"That Poppy," Samson chuckled from behind me, loud enough to hear over the Latin jazz pumping out through the speakers.

As I glanced back at him, I'd swear his eyes twinkled. My fingers dug into my clutch.

From the mismatched leather vintage furniture to abstract silver flash art stenciled on the walls and the neon-illuminated cigar collection taking up one wall, it was a pretty cool space. The crowd was boisterous, bright eyed, and hammered. Lots of loud laughter, lots of ...