Stolen Secrets

by Cayce Poponea

  The two naked girls didn’t bother to look up as I passed them. The girl on top was eating the shit out of the other girl’s pussy. Muncher had her tongue in her snatch and a dildo in her ass. I’d seen her a few times, always between someone’s thighs, male and female alike.

  “Didn’t expect to see you today,” Miranda said as she wrapped herself around my arm. She and I had spoken about our arrangement a few times so she knew the score and didn’t harp on it, unlike Marissa.

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Sure you were.”

  Where Miranda knew her place, she was also smart enough to do her job. She knew I took what I wanted from her. She also knew by keeping me happy, I gave her a level of protection. The cops never came around and the punks outside left her, and her girls, alone.

  “I brought you something.” I pulled the bag from my jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table. The loud slap of it landing did what my entering the room had failed to do. The pair on the floor stopped what they were doing and clawed over each other to reach the plastic bag. Miranda snatched it up and shouted for them to back the fuck off.

  “You got money?” she asked Carmen.

  Instead of answering, Carmen crawled between Miranda’s legs, causing the sides of her robe to fall away and began licking her pussy. Miranda adjusted her stance, giving me an unobscured view of the girl on her knees licking her clit. The other girl circled around, pushing Miranda in the back encouraging her to lean over. One thing about Miranda, she loved to have her ass played with. She moved her left foot to the side while she kept one girl sucking the shit out of her clit and the other tongue-fucking her ass. I watched their glistening tongues swirl and lick, coating her pussy and ass with a combination of saliva and pussy juice.

  The other men in the room stopped what they were doing to watch the three girls enjoying themselves. Training my eyes back to the action before me, I didn’t notice the bigger guy drop to his knees, placing his friend in his mouth until an audible “Fuck” was heard across the room.

  Miranda pushed the girl from her clit and reached into the bag of white powder using fingers wet from her own rubbing on her clit. Covering them in powder, she shoved them into the face of the waiting girl.

  There’s a fair amount of smack on the girl’s face, but she’s a seasoned drug user; the track marks on both her arms tell me how bad her habit is. The two guys quit sucking each other off now that Miranda is ready to sell. Money is tossed at her and she hands them each a bag of poison, all while enjoying the second girl’s tongue still buried in her ass.

  My Uncle Carmine told me the first time I watched him deliver to one of his girls that you should feed the addiction, profit from it, but never become the addicted. I took his words as the Holy Grail and have never snorted a single crystal of coke. Sex, on the other hand, was where my demons lay. I loved to watch it and perform it. I love the feel of it, the smell of it, and the fucking taste of it. Miranda was proficient at letting me be visual. She would have both of those girls doing anything I wanted to each other, for as long as I wanted them to.

  I’ve never fucked Miranda. With her drug habit and unscrupulous choices in bed partners, I’ve chosen to limit what I do with her. I have Marissa at my beck and call for pussy fucking. She knows I own her shit. I pay all her fucking bills and she sucks my cock when I tell her to. If she ever decided to step out on our deal, she would suffer the consequences. While I won’t kill a bitch for cheating, she sure as fuck would be homeless and broke before the sun came up.

  As soon as I left Miranda’s that night, I called Marissa. The fucking bitch was ignoring my calls. She did this from time to time when she wanted to get my attention. So fucking predictable. All it ever took to get her mouth back on my dick was a call to Fiori flower shop. The crazy bitch had a huge thing for red roses. I’d call tomorrow, as the bitch was on my last fucking nerve.

  THE BRISK STATEN ISLAND AIR hit me in the face when I exited my hotel. Back home, or rather back in Louisiana, the mornings started out cool and comfortable before the fire of the sun and moisture joined forces to make the air so thick you could slice it. Most days, the sun beat down on you like it had a personal vendetta. I’ll have to adjust, thicken my blood as I’ve heard the snowbirds say, but for now, for this transplanted girl, it’s enough to warrant a trip to a clothing store to pick up a jacket and sweater, or two.

