Crescent City Connection

convinced her that wasn’t something she should try again.
    She had no idea if Sam would show, but for the moment at least, she didn’t have to think of a new plan.
    He came up behind her. “Hey, Miss Michelle. I want you to meet my friends—Chip and Mimi. They’re going with us.”
    They looked okay—a little rednecky, but not bikers or anything. Both wore jeans and T-shirts, which now made four of them. Mimi had a lot of long curly hair, cut in layers. Chip was tall, had a gut, and he was gray at the temples. She wondered if Sam was even older than she’d first thought.
    “Hey, Michelle. Sorry about your hard luck.”
    Sam said, “Y’all ready?”
    Later, Lovelace couldn’t remember getting to the car, which was a four-by-four, a Blazer or something, or getting in or taking off. She did remember that once they were in the thing, somebody fired up a joint and all three of the others cracked open beers and offered her one, but she was so tired by then she could barely shake her head no.
    She must have fallen asleep right away.
    The drug her father had given her had probably never really worn off, but she had operated on adrenaline for a couple of hours, as long as she needed to, and the minute she could, she crashed.
    She fell asleep sitting up, strapped into her seat belt, Sam driving, the other two in the back.
    She awoke to find someone’s hand between her legs, stroking her. She was aware that that was what had awakened her; she had dreamed about sex with someone—a stranger, perhaps, or an old boyfriend; just a fragment of a dream. She opened her eyes a crack, saw the car, remembered where she was, and closed them again while she tried to think what to do.
    No thoughts came.
    Finally she simply sat up straight, opened her eyes, and looked around, preparatory to any sudden moves.
    To her horror, she saw that the owner of the hand was not Sam but Chip, who was now in the driver’s seat. She stared at him, wild, riveted. He smiled, puckered his lips, and kissed the air in her direction, jamming his hand tight against her crotch.
    She shook her head and pushed at his hand.
    He smiled, not budging.
    What the hell was this? A cat playing with a mouse, smiling because he’d won? Or his idea of seduction?
    And there were other issues—why Chip, not Sam? Had they flipped for her, or what?
    The air was heavy with beer breath, and she realized that was why Sam hadn’t smelled right—he was probably half-loaded when they met (as were Chip and Mimi), and now they were no doubt fully tanked.
    She felt fear trying to close her throat and forced it back down. No time for that now.
    She said, “Where are we?”
    “Almost there.”
    “Almost to New Orleans?”
    “That’s where you want to go, idn’t it?”
    Which wasn’t the same as a yes. And she thought she heard a slight edge to his voice.
    Still, she nodded. “I’m tired.”
    He said, “Want to go to bed?”
    Men are so damn predictable
, she thought, and she nodded again. “I’m pretty tired. Could I have a beer?”
    “Sure.” He smiled, as if happy to see her entering into the spirit of things, and when he removed his hand to give her the beer, she seized her advantage and changed positions.
    The sun was coming up when they entered that long, lonely stretch of Highway 55 that seems more like a bridge over a swamp than a highway. Lovelace was still holding her barely touched beer and thinking. She couldn’t come up with a plan that didn’t involve the police, but she wasn’t too worried—yet.
    Sam woke up. “Yecch. I feel horrible. What’d we do last night?”
    “You did a little speed, buddy. Little booze, too.”
    “Well, lemme have some more speed.”
    Speed. Did that dull or enhance the sex drive?
    She couldn’t remember.
    “We better find a place to crash. There’s gonna be nothin’ within miles of the French Quarter.”
    Lovelace said, “Why not?” before she caught herself.
    “Never on the weekends.” Sam sounded offhand, but a moment later he put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Thought you lived there.”
    She turned to the backseat. “That’s why I don’t stay in hotels.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Chip. “Why don’t we just stay at your place?”
    “Are you kidding? I live with my parents.”
    Sam said, “Well, why are we giving you this ride, anyhow?”
    Lovelace thought, Oh, boy. But she was starting to feel like herself again, the shock and numbness of her experience receding, the drug wearing off. She