by Avery Aster
The owner, Vive, is out tonight at a social function. Jesse read about it earlier in the paper that she’s cohosting a charity ball with some friend named Thor.
“Let’s hit the bedroom as planned. We’ve got about eight minutes.”
Rummaging through her jewelry, I try not to make too much of a mess. I’ve gotten pretty good at telling the fake from the real. We need fine jewelry—Rolex, Bvlgari, Van Cleef, Piaget—and this woman has a treasure chest full of the stuff.
I fixate on a diamond ring from Chanel. I slide it into my pouch.
“This should do it. Let’s go,” I shout at Jesse, just as an alarm from out in the hall starts to sound.
“Shit.”
We open the door to see two police running toward us.
We close the door and lock it.
“The terrace!”
Making our way out the back patio, I glance over the edge and down at the ground.
“Dude, we’re stuck up here.” Jesse is freaking out.
“No. Jump down to the terrace below,” I tell him.
“That’s at least three stories from here.”
“When you hit the ground, roll. Shoot for that sofa to break your fall.” I point to the outdoor patio furniture.
The lights in Vive’s apartment flash on. The police have made their way inside.
“Now!”
I jump, landing on my feet and then rolling. Immediately I feel my ankle twist, a flash of heat at the joint. “Ouch.”
Jesse follows.
We crawl over to the edge of the thirty-fifth-floor balcony and look out. It’s clear we’ll have to jump again onto the terrace below this one; then we can make our way over the roof of the next building.
“Stop!” shouts a person from the other side of the terrace. “I’ll shoot.”
Pulling the ski mask up, I squint to get a good look at where the voice is coming from. A man in a blue shiny robe, flapping open in the wind, struggles to keep the gun focused on us.
“One,” I say under my breath toward Jesse.
“Two.” We put our hands up in the air as if we’re going to surrender, taking a step toward the guy.
“Three.” I pick up a chaise lounge chair and throw it at the gunman as Jesse jumps. I follow close behind, praying I don’t break my ankle.
We land on the next terrace and run as fast as we can to the other side. This time we’re able to jump to the next roof.
From up above, the guy shouts at us to stop and fires the gun once, twice. Totally misses.
“Is that a helicopter?”
Sure enough, in the distance from over Central Park is a flash of white light heading right toward us.
We look out onto Fifth Avenue.
“It’s too far of a jump. We’ll never make it.”
“Agreed.” I look down the road. “Do you see that garbage truck?”
“No way, man.”
“You wanna go to jail?” I point toward the helicopter, which is quickly closing in on us.
I climb up on the ledge. Just as the truck starts to pull close, Jesse grabs my hand and we fall. Landing on the plastic bags, I close my eyes for a second.
We made it.
Move Over, Mochaccino
Joe Coffee Shop, Morning Side Heights
Poppy
Thor and I take a table in the corner.
I glare out the panoramic window onto Broadway, admiring the traffic going northbound. Removing my Prada sunglasses, I take a sip of my mochaccino.
“How is it?” Thor asks, then takes a bite of his croissant.
“Nice and chocolatey. Just as I like it.” I take another sip. While in the line, we were talking about a guy Thor dated last year. “Do you think you’ll reach out to him?”
“Not sure.”
“Does he know that he infected you?”
He shakes his head.
We sit in silence for a minute as I take in the situation. Thor was diagnosed HIV positive last year. It took him a few months to tell us, but this year, he’s joined several advocacy groups that fight against the stigma of HIV. He’s determined to make a difference in the community.
“I’m proud of you. That fundraiser you and Vive hosted the other night raised a lot of money, didn’t it?”
“It sure did. Vive supplied all the booze and gave such a great speech.”
“I can’t believe her penthouse got robbed,” I say.
“Don’t you think that’s odd that all three of us have been broken into? You and me on campus is one thing, a coincidence of sorts. But Vive lives clear across town. It’s as if someone knows who we are and is targeting us.” He puts his coffee down and crosses his arms in a huff.
