Unless

by Avery Aster

  “Ahh. The one who made you swear off us womenfolk?”

  “That would be her.”

  “You gonna tell me—”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine.” I take the clothing and close the door. Sliding out of my designer duds, I notice the labels: Versace jeans and a Marc Jacobs top. Clearly whoever the woman was, she had taste and money. I step into the jeans. They’re snug, as is the sweatshirt, but I’ll manage.

  “Those looks nice on you,” he compliments as I come out of the bathroom.

  I glance down and notice he’s replaced his Italian loafers with sneakers.

  He catches me looking and chuckles. “In case we have to run again, I want to be prepared.”

  “Honestly, who do you think is after Mikhail?” I put my hands on my hips and glance out the window.

  “Spies, most likely.” He opens his closet and pulls out what appears to be a carrying case for a gun.

  “Don’t you think we should just go down to the police station? Talk to the officer?” I ask, feeling like we’re in over our head, like we don’t know what in the hell we’re doing. Like we were lucky earlier today, but later we won’t be.

  “No, I don’t. Whatever is going on with Mikhail, it’s much bigger than the NYPD.” He opens the case, and sure enough there’s a handgun staring back at us.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Last year, when I did that story on the National Rifle Association. They gave it to me after it aired.”

  “As journalists we’re not suppose to take bribes, you know.”

  “Those hair extensions you just yanked out a few minutes ago, didn’t you do a TV special on beauty the other day?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “And did you pay for them?”

  “They are totally two different things,” I defend.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, never you mind.” I toss my hair over my shoulder as if to dismiss him and his silly-ass questions. “Then let’s go to the FBI.”

  He shakes his head at me, lifts his right leg, and straps a holster onto his calf. “Let’s try the place I have in mind first. If we don’t get any answers, we can go to the FBI.”

  “Do you really think we need that gun?” I give him that yearning look, hoping he’ll change his crazy-ass mind.

  “Ummm, yeah. Someone shot at us, Poppy.” He slips the gun into the holster, then straightens the leg of his pants.

  A wave of nausea comes over me. I go to the kitchen, get a glass of water, and try some positive affirmations.

  I, Poppy White, can do this. I can run around town with Jagger after he just gave me the best damn orgasm of my life. We can find the man we’re both in love with. Who knows, maybe we’ll live happily ever after as a thruple. No, we won’t get chased again. We won’t get shot at again either. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine.

  I’m so full of shit. I don’t even believe myself.

  We make our way outside and head south to Houston Street. I have to admit, knowing we’re armed gives me a sense of reassurance.

  “You think Mikhail is in Soho?”

  We stop in front of a smoke shop.

  “This is the only store in town that sells the brand of cigars that Mikhail smokes.”

  I cross my arms defensively. “I knew that.”

  “He couldn’t go a day without smoking one, so if anyone has seen Mikhail, it’s these guys.” He points to the tall man behind the cash register as we go into the store.

  As much as I detest smoking, there’s something comforting about this place. Maybe it’s the mahogany walls or the ornate Oriental rug on the floor. Whatever it is, I’ve always felt a sense of peace around cigar smoke.

  I never knew my father, but my mother used to tell me that he was like a young Mark Twain, always lost in books and smoking a pipe. He committed suicide when I was in the fourth grade. I’ll get into why later. Much later.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk asks.

  Jagger pulls out his cell phone and taps the screen, pulling up a picture of our boyfriend. “Have you seen this man?”

  “Of course. Mr. Chekhov comes in here all the time.”

  “Was he in here today?” I ask, leaning forward, with a sharp tone I hadn’t intended.

  The clerk, whose name tag reads ‘Bobby,’ pauses. “Why should I tell you two?”

  “Excuse me?” I sass, though I’m not shocked. He’s a typical New Yorker.

  “I mean, what’s in it for me?”

  “How about a knuckle sandwich?” Cleary irritated, Jagger chimes in as if he’s going to lean across the counter and knock the guy out.

  Rolling my eyes, I reach into my purse pull out a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it at him before Jagger can say otherwise.

  Bob snatches the bill and stuffs it in his pocket. “He was in here today.”

  “What time?”

  “That’ll cost ya another twenty.”

  That’s it,” Jagger huffs.

  “Oh brother.” I dig back into my purse. “Here, you asshat, here’s a fifty. Now tell us what time.”

  “About an hour ago. He bought a box of cigars. Made a call, then used Supreme Car Service to pick him up.”

  Supreme’s cars stood out from the rest in this town in that they were bright purple and often had a neon advertising sign on the top. They’re cheaper than the Yellow Cabs, but not as nice as the Uber town cars.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Nope.” Bobby shrugs. “But he looked like he was in a hurry.”

  Immediately I pull out my phone and look up the address of the office to the car service. Grabbing Jagger’s hand, we head out onto Houston and hail a cab.

  Thirty minutes later we’re at the taxi company. It’s an old warehouse, the town cars lined up out front. Some are being repaired as we enter.

  “Listen, let me handle this,” I say to Jagger, noticing the guy in the corner at the desk smiling at me.

