Poppy Read online

  Poppy

  Kailee Samuels

  Poppy

  Copyright © 2018 by Kailee Samuels

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of author credited, brief quotations in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely and purely coincidental.

  E-Book Edition: November 28, 2018

  ISBN 978-1-947362-63-5

  Also by Kailee Reese Samuels

  The SOS Series

  The Initiation

  Tea for Two

  Grunt

  Hopechest

  The Story of Salvatore

  (Complete Four Book Dark Romantic Suspense Series)

  Kaci & Sal Standalone

  22

  SONS Series

  Son of Saint

  Son of Angel (Coming Soon!)

  The Juliet Collection

  Juliet

  Kinky Sex Magic - An Author’s Cut Novella

  Juliet II (Coming Soon!)

  a Tomb of Ashen Tears (TAT) Books

  Salt Kissed Love

  Famous Last Words (Coming Soon!)

  RIDE Series

  Fluff

  Bounce

  Raw

  Ride: Complete Three Book MC Dark Romantic Suspense Series

  Nocturne Series (Limited Release)

  A Shimmering Dream

  Dark Contemporary Standalones

  A&E

  She (She/He A Duet Book 1)

  He (She/He A Duet Book 2)

  She/He: A Dark Romance Duet

  (Complete Two Book Dark Romantic Suspense Series)

  Unspoken (Prequel Novella to Hey Pretty)

  Hey Pretty (Coming Soon!)

  Keep up to date with all things Kailee at:

  KaileeReeseSamuels.com

  This warning is here for a reason.

  This book is a work of fiction containing explicit, graphic, and violent material.

  I have never meant that more than I do now.

  If you are easily triggered, STOP.

  CLOSE THE BOOK.

  IF YOU ARE STILL HERE:

  Buckle your seat belt.

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Listen to music that inspired Poppy

  Be Brave – My Brightest Diamond

  I’m On Fire – Bruce Springsteen

  Pearl – Paula Cole

  Dreams So Real – Metric

  Crash into Me – Dave Matthews Band

  Think of You – MS MR

  Talk – Coldplay

  Maps – Yeah Yeah Yeahs

  You and I – Lady Gaga

  Trust Nobody – 070 Shake

  Unison – Björk

  Church Bells – Carrie Underwood

  Without Me – Halsey

  Wedding Song – Yeah Yeah Yeahs

  The Hand That Feeds – Nine Inch Nails

  Hometown Glory – Adele

  Tequila – Dan + Shay

  OKAY

  for kicking my ass in the sweetest of ways

  you give me strength to keep pushing

  and

  inspire

  the

  darkness

  within

  thank

  you

  for

  the

  light

  Contents

  Introduction

  Foreword

  Ramblin' Man

  PART I

  1. What’s Your Name?

  2. Empty Tin Cans

  3. Happy Fucking Birthday

  4. Just a Crush

  5. Just Another Mother

  6. Wishes on Fireflies

  7. Good Things on the Other Side of Bad

  PART II

  8. Getting Off the Map

  9. Check Boxes

  10. Partaking

  11. Precious

  12. A Moment to Reconcile

  13. The Haunting Truth

  14. Only We Know

  15. Freedom & Forgiveness

  16. The Fulfillment of Hate

  17. Monocarpic Love

  SHE/HE - A Dark Romance Duet

  poppy

  Ms. Samuels Notes on Poppy

  Also by Kailee Reese Samuels

  THIS

  BOOK

  ENDS

  WHEN

  ms. samuels

  notes

  BEGINS.

  IT IS NOT OVER UNTIL THEN.

  “Kindness is language the deaf can hear and the blind can see.” – Mark Twain

  Foreword

  “Come up from the bottom of hell and rise.

  Crack through the earth and spit your truth, Poppy.

  Truth is deadly to those who wish you ill.

  They hate that shit.

  But more important than poisoning your foes is spreading the truth in your heart.

  Passion is infectious.

  Kindness is contagious.

  Love is a virus; Be hazardous.

  Red is the color of blood.

  Red is the color of love.

  And red is the color of you, Poppy.”

  — L.S.R.

  Ramblin' Man

  “Don't hit me with that!” I screamed at my cousin, Sean, as he bashed the foam sword over my head. We had been fighting one another with swords and shields from last year’s Halloween costumes since we arrived at the park. We acted the roles of good knight versus bad knight as we ran with our white and black capes flowing behind us. I was the bad guy. If we played cops and robbers, I was the thief. If we played hide and seek, I got to be the stalker. It didn’t matter what we played; I was always the bad creeper guy. Sprinting past the other children, I taunted, “You can’t catch me!”

