbur asked as he set his pen down.

The man didn't seem to hear him. He continued to gaze at the keys as if they were some kind of riddle to solve. Rooms one and two were already taken from the cards lying in their slots.

He finally plucked the key for room ten. The guy turned and shuffled back to Wilbur. "Here you go."

"Can I have room three?" Wilbur asked. He didn't like the idea of being in the very last room, separated from everyone else. Why couldn't he be next to the other guests?

The man smiled at him and took the card, squinting as he looked it over. "Everything looks properly filled out."

Wilbur became frustrated. He just wanted to pay for his room and get some shut-eye. He'd been driving for a good six hours, and he was barely standing upright. Wilbur wasn't a late-night person. His usual bedtime was ten. "How much for the room?"

The man tapped away on an antique adding machine, the noise sounding too loud in the quietness of the dimly lit room. Wilbur's eyes flickered to the doorway again.

"That'll be twenty-five dollars." The guy turned and smiled at Wilbur. "I only take cash."

Of course. Because they didn't have credit card machines in the 1950s. Wilbur shook his head in bewilderment as he dug his wallet out. "That sounds pretty cheap."

Although he was all for the inexpensive rate, he didn't want to slight the elderly man. Wilbur believed heavily in karma. He didn't like taking advantage of anyone.

"That's the rate." The guy sounded a bit offended that Wilbur would question him. It was the first chink in the man's smiling armor. "If you don't like it, find another motel." And then he smiled. "But there isn't one for another thirty miles."

Wilbur thought some very unpleasant things about the guy and then felt guilty. What if he was senile? Wilbur felt his face flush with embarrassment as he laid a twenty and a five on the counter. "No, no. Your rates are fine."

The man handed him the key, and Wilbur thanked him before walking outside. An owl hooted, crickets chirped, and the mist settled over his skin like tiny dots of perspiration. He suddenly felt chilled and just wanted to get inside his room where he could lock the door and chase away the willies.

Getting into his car, Wilbur drove down the row of rooms. His tires crunched over the gravel before he parked in front of room ten. He left his bag in the car as he got out. He'd get it in the morning.

He shoved his key into the lock and had to wiggle it around before the door finally creaked opened. A keycard would have been so much better. The room was pitch-black except for the flickering red from the neon sign. It made the room look as if it pulsed with a heartbeat.

Wilbur slid his hand over the wall by the door, looking for a light switch. The light flooded the room, flickered, and then died. The hell? Frustrated, he used the pulsing red heartbeat as light to feel his way toward the bed. There had to be a lamp on the stand.

And there was. He turned it on, and it stayed on. The room looked just like the office. The curtains were yellow and smelled faintly of old smoke. The bedspread was a pale pink with diagonal stripes of red-and-white. The tabletop had tiny flecks of gold sprinkled throughout and the seats of the two chairs were made of fading green plastic.

He shook off the feeling that he'd stepped into some sort of parallel universe as he closed the door. The room was stifling hot, and there wasn't an air conditioning unit. Wilbur checked the windows and saw that he could open them. He slid the window as far left as he could and then went into the bathroom.

There was a window in there, so he opened that one as well. After using the bathroom and washing his hands at the pedestal sink, Wilbur meandered back into the room, cut the light off, and dropped onto the bed, face planting into the comforter. He was so tired that he hadn't bothered to remove his shoes. He just grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his head, closing his eyes and sighing.

Thinking about Stripper, Wilbur tried his hardest not to remember the kiss they'd shared. But his body became one big, sensitive nerve, heating up and growing hard as he thought of the way Stripper had held him, how the man had practically begged for Wilbur to touch him. Wilbur wished he had. His fingers tingled, and he groaned when he thought of wrapping his fingers around the man's thick cock.

A barely audible noise came from the bathroom. Wilbur tensed as he strained to listen. Was that...was someone working the screen off the window? Wilbur eased quietly off the bed and tiptoed closer to the bathroom door.

Someone grunted. The sound was as soft and faint as wind, but discernable. Every hair on Wilbur's body rose, as if some invisible hand had just brushed it. He shivered and couldn't stop. Wilbur smashed his eyes closed, knowing for certain that someone was breaking into his room.

He crept as quietly as he could across the dark carpet, heading for the door. Getting out wasn't going to be soundless. The door creaked. His invader would know Wilbur was leaving. But he had no other choice. Stay and face whoever was coming through his bathroom window or haul ass and hope he got away.

He decided to haul ass.

As soon as he made it to the door, Wilbur gripped the handle, took a fortifying breath, and then yanked the door open. He ran outside and to his car, slamming the door and locking it before he fumbled for his keys.