“Clearly whoever is robbing us has good taste,” I joke.
“What if Vive had been home that night?” he asks.
“I imagine that she would’ve shot them. After what happened last year, we all have guns. We all know how to shoot too.” I replaced my handgun within days after the robbery. “I like the Second Amendment just where it is, in my Gucci handbag.”
Thor makes a frowny face at me. He’s in favor of gun control, which is fine. We can agree to disagree.
“Wanna go on my show?” I change the subject. “We could do a whole theme on safe sex.”
“Not sure I’m ready for that one. I appreciate the offer though. Maybe in a few months, once I get my platform established.”
“Platform?” Sitting back in my chair, I bite on a hangnail.
“Yes, most philanthropic people have them. I have to fine-tune mine. HIV is such a broad disease. There are so many subgroups within the community that I need to target.” He folds his arms over his chest and smiles at me.
“Why not focus on prevention on college campuses?” I suggest.
“That’s a great idea. When did you become so suave on platforms of this nature?”
“Hello, I’m a Miss Pennsylvania.” I adjust my hair as if a crown were on top of my head.
“And what was your platform back then?”
“Freedom of speech.”
“Of course it was, Miss Thang.”
“My talent was tap dancing with two fire batons to ‘Sing Sing Sing’ by Benny Goodman.” I laugh thinking back on that year in my life. I had just graduated high school and been accepted to Columbia University, with no way of paying for it. Unlike the rest of the Manhattanites, I was born in a doublewide mobile home, raised by a single parent, and was the first in my family to ever go to college, much less live in New York City. “If I had a better singing voice and could carry a tune, I’m sure I would’ve won Miss America, but I don’t, so I didn’t. I placed third runner-up.”
“That’s pretty darn good for a tap dancer, don’tcha think?”
I nod. “I love to dance. You know that. I should’ve been a Rockette instead of a TV host.”
“Isn’t it wild to think that your TV show has become so popular?” Thor winks at me. Out of everyone on campus, he is my one true friend. He was the only person who would talk to me during my freshman year.
He’d said, “If you want to make it this town, you have to carry a better handbag than what you’ve got.” I had a backpack at the time. He took me shopping on Fifth Avenue and bought me a Louis Vuitton. “You can pay me back one day, when you’re rich and famous.”
“How do you know I’ll be rich and famous one day?” I’d asked.
“Sweetie. You got it. I can tell. Mark my words: you’ll own this town one day.”
Ever since then, we’ve been the best of friends. He didn’t judge me, and I surely didn’t judge him.
“Hello? Are you paying attention.” Thor snaps his fingers.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about us and how we first met. What was the question?”
“Your TV show. Isn’t it wild. Don’tcha love it?”
“No, I don’t like it much. People stare at me everywhere I go. I’m constantly getting asked for free tickets. I don’t have a life anymore. Everyone knows me as that girl on TV. It drives
me crazy. How am I ever going to meet a man?”
“Maybe you should date another TV person,” Thor suggests.
“Hell to the no.” I laugh.
“Oh, come on, Poppy. You mean you’d kick Tom Cruise out of your bed?”
“Hell to the yes. Scientology scares the crap outta me. No, thank you. I like my Jesus just where he is, in Heaven. Not on some spaceship with L. Ron Hubbard.”
Thor laughs so hard he snorts. “Cher said that Tom Cruise was one of the best lovers she ever had. Ranked him at number five.”
“That is crazy sauce. Besides, actors do nothing for me.”
“Then what does do it for you?”
I think back to Yves, the man from a few nights ago. “Tall, dark, handsome, European, big hands, muscles, deep voice, long legs, nice butt, almond-shaped brown eyes.”
Glancing over my shoulder, Thor points suddenly. “Like him?”
I turn around and freeze. “Exactly like him.”
Yves smiles at me fondly, then steps out of the coffee line and reaches for my hand as I find my footing to stand. “Hello, mademoiselle.”
“We were just talking about you.”
“Is that so?”