  “Fine.” Jagger puts his hands in his pockets, making his way to the other side of the room.

  “Hi there. I left my purse in one of your cars today. I was wondering if you could tell me which driver it was?” I lie.

  “What’s that on your arm?”

  “My other purse.” I smile at him, still lying. “I have hundreds. You could say I’m a handbag collector of sorts. American. Italian. French. I heart them all.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He sits back in his chair, pulls the keyboard to him, and asks, “What intersection and time today were you picked up?

  “About an hour ago. On the corner of West Houston and Thompson, in front of Soho Smoke Shop.”

  He radios the driver, whose name is Salvador. He agrees to come to the garage. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

  In the makeshift lobby that appears to be more a break room for the drivers, I make myself a cup of coffee.

  “What exactly are you going to say to Sal?” asks Jagger.

  “Well, I’m outta cash, so you’re going to have to bribe this one. I’m hoping he’ll take us to where he took Mikhail.”

  “Very smart of you.” He winks at me causing my inside to flutter slightly.

  A few minutes later, Sal comes over to us. He’s short, Italian-American, with a handsome weathered face.

  We ask Sal if he remembers picking Mikhail up.

  “Yeah. Dropped him off up in Harlem. Horrible block. Scary building. Didn’t get a return fare. Said he was going to take the subway from there on.”

  The subway?

  “Will you take us to where you took him?”

  “Nah, my shift is over. I’m done for the day. I gotta get home, pick up the kids from school.”

  “Your wife sounds very lucky to have you,” I compliment, hoping it’ll work.

  He shoots me a suspicious look before asking, “Aren’t you that broad on TV?”

  “Poppy White, pleased to meet you.” I smile.

  “My wife loves yous. You’re her idol.�
��

  “I have some free tickets to my show in my purse if you want them.” I reach inside and pull them out. I always have them on hand, ready to hand out at a moment’s notice. Ya never know when you’ll bump into a fan.

  “I’ll tell yous what. Since I take the Queensborough Bridge home, why don’t I drop yous two off up there in Harlem?”

  “Thank you.”

  Following him out to his car, Jagger and I get in the back seat.

  Taking the FDR uptown, we arrive at our destination about an hour later. It’s funny; tourists think Manhattan is just this little town where you can go from point A to point B in a flash. That’s not the case.

  The building is an old brownstone, probably built right before World War II, four stories tall with two units on each floor. There’s an older man drinking a beer on the stoop.

  “What are you doing?” Jagger asks.

  “Follow me.” I lead us into the liquor store across the street. “Can I get a bottle of whatever that man across the street likes to drink?”

  The lady at the counter starts to laugh. “Honey, that depends on the day of the week and if he’s got money or not.”

  “I see. Well I’ll take the best of whatever you got.” I pull out my American Express card.

  “We only take Visa here, honey.”

  I dig for my other card and hand it to her. She rings me up for a bottle of Jameson whiskey.

  “Watch and learn, Jagger.” I sign my slip, grab the bottle, and make my way across the street.

  “Hey there,” I say to the man on the steps. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who went into that building earlier today.”

  He glares up at me for only a second, then turns his attention to the whiskey. He reaches for it and asks, “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall,” says Jagger.

  “Handsome,” I add.

  “Not that handsome,” he corrects, then laughs.

  “In a suit?” the guy asks.

  I nod

  “Red tie? Carrying a silver briefcase?”

  “Sounds about right.” I hand him the bottle.

  “Second floor on the left.”

  “Thank you.” A sense of relief washes over me on how easy that was.

  We’re getting close.

  Total Fakeness

  Harlem

  Jagger

  I take Poppy by the hand and we make our way up to the second floor, where I press my ear against the door to see if I can hear Mikhail.

  Two voices. Both male. Speaking in Spanish.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispers.

  “Follow my lead.” I take a step back, pull my gun from the leg holster, and slam my right foot against the door.

  It busts open.

  “Jesus,” Poppy mutters.

  “Police! Hands up. Don’t move,” I shout, waving my gun for them to stand to hide the fact that I’m trembling. Just a little. I’ve interviewed enough cops over the years; maybe I can impersonate one.

  The two men sitting at a folding table do as they’re told.

  “Up against the wall. Now!” Poppy says, getting into it. In the far corner is a large semiautomatic rifle. She throws it out the open window, where it makes a loud clack against the cement in the back alleyway.

  “Oh man. Don’t do that,” cries the younger one.

  Doing my best to keep my eyes on them, I glance down at the table. There’s a pile of money at one end and what looks like a laminating pressing machine at the other.

  “What do we have here?” I ask in a throaty voice, picking up a passport. “Phony ID business. That’ll get you at least, what, five years?”

  “Ten,” Poppy corrects me. “We’re looking for someone who visited you earlier today. Name’s Mikhail.”

  “You just missed him.”

  “What did he come here for?”

  “What do you think, lady?” he says over his shoulder, twitching his body in short jerky movements.

  Afraid he’s going to hurt her, I take a wide step, placing myself between him and Poppy, and ask, “What name was the passport under?”

  “Mike Horn.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Staring into his eyes, I press my gun into his back.

