Chapter Fourteen
It’s a ten-minute drive from the Lower East Side to Justin’s apartment in NoHo. Poppy peers out the tinted window of his black SUV. The driver pulls up to a tall aluminum gate that looks more like a piece of modern art than the entrance to a residence.
“Wow,” she says.
“I know. Very Gaudí-esque, right?” says Justin. She has no idea what that means, but she nods.
The structure practically glows. And just beyond it towers a glass luxury building.
Although she and Justin shared flirtatious banter during the car ride, the grandeur of his home address makes her uncomfortable. For the first time since leaving the club she remembers Bette’s warning.
He uses a key card to open the gate, and they take an elevator up to a high floor.
“Sounds like the party has started without us,” he says when they step directly from the elevator into a private vestibule. They’re greeted by the sounds of pulsing electronica and the loud buzz of conversation.
Poppy tries not to look too impressed with the place, a massive duplex space filled with art. She wishes she knew something—anything—about paintings or sculpture. And she wonders how long she can make it without revealing how utterly out of her depth she is.
And then she sees it: A giant fish tank hangs from the ceiling.
Except it’s not a fish tank—it’s a glass cube with a live woman inside.
She’s dressed in a tank top and camouflage cargo shorts and her dark hair is in a messy ponytail.
She seems oblivious to the party below as she paints her toenails.
She turns to Justin.
“What is that?”
“Our latest installation. Fun, right? Martha and I kind of stole the idea from our favorite hotel in L.A., but we just couldn’t resist.”
Poppy doesn’t understand a thing he just said.
“Does she … live here?”
“No. She’s an NYU student. The arrangement works for everyone. It gives us some nice live art, and she’s paying off her student loans. I’d love to get you up there. But I’m sure we couldn’t afford you,” he winks.
Poppy is speechless.
A man dressed in a slim-cut dark suit and wearing an earpiece appears to take her coat and knapsack. She’s happy to be unburdened of them but then, incredibly, he asks her to remove her shoes.
Confused once again, she turns to Justin.
“My wife is very protective of her floors,” he explains. “They cost a small fortune so I can’t really argue with her on this one.”
Poppy bends down and reluctantly unlaces her high-heeled boots. Thank god she’s tall and doesn’t need the height boost. But they do work wonders for her calves. She’ll just have to roll into the party at an aesthetic disadvantage tonight.
Justin steers her to an enormous living room, and she makes a point to check out the precious floors.
They’re the darkest, glossiest wood she’s ever seen, covered here and there by super shaggy white area rugs.
Guests sit on low, cream-colored couches that frame a long glass coffee table.
Sure enough, they’re all shoeless, too. Poppy takes some comfort in that.
She scans the crowd, trying to guess which of the women is Justin’s wife. Maybe the well-dressed, slightly older woman with the carefully coiffed blond hair. Or another blonde, who’s not as put together as the other, but with a pretty smile and a quicksilver laugh Poppy can hear across the room.
But then a woman waves Justin over. She’s one of the least attractive women Poppy’s seen since moving to New York.
She’s short, with broad shoulders and stringy brown hair in need of a shampoo.
Her skin is sun-damaged and grotesquely tan for the time of year.
Because of this, Poppy can’t tell if she’s thirty or sixty.
And to top it all off, her sausage feet are stuffed into ugly shoes (shoes!) that have to be orthopedic, or otherwise have no reason to exist.
The woman hoists herself from her perch on one of the couches and ambles over to greet them. It takes Poppy a moment to notice that she’s using a polished hardwood walking cane, but she can’t tell if it’s a necessity or an accessory.
“Poppy, this is my wife, Martha. Martha, this is Poppy LaRue—the newest performer at the Blue Angel.”
“Welcome! Delighted to have you.” She takes Poppy by the elbow and leads her around the room, introducing her to the other guests. She smells faintly of onions.
With each introduction, Martha makes a point of mentioning their professional titles: “Poppy, this is Alan Mackler, editor-at-large at Vanity Fair …”
When people ask her what she does, she replies, “I’m a burlesque performer.” And they nod with knowing smiles: stripper.
Justin shows her to the bar, where a friendly young woman named McKenzie pours her a glass of champagne from a bottle that costs more than her rent.
“Do you want a tour?” he says.
She does.
Poppy follows him to an interior elevator. She feels nervous and excited at the same time. Clearly, he wants to sleep with her, right? But his wife is here and if the two of them just disappear it’s so obvious. So it must be okay with her.
Poppy wonders how long she’ll have to live in New York before she understands it.
The elevator whisks them up to the rooftop deck with a pool. The sky above is lit by the brightest half moon. She doesn’t even mind the cold.
“I didn’t know places like this even exist,” she breathes.
He takes her hand and when he closes his fingers around hers she trembles with desire.
It’s been a long time since she felt so strongly attracted to someone.
And it’s different than what she feels for Bette: That’s more a curiosity, and a little awe, and a little careerism.
But Justin? It’s the kind of gut-level lust that makes her feel out of control.
It’s scary and thrilling—that roller-coaster-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach feeling.