“Ah-huh. And now you’re here. In the flesh. All six-foot-four of ya.” I gaze up at him, a warm tingle starting at my core. I can’t get over how beautiful he is. “Care to join me and my friend?”
Thor shakes Yves’s hand and introduces himself. He then stacks his books on top of one another. “I gotta go. I’ll be late to class.”
I look at him suspiciously, knowing he doesn’t have any more classes today. Neither do I. The rest of the day is free to whatever or whomever we please.
“Have fun, you two.” He winks in my direction and mutters, “Toodles.”
“Don’t you want to get back in line and get a coffee?” I ask Yves once Thor’s gone.
“No, mademoiselle. I’d rather sit here and talk with you.” He holds out a chair for me and I take it.
Unexpectedly he sits right next to me. Not on the other side of the table, but at my right. His knee grazes playfully against mine.
Oh. Lordie. I cross my legs.
He reaches for my hand.
I swallow the lump that’s swelling in my throat as he slowly traces his fingers across the palm of my hand.
“That tickles,” I say, pulling away.
Again, he reaches for my hand.
“Do you have class today?” he asks, then slowly licks his lips.
I shake my head.
“Work?”
“Nope.”
“Me either.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask. “Are you also in school? If so, where do you go?”
He grins at me as if holding back. “Does it matter?”
“Just curious.”
“I work as a longshoreman over at Port Authority.”
“That explains your muscles.” I run my hand up and down his arm. The guy is made of pure rock. “What about school?”
“BMCC,” he replies.
Borough Manhattan Community College is a two-year school downtown.
“That’s wonderful, Yves,” I say.
“We all have to start somewhere.” He gets to his feet. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’d like to take you for a ride on my moto.”
“Your motorbike?” I ask, and he nods. “Where do you wanna go?”
“Central Park.” He reaches for my hand.
Live to Ride, Ride to Live
Central Park
Poppy
He straps the matte-black helmet under my chin and goes over some basic instructions on how to ride—leaning forward, holding on, etc. Too excited to truly listen, I just stare at his male beauty, smelling his musky scent. Wrapping my arms around him, I giggle to myself as we take off south down Broadway. We hang a left on 110th Street and travel east onto Central Park West before we head south again. I look to my left, admiring the trees. This time of the year, the fall, is by far my favorite. The temperature is in the mid-sixties, so it’s warm in the sun but cool in the shade.
“You doing okay, mademoiselle?” he asks as we pull up to a red light.
“Ah-huh. I’m loving it,” I reply.
The bike accelerates and turns into the park at 97th Street. We park to the left of the Boathouse Restaurant near East Drive.
As I get off the bike, he lifts the seat and pulls out a blanket. “I thought we’d sit for a while. Enjoy the weather. You know, before it’s cold.”
“Sounds perfect.” I smile, a swarm of butterflies taking up residence in my stomach. I’m nauseous. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous around a man before.
He walks ahead of me, spreading the blanket out on the ground.
“I’m going to run to that restroom over there. I’ll be right back.” I make my way over to the outdoor rest area. Opening the door the ladies’ room, I splash some cold water on my face, then clasp my hands together and pray.
Dear God, I know I told you’d I’d be good this year. And so far, I’ve been pretty buttoned up.
I haven’t done any drugs. Well, except for pot, and that one hit of acid, but that doesn’t really count, does it?
I’ve seriously cut back on my swearing—haven’t you noticed I don’t say your name in vain? Unless I’m utterly horrified or shocked at something, like last week when I had Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones on my show and he admitted to snorting his father’s ashes as if they were cocaine.
I couldn’t help but give you a shout out then, now could I? I mean, I nearly fell right off the stage when that came flying out of Keith’s mouth. My ratings went through the roof.
I’m no longer coveting Vive’s boyfriend, or Lex’s for that matter. Largely because they’ve broken up and those juicy meatheads don’t hang out with us much anymore.
I’ve been resting on Sundays, and Wednesdays too.
