Call Me, Poppy Read online

  “Never heard of her,” I admit with a shrug. “You know I don’t watch TV.” Unlike some immigrants who learn the language by watching movies and talk shows, I listened to audio books and read along. Mostly Westerns. My favorite authors are Cormac McCarthy and Jack London.

  We make two piles. In the lot of things to keep, there’s fine jewelry from Cartier and Tiffany’s, a few grand in cash, two laptops, a bottle of Farnworth Firewater liquor, a handgun, and some marijuana.

  “Why do you think she had a gun?” I ask, holding up the revolver.

  “Probably for protection. A year ago she was held hostage by a lunatic.”

  Sensationnel.

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “It was all over the news at the time.”

  We make a second stack of the things to be thrown away—school papers, costume jewelry, and a stack of journals.

  “Save the pot for Colton. He’s the only one who smokes, and he’ll need to unwind once we get him free.” Jesse’s face is etched in worry.

  “Do you think we’ll get the money in time?” I ask, thinking about Colton. He’s the first friend I made when I moved to New York. Abducted by the Borgata mob leader, Jimmy “The Bear” Borgata, a few weeks ago, we’d been trying to get him free ever since.

  “Jimmy said we had until next week to come up with a hundred grand.”

  “How far are we from the goal?” I ask, not thinking we’ll ever have enough.

  “A few more robberies should do the trick.”

  “How many, exactly?” I want this nightmare to be over.

  “Three or four.” He walks over to the window and looks out. “Maybe next time we should hit up one of those townhouses on the Upper East Side.”

  “Like whose?”

  He holds up the bottle of Farnworth Firewater. “How about that liquor heiress, Vive? Heard she lives over at the Sherry-Netherland.”

  “How would we ever get past her doorman?” It scares me how much Jesse knows about these rich folks. He studies the social section of the newspaper and aspires to be just like them.

  Personally, I couldn’t care less. Money doesn’t do anyone any good. Just look at Colton. Poor bastard.

  “They have terraces.”

  “Qui,” I agree. That had been our niche; we climb walls like Spiderman.

  “I’d rather do one big job than these little ones. Plus, the university has to be on to us by now. Don’t you think?” He leans against the plaster wall I’d painted yellow a few months ago in an attempt to brighten up the space, takes out a cigarette from his back pocket, and presses it between his lips.

  “I dunno.” I shrug, trying to remain positive. The thought of getting caught makes my head spin. We have to stay focused until Colton is released. “Tomorrow I’ll cash these items in at the pawn shop like we always do, then wire the money to Jimmy.”

  Two days ago they cut Colton’s finger off. Merde. The mere thought of it all makes me queasy.

  First, they’d e-mailed us a video.

  “This could be fake,” Jesse had said while we’d watched it over and over again. Colton was screaming at the top of his lungs while blood splattered onto the camera lens.

  A day later—in a FedEx box, no less—arrived the finger in one of those Ziploc bags. I threw up my lunch, a chicken salad on rye bread with a pickle and orange soda, the second I realized it was a piece of my friend.

  Ever since Colton went to work for the Borgata family, we’ve had nothing but trouble. The goal was to get our friend back, and then we were all moving to Paris. Goodbye, New York. Hello, Europe.

  My fantasy of living the good life in America is pretty much over.

  At first, I’d felt horrible for stealing things from innocent people. But when we switched it up, focusing on just hitting privileged folks, like these students at an Ivy League school, I didn’t feel so bad. They had more money than God and wouldn’t miss it.

  I’m not justifying Colton’s actions. He deserved to be abducted. After all, he did lose a hundred thousand dollars of Jimmy’s money. Left the bag of money on the subway and got off at the next stop to talk to a girl. Total airhead. Maybe it was just nerves. Colton wasn’t cut out for a career in crime.

  We put everything into boxes and slide them under my bed.

  “Here, you forgot this.” He hands me notebook.

  Tossing it onto my bed, I feel the hunger pangs growing in my stomach, “Let’s eat.” The stress of everything makes me hungry.