A short, silhouetted figure loomed in the doorway. The stranger's body filled the space. Sweat poured off of Wilbur as he jabbed the key into the ignition and stared his car. The stranger came after him. Wilbur shoved the car into reverse. The stranger bared his...canines? Did he really have long and sharp teeth? Wilbur almost froze in horror as he realized he was looking at someone who looked exactly like him.

Was this Reno? Was this the man Stripper and the others were hell-bent on catching? Why would the guy be after him?

Wilbur didn't stick around to find out. His tires spun in the gravel as he slammed his foot into the gas pedal. He drove in reverse until he hit the main road and then spun the car around, his tires squealing as he took off.

Grabbing his phone from the passenger seat where he'd left it, Wilbur felt a measure of hope. He had service! He dialed nine-one-one as he drove like a maniac down the road.

"Stark County Sheriff's Department." The voice held a deep, soothing baritone.

"Someone just broke into my motel room off of Highway 24!" Wilbur nearly dropped the phone when the road curved too far to his right. If he didn't slow down, he'd end up in a ditch. He left out the part about the guy having long, sharp teeth. He also left out the fact that the man looked just like him.

"The Baker Motel?"

"Yes!" Wilbur's heart was in his throat. Who in the hell was that guy? Why had he broken into Wilbur's room? His stomach felt as though a lead weight had settled inside. Wilbur was a heavy sleeper. If he'd fallen asleep...

"Now, now, Mr. Castro." The voice had dropped lower. "Why don't you just pull over and we can work this out? There was no need to run."

Wilbur pulled his phone back and stared at it in horror. He hadn't given the cop his name. How had the guy known that Wilbur had run? Wilbur tossed the phone aside when high beams blinded him from behind.

The person was following him. His cell phone rang. Wilbur ignored it. He spotted the entrance to the highway and took the hairpin turn, smashing his foot heavily into the gas pedal. His car rocked, as if it would turn over, and then straightened.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The high beams began to fade, and Wilbur knew he was outrunning whoever was after him. The needle on his speedometer pushed past ninety, but Wilbur didn't slow down.

Once he was far enough away from the motel and didn't see the high beams any longer, he picked his phone back up. He'd stored Executive Bodyguards phone number into his contact list. Wilbur hated carrying around business cards.

He dialed and continued to check his rearview mirror for any signs of his pursuer. There were a few vehicles on the road, but none were gunning for him.

The phone on the other end rang so many times that Wilbur was sure he'd get an answering machine. He started to hang up when someone answered. "Hello."

Wilbur was relieved that it wasn't the creepy cop's voice. It had been soothing at first, but he never wanted to hear it again in his life. "This is-"

"Wilbur," the man said. Wilbur tried hard to place the voice, but came up empty. "This is Shott."

"Oh, hi, Shott. How have you been?" Politeness was always appreciated.

"Good. What's with the late call? You in trouble?" Shott's tone had taken on an edge, and Wilbur wondered if he should have called. Should he involve the men again who'd kidnapped him? He wasn't even sure why he was reaching out to them, but he had no one else to turn to.

"Kind of." He chewed his lower lip and could still feel himself shaking from what had just happened to him. "Did you ever catch Reno?"

The phone went silent for a moment before Shott said, "No."

Wilbur cleared his throat. "I think I found him."

"Where?" There was some rustling on the other end, but Wilbur couldn't make the noise out. What was Shott doing?

"At a place called Baker's Motel." Wilbur worried that he was bothering Shott. He didn't want to be a needy person and didn't want to come off as one. "I just wanted to let you know."

"Wait," Shott said. "Where are you, and how did you run into him?"

"He broke into my motel room and came after me." With sharp teeth, but Wilbur didn't say the last part out loud. It was too insane to contemplate. He didn't want Shott thinking he was crazy.

"He what?" Shott sounded as if he didn't believe Wilbur. "Are you sure?"

Wilbur wasn't sure of anything. This was the second time his life had gone haywire and he wanted things to go back to normal. "Pretty sure. It looked like I was chasing myself. Creepy if you ask me. The guy somehow tapped into the emergency number and answered the call I made to nine-one-one."

"He's cunning, Wilbur. He's got skills that you wouldn't dream of. Tell me where you are so I can come get you."

"I don't want to be a bother."

"Damn it, Wilbur. This isn't the time to be polite. Tell me where you are."

Wilbur glanced at a sign he was passing. "Mile marker ten on Interstate 71. I'm heading south. I just passed the Harbor Exit."

"There's a diner a mile ahead," Shott said. "It's a twenty-four hour joint called Loose Caboose. I know the owner. Tell Bill I sent you and that you need help. He'll keep you safe until I get there."

"You want me to order you something to eat?" Wilbur felt awful for dragging Shott out of bed at this time of night. The guy had a six-hour drive ahead of him. He felt compelled to do something nice for the man.

"You really are one of a kind. No, Wilbur. All I want you to do is stay safe until I get there."