Obviously, I haven’t killed anyone. Although last year I surely came close, now didn’t I?
Thank you for bringing me Yves. I think I love him. Well, I surely lust the man. That is for real. I know I’ve been holding onto my V-card for forever, but I think I’m ready to let her go, so for the rest of the afternoon, could ya puh-lease turn a blind eye?
Thank you!
Amen.
My cell phone chimes in my purse, a message from Vive.
CALL ME ASAP! NYPD JUST PUBLISHED A SKETCH OF THE ROBBERS!! UR GONNA SHIT BRICKS!!!
I roll my eyes, having had enough of that burglary drama for one day. I turn my phone off and make my way back out into the park.
Fucked
“While in college, we’ve all made horrific choices in our love life. Men we’ve trusted too much. Bad boys we probably shouldn’t have given the time of day. Naughty hunks who fulfilled our wildest fantasies, but in reality, maybe they weren’t right for us. Isn’t that what college is all about? Finding your way. Sometimes we fall flat on our face. Luckily, we have our besties to pick us back up.”—Taddy Brill, college junior, marketing major, Playboy centerfold, aspiring millionaire.
Buh-Bye, V-Card
Poppy
I made my way back to Yves who’s sprawling out on the plaid blanket, staring up at the sky. Tucked behind the bushes, we’re out of sight.
“No one is going to see us back here,” I say to him as he sits up.
“Qui. That’s the whole point.” He kisses me.
Not sure what to do with my hands, I rub his leg, sensing his arousal. Leaning into him, pressing my lips against his, I fall on top of him.
His hands slide under my pink sweater, I moan softly into his mouth as he tugs ever so gently on my nipples. Undoing my bra with the other hand, I pull my sweater up over my shoulders. In the open air, the skin on my breasts prickles. Above us the sun shines brightly. I pull his face into my chest as he suckles on my tits.
“I want to fuck you, Poppy. Right here. Right now.”
For just
a moment, I put the thoughts about my school grades, the usual drama with the TV show, the money I have to wire to my mother every week, and my friends, out of my mind. For just a moment, I lose myself in Yves.
Unfastening his zipper, I tug at the waistline of his jeans. He isn’t wearing any underwear, no boxers either. His beautiful dick stares up at me as if reaching for the sky. I take it in my hand, watching the smile on his face broaden. Kneeling over him, I lick the tiny slit on the tip of his cock.
Once. Twice.
“Such a beautiful dick,” I compliment him. Licking my lips, I take more of him in my mouth, jerking my head up and down, getting him nice and hard, long and thick.
As I’m sucking him, tasting his salty precum, I start to touch myself with my free hand. I’m already wet. The mere though of this man—makes me come. It’s in my mind really.
He’s crying out in French words that I don’t quiet understand. But it’s all good. He’s enjoying himself.
Wiping the tears stinging my cheeks with my forearm, I crawl back on top of him.
He reaches in his back pocket for a condom.
“You always this prepared?” I joke.
His large almond-shaped eyes stare up at me intently. “Let’s switch places. You get on your back, mademoiselle.”
“No,” I say in fake French accent.
“You want to be on top?”
I nod. “Let me ride you.”
Eyes wide, he agrees and slides the condom effortlessly over his erection.
I choose to be on top for selfish reasons. Let’s face it: Yves is hung like a horse.
I’d watched a porno once with Vive where the girl was so terrified of the man’s junk that she got on top, slowly taking each inch, getting more and more conformable.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Feeling the lubrication from the condom, I slowly let me body align with Yves.
Tight. Full. Numb.
“Breathe, Poppy, just breathe.” His tongue dances over the flesh of my neck.
I come up. Then down. Getting more comfortable with him inside me.
Up. Down.
“This feels so good.” I arch my back, staring up at the sky. The white noise of traffic from Central Park West is in my right ear. The sound of the birds chirping in trees is in my left. My body picks up speed, tightening my cunt muscles—then relaxing them. Yves whimpers helplessly that he’s going to come.