  Last night, after I’d finished dinner and returned to the hotel, I asked the concierge where the closest library was. If I were going to apply for jobs, a polished, and possibly fabricated, resume would be required. When he asked if I needed a particular book, I told him the reasons, and then he showed me where the business center was located inside the hotel. I logged onto one of the computers and spent a few hours getting my facts together. A quick Google search of Fiori found it had been in business for over twenty years. Several award photos and articles in the city’s newspaper documented the various charity events the shop had donated to. There were also the standard reviews from various patrons. After reading those, I felt even better about my decision to go and check it out.

  Fiori was six blocks from my hotel, so instead of hailing a cab, I decided to walk. I spent some time taking in my surroundings and trying to become more familiar with where everything was located. Tall trees circled with wrought iron lined the street, homes with American flags flying proudly in support of our nation and what it represents. Several residents were bidding goodbye to their loved ones as they went off to work or school.

  I wanted to stop and have coffee, but chose not to in fear coffee breath would be a huge turn off, and would wait until returning to the hotel. As I rounded the corner, I noticed a small grocery store. Dorfman’s Five Star Market was written on a marquee, which had seen better days. An older man stood outside sweeping the cracked steps leading to his store, his cream colored sweater draped over his shoulders hanging past his knees. A black knit cap sat securely on his head. Sending him a friendly salutation as I passed, which he returned with a, “Good morning.” I was nearly to the next building when I noticed a flier for an apartment for rent. After I tore off a pull-tab, I continued next door.

  Fiori was a night and day difference from the adjoining store. The huge blue awning broadcasted its respective title. Large displays of wildflowers stood in wooden planters outside the window. Two seasoned vines created a backdrop of camouflage for brick of the building. All the splendid color returned me to a place I’d once felt safe. Once inside the door, I took a moment to breathe in the aroma of the flowers and floral supplies. It was a smell which made me relax and feel whole. A pleasing scan of the room revealed it busting at the seams with live flowers. Helium balloons danced toward the ceiling in the corner, while shelves full of colored ribbon awaited their chance to accessorize the perfect blossoms, thus sending a guaranteed smile to the recipient.

  A slender brunette stood at a work counter, flowers spread around her. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, a stray leaf hanging onto a strand of her hair while she danced around the work area, a phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she tried to finish the arrangement waiting for her attention.

  “Yes… yes, Sir, they went out this morning. You’re welcome, Sir… thank you.” She had barely placed the phone back in the cradle when it rang again. “Fiori, this is Gabby. How can I help you?” Her voice was cheerful regardless of how frustrated she looked as she blew on a piece of hair dangling in her eyes. She gave me an apologetic look then turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and began typing on a touch screen behind her.

  On the counter lay an array of freshly cut roses and baby’s breath. The eager looking greenery called to me, begging me to help them become something magnificent. Without my consent, my hands reached out to caress the stems, cutting and arranging them in the tall vase. Large red roses, Berringer to be specific, along with good thick sprigs of baby’s breath. In my research last night, it was revealed this was a family owned business. The owner, Sophia R
izzetti, had purchased the building in the early nineties after a fire broke out in the storage area. The previous owner was running a tanning salon, which struck me odd they would sell a business during that time period, tanning salons were all the rage. No one cared about skin cancer back then, looking tan and having an image was so much more important.

  Continuing to place the stems, I allowed my mind to wonder. Would the receiver of these roses forgive the sender of any wrongdoing? Or would she toss all the hard work, both Mother Nature’s and mine, against a wall? Or perhaps it was her birthday or anniversary? I could go on and on, dreaming up life events warranting the receipt of flowers.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so—” Gabby, or so the embroidered name on her apron indicated, had finally finished with the caller. Not a second later, the phone started to ring again. Placing the call on hold, her big brown eyes grew larger as she took in what I had completed. “…sorry.” She looked from the arrangement to me and back again, disbelief and wonder coloring her olive complexion. “Please tell me you need a job? Bethany quit last week and Sophia hasn’t had a chance to get someone in here who knows the difference between a carnation and a cactus.”

