The Tenderloin is an interesting part of San Francisco. By day, tourists walk the streets, exploring expensive clothing stores, posh drinking lounges, and then retreat to their fancy hotels before dusk lures the freaks to come out at night. Homeless people sleep in doorways, huddled in a fetal position to keep warm, while hookers parade past in scuffed heels and whatever napkin-sized dresses they can find.

Something crunches beneath my feet, and I don't have to look to know it's a broken heroin needle or a meth pipe.

The neighborhood isn't Skid Row, but it's definitely hell-adjacent.

Angie's roadkill coat is in full effect as she walks beside me with her high-heeled boots clicking against the pavement. To my right is Franky, strutting her long, faux-leather encapsulated legs, which disappear under a mini-dress with tiny Freddy Krueger faces all over it. Apparently, she loves everything horror, which I suppose shouldn't be a surprise since she's friends with a walking, talking nightmare. A.K.A. Angie.

Yet, here I am. Walking between them like some pimp as we pass the Martini Lounge - a swanky nightclub with glammed up barbie dolls and 'roided out bros, waiting to get inside. I have no idea where we're heading. I just know it's cold as fuck, my nose is running, and these two gals like keeping it mysterious.

"That's it, up ahead." Franky points.

"You sure? Looks dead..." I say, taking in the dark building with blacked-out windows and nobody standing outside.

"That's the point."

Raising her curled hand, she pounds on the metal door and takes a step back. Seconds later, a slat opens, and someone's blue eyes stare back at us. "Password."

"Weinersnitchel."

"Try again."

"Or, how about I tell Reina you're letting her friend Franky shiver out here in the cold?"

"Oh, shit. Frank, so sorry. Didn't recognize you."

The slat closes and the metal door squeaks open with jazz music spilling out. A stocky bouncer dressed in black slacks, a vest, and a bowler hat ushers us inside. The street noise disappears as he shuts the door behind us and I'm transported in time to prohibition. Everything is dark, from the maroon walls to the black tin ceiling tiles, and the deep walnut flooring. I've lived in San Francisco all my life, yet I never knew this place existed. There's a full-service bar to my right, with bartenders dressed in slacks and suspenders - their sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos while making a spectacle of shaking drinks for guests. A woman dressed like a Flapper in her sparkly dress and short wavy bob greets us.

"Follow me..." She bats her eyes, before spinning on her heels causing the glittering layers of her dress to shift with her movements.

We pass through a corridor with black and white photos displaying images of San Francisco during prohibition. Thank fuck we aren't living during those times because after this, I'll need a stiff drink.

The narrow passage leads to a bookcase and the riddle of this place increases. First, a password to get in, and now what, a secret room? The cute hostess pulls on a book spine and vualah - the bookcase opens to a library with a cacophony of conversations filling the atmosphere, and har har, it's a lounge area with another bar. Heads turn our way as we're escorted to a leather couch and the hostess snaps her fingers, prompting the people sitting on it to immediately move.

"It'll be a few minutes while we let Reina know you're here. Please, help yourselves to a drink. It's on the house." She motions towards the bar where more dudes in bowler hats and suspenders mix cocktails.

She leaves us and I turn to Angie and Franky who have made themselves comfortable on the couch. "Is it always like this with all the passwords and hidden doors?"

"When I come here? Yeah. But usually, I meet Reina at her condo," Franky replies.

"Is this where she works?"

"Try owns the place," Angie snorts.

"Hi..." Smiles a gorgeous waitress offering us tiny martinis on a silver tray which shines under the bright, crystal chandeliers. "Compliments from Reina."

We pluck the drinks from the tray and she bows before sashaying out of our site. I have no idea what's in the martini, but it's hitting the spot with its light green glow and licorice taste. "What is this?"

"Absinthe." Franky downs her drink in one gulp. "But don't worry. You won't see a green fairy, or whatever."

A twenty-something-year-old man dressed as a butler approaches with a white towel draped over his wrist, while his other arm rests on his lower back. "Reina will see you now. Please follow me."

It's about time.

I down my drink as we follow and butler-boy takes it from me before setting it down on the bar as we pass it. We pause at the wall next to the bar, and at this point, the place doesn't surprise me anymore. There's obviously a hidden door here too and sure enough, a little tug on one of the sconces causes the wall to slide open. Except for this time it opens to a spiral staircase and butler-dude starts climbing down.