  Sean and I never saw each other very much. Sean’s father was my mom’s older brother, and despite living less than an hour apart, playdates proved rare and visits with my Aunt Donna and Uncle Jeff, even less. No one had to tell me why. Less than waist high, I understood why Mom couldn’t spend time with her older brother.

  Because he wanted to kill my father.

  The day was warmed by the sun on 4th of July as the evening celebration fueled the excitement of people crowding the park. The sleeper city, outside of the metropolis, was conducting their giant fireworks display. It was known as one of the best in the area, and everyone flocked like pilgrims to pay homage to the nation’s birthday. Let freedom ring and all that jazz.

  “I’m gonna hurt you if you smack me again!” I threatened, scowling. Taking my sword, I dashed high up into the third tier of the tall, red metal rocket ship. The antiquated playground equipment stairs squeaked with every step, but the view at the top was incredible. And the best part, Sean was scared of heights.

  Teach him to hit me.

  Cause I’ll just run away.

  With my bird’s eye view, I spotted my older sister, Bethany, sitting alone under a tree and reading a book. She always kept her nose between the pages and hardly ever spoke. Honestly, I thought she was weird. I never understood the lure of reading outside of school, even though I was only in pre-school. I talked all the time and never read a lick, but I was young, so I suppose that gave me some excuse.

  But Bethany looked sad all the time, and I understood why.

  The same reason Uncle Jeff avoided Dad like the plague.

  Nearby, I spied my parents, cooking dinner and arguing over the perfect grill of hamburger. They foug
ht all the time. Dad drank, yelled, and bad things happened, and then Mom cried, which was precisely what occurred when their battle escalated over the patties of beef. He pulled her closer and pushed her fingers against the side of the hot grill. No one seemed to notice but me. I won’t ever forget the look on her face as she managed to yank away quick and rushed to dunk her hand in the cooler full of beer.

  I hated my father.

  I always did.

  Truthfully, I have no memory of not hating him. He was a bastard to Bethany, Mom, and me, and this was a small incident compared to the others I had witnessed. Despite Mom’s tears, we managed to get through dinner and wait for the fireworks show. I didn’t need the explosion in the sky because they’d be shouting all night when we got home. I had enough eruptions in my young life. I hoped to discourage the continuation of their war by nagging Dad to toss the football with me while Mom and Bethany picked up after our meal.

  On the outside, we appeared fine, like a happy American family. It might sound bad, but this was our normal. The routine of horrific violence followed by promises of making up that never panned out. Our family was dysfunctional with classic cyclical abuse—my standard—and I swore to never act like my father.

  We enjoyed the fireworks with the bright colors filling my eyes as tears splattered against my cheeks. No one paid attention to my crying as I promised deep within my soul to free us. One day, when I was a grown-up, I vowed to take my strange sister and weakened mother far, far away.

  Dad eliminated the better part of a twelve pack and part of a bottle. Though for the life of me now, I cannot remember what it was. So, Mom drove. We dropped my cousin Sean off in town before heading to our place out in the country.

  Our house had been in the family – from Mom’s side – since it was built over one hundred years ago. We had swooping porches and big oak trees. The house would have been gorgeous if Dad had given two shits about anything other than booze and beating up on Mom and Bethany.

  I remember glancing over at Bethany when we pulled out onto the main road. We were singing some country tune, laughing and smiling like Dad hadn't just burned Mom’s fingers to a bubbly blistered crisp.

  Everything was alright.

  Everything was normal.

  I don't think they ever knew what hit them.

  And I never knew what hell was about to hit me.

  In the following days, we buried my mother and sister. They died at the scene. Dad ended up with bruises, and I had a broken right arm. Throughout the rest of my childhood, Dad constantly badgered my ass about not ever being able to play ball. “You’ll never throw worth a shit now,” became my new name.

  Fuck you, Dad.

  Fuck you.

  I eventually proved him very wrong, and as fate would have it, I ended up being left-handed, but more about that later. To understand my story and how it all happened, I must tell it in order. Otherwise, I’ll come across as some twisted up freak. A lot of people think young kids don’t remember much, but I do. I lost my balloon when I was riding in the stroller at two, and I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember my sister and my mom, too. Their voices and smiles and hugs and kisses haunted every minute of my life.

  It is unfortunate that I remember any of the eighteen years I spent with him.

  I wouldn’t wish that fate on my worst enemy.

  Less than three weeks after we buried the better part of my family – and they truly were better than either of us – Dad started dating again on my birthday. I started seeing the complete picture of who Dad was—an alcoholic, abusive, cheating asshole. His return to life without his wife and daughter slipped by far too easy for anyone to believe he wasn’t a trio of bad. Me, being his only son, was forgotten in the mix. I was the leftovers no one wanted. Undoubtedly, he would have been fine if I had died, too, but without my mom to fight with, I became his number one target.