  Inspiration hit me and I walked over to the ribbon, choosing a pretty red velvet with gold-trimmed edges which I began to twist into a bow. Floral wire helped secure the bow and tails after clipping it from the roll. Back in Townsend Parish, ladies would come into the shop and order bows for decorating about any and everything, which had given me loads of practice.

  “Well, carnations are hardy flowers which have a distinctive smell. You can dye them a hundred different colors and use them as a filler flower. Cactus, on the other hand, is really a pain to work with as it has these nasty needles that stick you if you try to put them in an arrangement. Not to mention how much you can shorten their lifespan by giving them too much water.”

  Placing the bow securely in the vase and stepping back. Looking over at Gabby and we both began to laugh. “I am actually looking for a job.” Extending my hand, I introduced myself, “I’m Ari.” I purposely left out my last name. If I didn’t get the job here, there was no point in sharing that piece of information. The less out there the better. As much as I hated to be called Ari instead of Anna, or even Arianna, it seemed the habit was automatic. It was too late to take it back now.

  “Oh, okay.” The phone continued to ring as she looked all around her. “Nice to meet you, Ari. I’m Gabrielle, but everyone calls me Gabby.” Smiling with victory, she brought out a single sheet of paper I recognized as a standard job application. “Fill this out and as soon as Sophia comes in this morning, I’ll show her what you did.” Her eyes went to the phone with its red lights blinking. “I’m sorry, I have to get this,” she apologized and rounded the counter to retrieve the phone with a little bit of gusto.

  I moved to an empty corner of the counter and began filling in my information. I nearly listed a different name entirely, creating a new person. Considering I’d used someone else’s ID to get here, the chances of anyone looking for me in a city with millions of people would be extremely slim. I took the copy of my resume and slid both pieces of paper into Gabby’s hand as she continued to take orders from the phone. I waved goodbye and headed out of the store.

  Regardless if I got a call from Sophia or not, I needed a place to live. The flyer I’d seen earlier had indicated the apartment was on the same street as the store. Following the house numbers, I turned left and began to search. Four blocks later, I found the matching number. A filthy window on the ground floor had a For Rent sign in it, confirming I was in the right place.

  The building was a little on the rough side. The cement was cracked and crumbling and the windows could use a cleaning, but all that was cosmetic. I knocked on the door, which read: Office. A younger guy opened the door, the look he gave me sending chills down my spine.

  “Well, well, well. Whatever you’re selling, I’m sure I need it.”

  What teeth he had were yellow with a greenish tinge around the edges—the top two were missing, a direct result of the cigarette hanging from his lips I’m sure. His hair, which looked as if it hadn’t seen soap and water in a few days, was lying flat and lifeless against his filthy skin.

  “Hi. Yes, I noticed you have an apartment for rent. Is it still available?”

  He removed the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it onto the street behind me. I stood my ground and didn’t flinch when he moved too close for my comfort. His fingers were stained as if he had been working on a car; although the chili and, what I assumed was mustard, stains on his tank were evidence to the contrary.

  “For a pretty thing like you, I’d kick my own ma out.”

  I kept my face emotion free, his failed attempt at a compliment fell short, like negative numbers short. When I didn’t react to his compliment, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped out, closing the door behind him. He pointed to the left and it was then I noticed the red door that was indeed next to his. The paint was nearly gone and the wood had what looked like dirty oil stains on it. A set of keys appeared from his pocket and he began to find the one which would open the old door with a number three dangling upside down on it.

  “The rent is two thousand per month, due on the first. If you’re late, on the second you’re out on your ass. The furniture is included in the rent, as well as the water. You have to pay for your own electricity.”