“You’ll have to come back in the summer,” he says, giving her a lazy smile. He shrugs off his jacket and puts it around her shoulders. “I thought a little fresh air would be nice but it’s freezing out here. Let’s get you back inside.”
Poppy knows they’re headed to his bedroom—and she doesn’t mind one bit.
This time, the elevator opens on the second level of the Baxter apartment. The space is all sleek dark wood and chrome. There’s a library, a small gym, a guest room and … the main bedroom.
It’s minimalist, with a king-sized bed. The only color in the room, aside from the creams and grays of the furniture, comes from a splashy painting on one wall.
It’s a sexy room. Poppy feels herself getting wet already. And from the looks of Justin’s crotch, he’s hard for her—again.
He closes the door.
“I wish I could have a glass display case in here and just watch you all night long,” he says. “That is, after I fuck you.”
The crudeness startles her—and increases her desire.
“You’re hiding that perfect body under too many clothes,” he says.
“You think?” she replies coyly.
He nods, moving closer to her.
She undresses down to her black bra and black lace thong.
“God, you’re perfect,” he says, thrilling her.
They stand facing one another, inches apart.
He slowly tugs her bra strap down over her shoulder and dips his head down to take her breast into his mouth.
Poppy experiences a sensation shooting through her body, like a tiny electric cord linking her breast to her pussy.
He straightens up to kiss her mouth, and she runs her hand along the length of his erection over his pants.
He’s huge, and this makes her a little nervous.
She hopes he doesn’t expect her to give him a blow job.
She doesn’t like doing that when the guy is too big, and Justin Baxter evidently falls into that category.
She doesn’t even know if she’d be comfortable with him fucking her, but he’s hot enough that it’s worth a try.
“Get on the bed,” he says, his voice thick.
She climbs onto the king-sized bed and stretches out on her back.
“Onto your stomach,” he says.
She complies, rolling over, her heart beginning to beat just a tiny bit faster.
He kneels beside her and inches down her panties. He gently spreads her legs, and she’s a little uncomfortable to be splayed out like that. His face moves between her legs, his tongue darting into her pussy, then a finger. She’s embarrassed by her instant wetness.
“I want to tie you up. Is that okay?” he says.
Is it okay? She really doesn’t know. But she doesn’t want to bore him. She’s flattered that out of all the women in New York, he chose her. That means something.
He pulls a white silk pouch from the bedside table and opens it to hand her a black satin eye mask, like the kind people wear on airplanes to sleep.
“I’m going to put this on you first. It will make me incredibly turned on to know you can’t see—only feel—what I do to you.”
Well, when he puts it that way.
She sits up and he blindfolds her, carefully adjusting the elastic band so it doesn’t get tangled in her hair.
“Lay back down,” he says softly. She returns to her position on her stomach and he tells her to extend her arms forward. She complies, and he gently ties them to the bedpost. Her powerlessness is shockingly exciting. It makes her entire body feel like a live wire.
Minutes pass and he doesn’t touch her. She feels the urge to say something—to break the tension, to reclaim some modicum of control. But her impulse to protect the erotic spell between them overrides it. So she waits.
Finally, she feels his tongue. He licks her pussy with soft, teasing strokes. She moans, waiting for him to increase the pressure or, better yet, penetrate her with his fingers or his cock. When it becomes too much to take, she squirms against her restraints.
“Fuck me,” she says.
“I want you to come from what you feel right now,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can.”
The tongue presses deeper inside her, and her pelvis seems to gyrate with a beating heart of its own. Her mind detaches in that floaty way it gets when her body takes over completely. A finger presses into her, maybe two. She groans.
She feels her climax building, his fingers working in and out, another on her clit.
Somehow, he also traces the rim of her asshole, and the multiple pleasure points bring her close to the edge.
But then he gently tugs off her blindfold.
The first thing she sees is Martha Pike is standing at the foot of the bed, leering at her.
What? And then she hears Bette’s voice in her head, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Justin positions himself in front of Martha, blocking her view. She feels the tip of his cock between her legs, poised at her wetness.
“I want to fuck you now,” he breathes against her neck, his body pressed against hers, one arm underneath her, bringing her pelvis into position for himself. “And Martha wants to watch. Is that okay?”
It seems a little late to ask, but it’s also a little late to start thinking with her mind instead of her pussy. And the truth is, she doesn’t want to.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” he said.
“Yes,” she gasps. And with that, he plunges into her and the size of him makes her gasp. He moves slowly enough for her to get used to him.
Martha unties her arm restraints.
“Press up on your knees,” she says, and Poppy obeys. She gets in position, her ass tilted up to him as his thrusting grows more urgent until he shudders to a loud climax.
When he pulls out, she flips over onto her back. Martha is perched on a chair, staring at her with glassy eyes.
Poppy, heart pounding, reaches for a blanket to cover herself.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” Justin says, standing up. “The bathroom is right through that corridor. Take as long as you like. We’ll be downstairs. We hope you have time for a drink. The night is young.” He winks at her and opens the bedroom door for his wife.
When they’re gone, Poppy looks around for her handbag. Her body is still throbbing with pleasure. What the hell was that?
And then she sees cash fanned out on the edge of the bed: five hundred-dollar bills.
Motherfuckers!