  After dinner, I take a scalding-hot shower, hoping to wash away all of the torment I’m feeling over what we’re doing. Later, I write a letter to my parents who live in Marseille. That’s where most of my childhood was spent, in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur region, but my grandparents still live in Beirut, Lebanon. They’ll never leave. As much as we tried to get them to come to Europe or America, they refuse.

  Something hard and square smashes against my backside. I pull it out—a book. Turning to the first page, I see that it’s a diary of sorts from the woman we robbed. What did Jesse say her name was again?

  I turn to the signature of the first entry: Poppy.

  Hmmm.

  I read:

  Entry #1

  Dear Dolores,

  Well, I did it. I’m leaving the Keystone State. My full scholarship for Columbia University has come through, thanks in part to winning Miss Pennsylvania.

  Ennuyeux. Yawn.

  I fast forward to Entry #403.

  Dear Dolores,

  Lately, I’ve been having these fantasies about kissing a man on the dance floor in the dark, not knowing what he looks like, just kissing him. Letting the music overtake our two bodies—you know, like in that movie Dirty Dancing, where Patrick Swayze and Jenifer Grey don’t just dance while moving their bodies to the music, but make love.

  I want to go dancing. I want to feel someone’s strong arms wrap around my body, lifting my legs off the ground, sucking on my breasts, slamming my body against a speaker, drunk on vodka and the music while they thrust their cock deep inside me. As I orgasm, biting on his ear, no one around us will have any clue what’s going on because we’ll be in the dark.

  No One Puts Baby in the Corner,

  Poppy

  Merde. This woman is amazing. I can’t stop reading. I skip over a few entries.

  Entry #794

  Dear Dolores,

  My friend Lex Easton has been dating a NYPD motor cop recently. Covered in ink, he’s hot as hell. I’ll admit I’m jealous. So are Taddy, Blake, Vive, and Thor. We all want to be with this policeman. I’ve never ridden on a motorbike before.

  I wonder what it would be like to feel my hair blowing in the wind while I have my hands wrapped around his broad muscular back. While at the streetlights, I slip my fingers into his button-down shirt and tease the chest hair, admiring his pecs, knowing full well I’m stirring his erection to new heights. Then, just when we can’t take the sexual tension between us anymore, he drives through Central Park and stops under the bridge.

  And there, out in the open air, like animals in the wild, he fucks me hard and fast. I can’t think of a better place to lose my virginity than in Central Park. Can you, Dolores? I mean really.

  Hornier than Harley-Davidson,

  Poppy

  Wow!

  Is this woman for real? I take out my laptop and Google her name. A video of her TV show comes up on my screen, and I push Play.

  “Hello, America! Welcome to the Poppy White Show. Today we’ll be talking to Ben Affleck about his new movie. Jessica Biel is here too.” The camera cuts to the audience, who’s screaming. “Later in the program we’ve got Rachael Ray. She’ll be whipping up a tasty treat that’s sure to set your tongue on fire in a good way, so stick around.”

  I stay up for the next few hours, reading Poppy’s journals. I find out where she likes to go each morning to have her breakfast—Joe Coffee, near the campus. How she manages her studies while working full-time on her talk show—she’s a good
mutitasker. And about her Manhattanite friends—they are an eccentric group, that’s for sure. Sure enough, Vive lives at the high-rise that Jesse mentioned.

  Maybe Jesse was right earlier.

  I’m living under a rock.

  Dirty Dancing

  Glamourama Night Club, Midtown

  Poppy

  Music pumping. Bodies shaking.

  “I double-heart this song!” I shout out to Vive and Thor, who are dancing next to me. The lights are dim. I’m virtually unrecognizable. We waited behind the red velvet ropes until after midnight, drinking, laughing, talking. Then the dance floor goes dark and the music changes from top pop to electronic dance music.

  Thor’s twerking.

  Vive’s drinking.

  I’m dancing.

  Taddy and Lex are off in the corner, by the sofa. Lex has been sulking up a storm. Apparently her mother, glam metal legend Birdie Easton, has a new music video out that involves some girl-on-girl action. That, of course, has sent Lex off her rocker.

  Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Last semester, a girl asked me out. As much as I wanted to entertain the idea, I said no. I think I need to be with a man before I can sleep with a woman. Although, some would argue that it might be better to try a girl first.

  “Here, darling.” Vive hands me a lollypop from a waiter who’s passing them out. “It’s grape vodka-flavored.”

  “Is this laced with anything?” I ask suspiciously, remembering that our friend Blake and Taddy were roofied at this very club last year. Hence why they didn’t come here tonight.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She laughs.

  I frown.

  “Oh, honey. I’m just joking. The lolly is fine. Enjoy.”

  I peel the wrapper and pop the candy in my mouth.

  The music speeds up. The lights go darker.

  Yesssss.

  All of a sudden, I feel a man—tall, muscular and smelling of musk—come up behind me. His hips slowly gyrate with mine.

  Most girls in this situation, I imagine, would naturally whip around to get a good look at him, then start firing off questions like, “What school do you go to?” and twirling their hair.

  Not me.

  I couldn’t give a flip. I just wanna freakin’ dance.

  I press my backside against his crotch, teasing him, shaking my thang, then lift my hand up in the air to show that I’m having a blast.

  All of a sudden, his hands, big and strong, come down over my bare shoulders, sending a pulsating charge through my body that causes every inch of my flesh to tingle.

  “Bonsoir,” he mutters in my ear in a deep baritone voice. I whirl around to face him.

  “You’re French?”

  “Qui.” He turns around, showing me his backside and hiding his face.

  “Ohhhh. Two can play at this game, buddy.” Thinking I’m all male and stuff, I get right up behind him, slide my hands into his front pockets, and press myself against him.

  He laughs and mutters some words that I don’t understand.

  I giggle too, wishing I had paid better attention in French class. I couldn’t stand my teacher in high school, Madame Boulanger. The woman hated me, said I’d never amount to much in life unless I learned French. I’d argued that I’d originally wanted to learn Spanish, but that class was full, so was stuck with Madame Boulanger.

  We move to the music, finishing the song.

  Just as he’s about to turn, I release my hands and do the same. Slowly I walk over to the far wall. He follows, our hips meshed together as one.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, glaring up at him in utter fascination.

  “No, mademoiselle.”

  Oh God. This is crazy hot.

  We’re in the dark, so I can’t see him very well, but I have to look, at least to see if he has a nice face or not. To be honest, with that accent, he could resemble Herman Munster and I’ll still be turned on by him. I mean, from what I can tell he’s gotta be 6’4. Ohhh, and those hands. They look like football player hands. You know, the kind that can rip your panties of in one fell swoop.

  I put my fingers up to his lips.

  He bites playfully down on them and wraps his arms around me.

  “Kiss me,” I mutter.

  He leans down and plants one on my lips. First slow and tender, but as the heat between us becomes scorching hot, his tongue goes deeper as if fucking my face with it. Oh. My. God. In. Out. He nibbles on my bottom lip. Presses me closer to him, tongue diving deeper. His hands cradle my skull.

  Fuck. Yes. Now. Take me now. Please.

  I take his left hand with my right and edge my skirt up around my waist. Leaning my body onto his, his fingers find their way to my pussy lips. He squeezes them, gently at first, then firmly.

  I’m going to be soaking wet. Yup. Any second now. Buckets galore.

  “Feel good, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes. Finger me. Please.” Turning around, I face the wall. His lips nuzzle at my ears. His hands are up my skirt, his fingers playing with my clit.

  “Je serai poète et toi poésie.”

  “I'll be a poet, and you'll be poetry,” I repeat his words back in English, the French coming back to me. Thank you, Madame Boulanger!

  God. The mere sound of them makes me wet. Literally.

  He pulls his finger out and licks it. “Bien.” Then shoves two deep inside me.

  “You’re tight, mademoiselle.” His firm cock, concealed in his jeans but seemingly ready to bust loose at any minute under that zipper, presses against my ass.

  Gyrating my hips and taking his hands, I pant, “Oh God. I’m going to come. Tell me your name. Please.”