We descend into a cellar full of wine racks and barrels, with track lighting shining beams onto their labels. It's all local from Napa and Sonoma County which I approve of since I'm partial to California wines and I'll go to my grave saying we make it the best. So, fuck off.

There's a clear path snaking around the barrels and racks as we follow the goon dressed in a penguin suit. The farther we walk, the dimmer it becomes and soon, it's just the taps of shoes against the concrete guiding the way because I can't see in this shitty lighting. Then, the butler comes to a halt, pivots, and motions towards the darkness.

We're about to die, aren't we?

A match strikes, illuminating the face of a woman with long dark hair, cascading down her shoulders as she lights a hurricane lantern. She's dressed in a black lace corset with black leather pants and you'd think she'd be wearing stiletto heels, but instead, it's red Chuck Taylors to match her red lipstick.

"I see you've brought friends," she directs to Franky and begins circling us, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete. "Angie, I recognize, but this fellow..."

"I'm Miguel." I extend my hand, but she smirks at it.

"I don't shake hands unless I'm closing a business deal, so tell me, stud-muffin, what can I do for you?"

"They need weapons," Franky answers.

"Why?" Reina studies me and I might as well be a ball of yarn her feline claws are toying with.

"To kill our douche-bag exes," Angie says.

"Not a man of many words, are you?" She narrows her gaze and I feel my balls crawl back inside me.

"I'm just along for the ride."

"Not a take-charge kind of man, huh?" She drops her gaze to my crotch then rolls them back up to look me in the eyes. "I don't mind submissiveness in the bedroom, but when it comes to business, a man better have some fucking balls."

Adjusting my stance, I fold my arms because I have a huge pair, but this isn't my rodeo. I'm surrounded by lionesses and we all know they're the real alphas. Not the lion, even though he holds the title of king. So, I stand there, waiting for Angie to explain the situation because she's the one steering this dysfunctional plan of hers.

"We also plan to kill Ritchie Reddy," Angie adds and that has Reina swinging her attention from me to her.

"You've lost your damn mind! Franky, what the fuck?" She turns to her.

"I'm just here to make an introduction." Franky waves her hands.

"Yeah, but you know what that means. Richie Reddy isn't just anybody and killing him will lead back to me. Everyone in the entire Bay Area knows if you need weapons, you come to me. So again, what the fuck!?"

"Not if you get permission." Franky shrugs.

"I can't ask for permission!"

"Not you. I meant Angie and Miguel."

Reina inhales a deep breath and holds up her finger, wagging it. "You can't be some nobody and ask the Sisters for permission."

"The Sisters?" I quirk a brow.

"Augusta and Jocelyn," Angie whispers to me.

"Before we do any business, you need to talk to them first. I can't afford to be shut down and they will kill my business if either of you bozos-"

"Hey!" Franky objects. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"Not you. Them. They're the bozos." Reina points her chin towards us. "If you make a move on Ritchie Reddy without the Sisters' blessing, they'll have you wearing a cement overcoat so fast..."

"Cement overcoat?" I whisper to Angie.

"A.k.a they'll kill us."

"Jesus... Angie!" I bark, snapping their attention to us as I run my hands through my hair repeatedly. "What the hell are you getting me into?"

"Sounds like the two of you need to figure your shit out," Reina says. "So I suggest you go do that and don't you dare come back here until you've spoken with the Sisters first."

"Well, there's just one problem..." Franky holds up her finger. "Neither of them knows the Sisters, and I've never done a job for them, so I can't introduce them."

"Oh. I see what's going on here." Reina arches a brow, nostrils flaring as her hands go to her hips. "You need me to make the intro."

"I'll make it up to you," Franky says.

"You fucking better!"

"Have I ever let you down?"

Reina gives Franky a once-over, her expression softening. "No. You haven't."

"So what's the next move?" Angie asks.

"First..." Reina steps forward. "You get the hell out of my speakeasy. Two, you wait for my call. I'll be in touch."

With that, she spins on her red Chucks, blows out the lantern and we're swathed in darkness again.

It's a strange world Angie lives in, and she's dragging me with her. I should be kicking and screaming. Yet, I continue to follow her lead because I need Richie gone.

And… as much as I want to follow the rules, I might take matters into my own hands sooner rather than later.

Waiting for permission is overrated.