  After late nights at the bar, he brought home all kinds of women—older, younger, with kids, without jobs, with teeth, without teeth, fat, thin, old, and ugly—while I stayed with ever-changing babysitters. I don’t think I ever had the same one twice. Probably because as soon as he got home, they either bolted in horror at the sight of his ever-revolving nightly round of ass or they became the prey. He liked women—and fucking—a lot. At least, until one night when my world took an unexpected turn.

  I wasn't sure who he met, but by Halloween, something shifted in my father. He went from littering our house with pizza boxes and beer, which I would do my best to clean up, to taking a change of clothes to work. He was blue collar—an electrician—and cleaned up well, so I could understand how women found him attractive.

  Because he was a charming, slithering snake.

  At least he was, when he wasn't beating on Mom or Bethany – rest their souls – or so stunk ass drunk, he passed out on the sofa with the bottle still latched in his fingers. The nights he dropped the bottle were always the worst because he’d get up angry knowing his booze-soaked into the carpet.

  But that all changed one fateful night.

  Those days of binging on booze and beating on my body like a punching bag started fading into memories. My scars still hurt, but our lives detoured with his unforeseen resurrection from the darkness. His seemingly more appropriate behavior led to my belief that something, or more accurately someone, had his attention. For how long, I had no idea. The hated remnants of his life before – me – got a reprieve, and I was going to enjoy it for as long as I could.

  Eventually, he brought home the catalyst.

  And Dad’s leftovers became front and center.

  I was four years old.

  And her name was Poppy.

  PART I

  1

  What’s Your Name?

  1998

  “We’re all red on the road to ruin.”

  “I’m taking my break, Liz,” I informed, tossing the washrag into the sink.

  “Okay!” she yelled from the opposite end of the counter. “Hurry back before the rush!”

  Robby’s Diner was known for delicious grub in a throwback setting. The vintage metal tables and chairs were original from when Robby Senior owned it back in the day. I loved the atmosphere, the people, and the food. I worked nights at the diner to pay for college. Between a full-time course load and work, I was exhausted. On the weekends, I did the night shift for twelve hours for the extra cash.

  Oh, who was I kidding?

  Sometimes, it was closer to fourteen. But the tips were excellent from the drunk crowd. It didn’t hurt that we wore skimpy pink and black uniforms barely covering our ass, either. And I didn’t mind the job if the customers kept their hungry hands to themselves.

  Stepping outside, I lit the cigarette and stared at the cruising traffic. It was one in the morning, and the bars closed soon. The rich college kids would stop by for burgers or waffles. The older crowd, mostly truck drivers and other late nighters, would show up for carafes of coffee.

  It wasn’t perfect, but at least I’m headed in the right direction. I worked to save enough money to get my own apartment instead of living with Mom and her dick of the week. Independence and freedom were on the horizon, and I couldn’t have been happier.

  Dad died when I was nine. Since then, Mom went through more men than a football team. That might not sound like many, but when you were a prude like me, it reeked with a lot of diseases. They were typically not the kind of men any woman should have brought home. Hell, if I brought home the guys she did, she would’ve whipped my ass red.

  Heading back inside, I stopped off at the bathroom. I washed my hands and gazed in the mirror. I never thought of myself as pretty. I was bullied so long as a child—Poppy Longstocking—I started to believe it. To add to my alienation, Mom insisted on braiding my long red locks and forcing me to wear dresses, which didn’t help matters in the least.

  “Ladies should always wear dresses…”

  But Mom was no lady. Most of her shirts were cut off to reveal her midriff and skirt
s that proved skimpy enough to be booty shorts, just enough to cover her privates. She might as well wear a flashing vacancy sign with an arrow pointing south. Her sordid history with men led to my becoming a bookworm, I studied hard and graduated early, determined to make my way out of the trailer park. Meanwhile, boys were something other girls did—including my mom.

  To me, they seemed a waste of time.

  Frankly, I wanted nothing to do with any of them.

  I admired my reflection as I started to not feel quite so bad about myself. Robby Junior – and Senior, for that matter – helped. They eagerly took on the roles as Dad and Grandfather, respectively. They always reminded me that I was beautiful and smart. Their words started to sink in. When they said they’re proud of me—there was no greater feeling in the world.

  Even when I’m tired, I always tried to be bubbly and happy for the customers. Yes, the tips were better, but I did genuinely care about some of the regulars. When Mrs. Carthy had open heart surgery, I went to visit her at the hospital daily. And when old man Douglas broke his leg, I delivered food over to his place. Robby said I was compassionate, but I wasn’t looking for praise, only trying to do the right thing and be kind like my father raised me.