  “Yves,” he mutters, whipping me around to face him. His mouth hovers over mine. “Come while I kiss you.”

  And so I do. I come like I’ve never come before: in the dark, in a nightclub, in a stranger’s arms.

  The music is a muffled bass in my ears as he holds me tight. My legs feel weak. I’m soaking wet. I bite down on my tongue as the final wave of the orgasm rocks through me. Squinting my eyes shut tight, bright colors burst behind my eyelids.

  Everything is going in slow motion. That is until I hear a familiar voice shouting for me.

  Damn.

  “Poppy Fucking White!” Vive shouts in my direction. “What in the holy hell are you doing over here?” She grabs me by the hand as a pull my skirt down.

  Flustered, confused, a bit discombobulated, I face my friend and reply, “Dancing. Vive, I’d like you to meet Yves.”

  Before I can reach for him, he turns and leaves.

  No more Frenchman. No more dancing in the dark. No more coming in my skirt.

  Dammit.

  “You can’t just wander off like that. Thor and I have been looking for you. Hello.”

  “I didn’t.” I smile at her as we make our way to the bar. “Do you see him anywhere?” I scan the lounge area, looking for a tall man with muscles.

  “See who?”

  “The man I danced with earlier.”

  “You call that dancing, do ya, girly?” Judgment seething in her tone, Vive shakes her head at me.

  “What. Ever. Let me have some fun.”

  “He’s gone. Went out that door over there.”

  I run over to the nightclub’s window, which faces out on the West Side Highway. Sure enough, there he is under a streetlight, getting onto motorcycle. He takes off heading south.

  “Goodbye, stranger.”

  “He sure is sexy fucker.” Vive comes up behind me and peers out the window.

  “Do you think he’s Latin and French?” I ask.

  “Nah. Middle Eastern.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Tall. Large brown, almond-shaped eyes. European clothing. He’s probably a sheikh prince”

  We laugh.

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Yves.”

  “Ahhh, an Arab. There are tons living in France.”

  “Vive, h
ow do you know so much about the world?” My jaw drops. Between her and Taddy, I can never keep up. I’ve never been out the country and my passport was stolen.

  “Honey, when you grow up a Farnworth, you see things.” She reaches for my hand. I admire the platinum Chanel ring on her fingers; I can tell by the double c’s etched in diamonds. Every nice piece of jewelry that I owned, given to me as gifts from the producers of my show, was taken during the break-in. I’d never owned anything like that before. “What do you say we come here again next week? Same time. Maybe he’ll show up.”

  “Great idea.” I smile at her enthusiastically.

  “Next time, don’t wear any underpants.”

  The Chase

  “Poppy White has been on a mission to lose her V-card for the last year or so. It’s rather exhausting to watch. I’ve done my best to school her on these things. Tell her it’ll happen when she least expects it. That you can’t really ‘will’ it to happen, unless you just go out and fuck some stranger. Who the hell does that these days? Poppy White, that’s who. Crazy bietch!”—Thor Edwards, gay socialite, HIV fundraiser, LGBT advocate.

  Farnworth Fortunes

  Sherry-Netherland, Upper East Side

  Yves

  “This sure beats scaling the walls,” I say to Jesse as he swipes a keycard at the front door of Farnworth’s penthouse.

  We stand frozen for a minute, waiting for an alarm to go off before stepping in.

  Nothing. It’s quiet.

  A little dog with brown shaggy hair comes up and sniffs me. The pink nametag around its neck reads “Hedda.”

  “Can he see us?” asks Jesse.

  “It’s a she. And I don’t think so. Look at the white spots in her eyes. Most likely, how do you say in English… cataracts.” I scratch her behind the ears. “Le chien.”

  Earlier, the doorman downstairs had stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. That’s when we came in through the back entrance, leaned over the front desk, and grabbed the keys.

  This isn’t foolproof; we figure we’ll be on camera, hence why we’re wearing black ski masks to disguise ourselves. Unlike most of our heists, this one we’ve timed to be in and out in just less than ten minutes.