  Two thousand dollars? Good Lord, I knew living here would be expensive, but at this rate I would need six roommates to keep from going broke. I wondered if the price would’ve been less if I had taken his compliment better.

  When the door opened the smell of rotting flesh and week old trash hit me full force, causing me to gag. The smell of Bourbon Street early on a Sunday morning paled in comparison to the stench which assaulted my nose as we made our way inside. In the first room was a single chair with a milk crate, I assumed designed to be a table. To the left was what I think they intended to be a kitchen. The sink was being held up by concrete blocks and a garden hose hung from a hole above the window. At least, I thought it was a window. Couldn’t be sure since it wasn’t clean enough to see outside.

  Making my way to the next room thinking a little elbow grease and a coat of paint would do this place a world of good, my cell phone started ringing. It was a number I didn’t recognize but I decided to answer it anyway since this was one of those disposable phones. I hadn’t spent more than twenty dollars and if it was someone I didn’t want to talk to again, I could just toss it.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning. I’m looking for an… Arianna? This is Sophia Santos with Fiori.”

  Telling green teeth I had to take this call, I excused myself. “Yes, this is she.” I was careful not to say my name; he didn’t need to know it.

  “Oh, good. Listen, Gabby showed me the arrangement you did while you were here. I’ve looked over your resume, but would like to see if you can arrange more than just roses?”

  I knew exactly what she was doing. Roses were easy to arrange, daisies even easier, but add some tropical flowers and you add to balance them.

  “Absolutely, when can I show you?” Crossing my fingers and closing my eyes, I was hoping she would say now. I’d been creating works of art using flowers for years, impressing Mayors and Preachers wives alike. Sophia should be no different.

  “Gabby said you just left, so you can’t be far, right?”

  “No, Ma’am. I’m actually just down the street looking at an apartment. I can be there in five minutes.” I started walking toward the door, ready to run back to the flower shop.

  “Five minutes?”

  The line was quiet and she didn’t sound too happy. I could almost visualize the furrowed brow, which had to be on her face.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I found a flyer in the store next to yours. I was just checking it out.” Stepping outside and not bothering to say goodbye to uni-brow, I breathed deep, inhaling the fresh air.

  “Oh, good Lord. That means y
ou can only be in one place. Get the hell out of there and get here as fast as you can! If I don’t see you in ten minutes, I’m calling my son to come and get you.”

  When the blue awning came into view I slowed to a brisk walk. The last thing I needed was to meet Sophia all stinky and sweaty. Several people smiled and said good morning as I hurried by. It made me feel not only welcome, but also a little more secure in the neighborhood. Although I wasn’t a religious person by any means, before I walked back into the flower shop I said a silent prayer that I would get this job.

  Gabby was busy once again organizing arrangements, including the dozen roses I had completed earlier. A beautiful, dark haired lady stood behind the counter with her. She didn’t look like she belonged there, more like she should be on her way to a business meeting. Her gray linen suit wouldn’t last a single day doing floral work. She had a cell phone to her ear and was in the middle of a heated conversation, by the sounds of it.

  “Do you want me to go down there?” Her left hand was on her hip, an enormous diamond ring sparkling on her finger.

  The matching Rolex told me she had money or knew a really good jeweler, one able to fake the good shit.

  “I asked you two weeks ago to handle this. That gavone is still trying to rent a condemned building. If you don’t take care of it by the time this shop closes, I’m going down there on my own. Do I make myself clear?” Not waiting wait for an answer, she hit the end button and then turned in my direction. She rounded the counter holding out her hand to me. “I’m Sophia, the owner. You must be Arianna?”

  I shook her hand and smiled, an actual smile, not one I had to paint on. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m Arianna, Arianna Taylor. But please call me Ari.” As much as I hated the nickname Corey’d given me, I had already let it slip to Gabby. Besides, after four years I was used to it.