  “Air France to Paris out of JFK. Flight leaves tonight. You can still catch him.”

  “Hey, why don’t you just let us go?” The older guy turns around and glares at us. His left eye starts to twitch as he nods to the cash on the table. “Take it. Forget we ever met.”

  Before I can say no, Poppy opens her handbag and stuffs it with their money.

  I shake my head at her to stop, but she doesn’t.

  “Thanks, fellas,” I finally say, sliding my gun back into the holster. We make our way out the door as quickly as we can and head to the corner of the block.

  Poppy puts her hand up, flagging a cab. We pile into the back seat and tell the driver, “JFK. Air France terminal.”

  I crack the window to get some fresh air.

  “I feel like my heart is going to lurch out of my chest.” Poppy puts her hands against her breasts. Red spots dance along her neckline. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

  “Why did you have to take the money?”

  “Insurance. Mikhail may need it.”

  “We could go to jail, Poppy.”

  “Yes, and we also could be dead right now. But we’re not.” The smugness on her face is cute, I’ll give her that. “Do you have your passport with you?”

  “Never leave home without it.”

  “Good. You’re going to need it.”

  Bonjour

  JFK Airport, Queens

  Poppy

  “Oh. My. God. I’m your biggest fan.” The airline employee behind the ticket counter’s round face goes red. “I just love your show, Ms. White. Last week’s episode where you had Jake Gyllenhaal on and asked him to take his shirt off? I rewound that clip about a million times. Loved that lasagna you made yesterday. When I tried it last night, there was so much sauce left over, I brought some to work today with meatballs. Could I get a picture with you? Would you mind? Please. I’m your biggest fan.”

  “Not at all.” I motion for Jagger to snap the photo.

  He takes the cell from her hand as I put my arms around her, giving a tight squeeze. We then purchase two tickets on Air France to Paris. They only have one flight tonight, so the probability of Mikhail being on that plane is good. I don’t think either one of us is actually going to fly anywhere; rather we’ll get a chance to talk to him at the gate, hopefully make some sense of this.

  As we wait for our tickets to print, Jagger leans in to me and asks, “Why is it that you have all the fans and no one even knows I exist?”

  I laugh, admitting to myself that there’s nothing better than meeting someone who admires your work. You get a high from it, like back in middle school when my friends and I would inhale whipped cream from canisters. Only no headache follows.

  Rubbing his shoulder to soothe him, I say, “I’m sure you have a fan somewhere out there. Maybe they’re taking a nap, or they’re busy eating Jell-O.”

  LUX TV did an audit on each of our fan bases before we started taping Hard News. Apparently Jagger is very popular in the Midwest with white men over the age of seventy-five. There’s nothing wrong with those viewers, but there just aren’t going to be very many of them left in a few years.

  “Very funny.” He thanks the attendant and takes our tickets.

  “Your flight is now boarding. Normally we wouldn’t let anyone buy a ticket so close to the gate closing, but you’re both in first class, without any bags, and should be able to get through security pretty easily. I’ve gone ahead and called the agents, told them we had Poppy White coming on board. They’ve agreed to hold the plane.”

  “Thank you so much.” I smile at her.

  Jagger’s body tenses and he quickly faces the escalator.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t tu
rn around. Let’s just keep walking.”

  “Jagger, stop. Tell me.”

  “The two men from your apartment who chased us into the laundry room have just entered the terminal.” His voice is shaky.

  “Maybe they won’t recognize us.” We step in behind a group of college students with backpacks on and carrying maps, slowly making our way to the area marked for security.

  “You high?” I ask. Everywhere I go, people stop and want to talk to me.

  As I step onto the escalator with Jagger at my side, I can’t help but turn around to see them. Scanning the room, I notice one of them is talking to the ticket agent who sold us our tickets. She’s pointing at me and waving.

  Fuuuck.

  “We gotta run.” I push through the students, taking two steps at a time. Jagger is right behind me.

  The crowd of people waiting to get into the terminal is nearly six people deep from all sides of the roped path.

  “We’re never going to make our flight in time.” Jagger wraps his hands around my waist, moving me from one line of people to the next. That’s when I spot the guys. Their guns aren’t out like they were in my apartment building, but it’s obvious from the stress on their faces that they want to get us.

  Just as I’m about to stick my purse through the metal detector, I stand up on a nearby chair that a nearby TSA agent was using and shout at the top of my lungs, “Does anyone want some free money?” Reaching into my purse, I grab wads of the cash we’d taken back in Harlem and thrust my hands in the air. Then I throw the money as hard and as fast as I can in the direction of the two shooters.

  The crowd goes wild, jumping to the floor and screaming, “Money.”

  I snag the last heap of cash, toss my purse into the X-ray machine, and throw the money as Jagger makes his way through the metal detector and I follow.

  To Be Continued...

  Want to know what happens next?

  Get Unlucky, the third installment in Jagger and Poppy’s erotic romance!

  http://a.co/fllkJuS

  And now here are excerpts from books by two of my best friends,

  Opal Carew and Debra Presley...

  By Opal Carew