51
Thud.
Under the comforter, I groan, then turn over to face the other way. Vadim’s naked body keeps me warm. So warm.
Thud. Thud.
I open my eyes a tiny little bit, and the faint light filtering through the curtains tells me it’s early. Too early.
Thud, thud, thud.
Vadim’s arm falls across my chest. Suddenly, he jumps to his feet and rubs his face vigorously with one hand. I don’t understand what’s going on.
More thuds follow.
My heartbeat echoes even louder in my ears.
Vadim throws on some jeans.
The red numbers on the alarm clock read 6:02.
My foggy brain still isn’t registering much.
“Don’t move. Don’t speak,” he whispers to me, a finger on his lips.
There was something dark in his eyes as he headed toward the door. Something is wrong.
“Police. Open the door!” yells an authoritative voice.
“Alright, no need to break it down,” Vadim growls, turning the lock.
Three men and a woman, all dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and black vests burst into the small apartment. They’re all wearing Los Angeles Police Department badges. The word “POLICE” is printed in white capital letters across the backs of their vests. There’s no room for doubt.
I sit up quickly and instinctively pull the comforter tightly around myself.
“Miss, you have one minute to get dressed. Not a second more,” a young, Black cop with slicked-back curls tells me.
Then, he turns his back to give me some privacy.
“You, against the wall!” barks an older guy, slamming his hand against Vadim’s bare chest.
“Don’t touch me,” he replies. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment at six in the morning?”
“If I were you, I’d change my tone,” the woman says.
Her ponytail is pulled so tight it gives her a sharp, severe look. She scares me.
I still haven’t moved, so she comes to my aid by picking up what she thinks is mine from the floor.
She tosses me Vadim’s heather-gray T-shirt.
I slip it on without a word. It’s long enough for me to climb out from under the comforter without being too exposed.
I scan the room for my white pants, which must have been tossed to the other side of the room last night.
Everywhere I look, I see our underwear and clothes strewn across the hardwood floor.
My crumpled, red tank top is slung over the overturned bedside lamp, and my bra is dangling from the coffee table by one strap.
That one makes me blush—and that’s when I finally realize what is happening.
“We have a search warrant,” declares the guy facing Vadim.
He pulls a folded sheet of paper out from inside his vest and waves it under Vadim’s nose.
He’s the oldest and toughest-looking of the four cops, probably the one in charge.
He has a buzz cut, a flushed face twitching with tics, and a thick, salt-and-pepper goatee.
He’s shorter than Vadim, but he lifts his chin contemptuously and stands so close that I’m convinced the coarse hairs on his jawline must be brushing against Vadim’s skin.
Very slowly, I move toward my man and wrap my hand around his clenched fist. He relaxes and laces his fingers through mine.
“Miss, I’m going to ask you to step back,” Goatee warns, pointing at our intertwined hands. “You cannot touch or communicate in any way for the duration of this intervention.”
As he recites his little speech, talking far too loudly for someone standing that close, I look at Vadim, who doesn’t take his eyes off of the police officer.
I know he must be fighting the urge to explode.
And I can tell the red-faced cop is waiting for one thing: for Vadim to lose control, so he can slam him violently against the wall.
But Vadim remains stone-faced, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Do what he says, Alma. The gentleman seems agitated,” Vadim says calmly, still eyeballing him.
The senior office begins to blink rapidly.
“Pants!” the policewoman yells at me.
She tosses me the white pants she just located—I have no idea where.
I try to catch them, but they slip through my fingers and land at my feet.
Noticing my clumsiness, she tries but fails to suppress a mocking smile.
I bend down to pick them up and pull them on.
The simple act of lowering my head fills my eyes with tears.
When I straighten up, they silently spill down my cheeks.
“What do you want with him?” I mutter, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
“We are going to search the premises, and the two of you are going to stay very quiet!” Goatee bellows, as if we were deaf or stupid.
“You don’t have to yell,” Vadim replies softly. “And you can search all you want—you won’t find anything here.”
“That’s not what we were told.”
More nervous tics and a small, satisfied smile.
For about ten minutes, the two youngest police officers turn everything they come across upside down: the sofa bed, the contents of Vadim’s wardrobe, the cabinets in the open kitchen, his desk drawers.
Right now, they look more like burglars than police officers.
Except for one detail: the slightly yellowed latex gloves they are wearing—the ones you see in hospitals.
I find this intrusion violent and unsettling.
I feel like they are dirtying our love nest with their filthy rubber paws. It sickens me.
But Vadim doesn’t seem concerned. There are only two things that make me feel calmer, though the effect is minimal: his gorgeous, impassive face and the glass of water the policewoman has brought me in an attempt to seem human.
For a second, I want to throw it in her face, the same way I tossed lemonade at my boyfriend’s head in the Sunset Café when I thought he was seeing someone else…
All of that suddenly feels so far away. Back when I rose to his challenges just to see him smile.
Back when my only worry was whether Vadim Arcadi actually liked me or was just toying with me the way he did with every other girl.
Not like now, as I stand in my boyfriend’s apartment wondering what he could be hiding here that has four of the LAPD’s finest so interested.
From the bathroom, a triumphant voice calls out. It sends a chill through me. The young, Black cop reappears in the living room, holding a white package the size of a shoebox in his hands.
“Looks like we found something,” Goatee announces smugly, as he approaches his colleague.
“Where did you get that?” Vadim growls, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.
“Taped under the sink,” Curly replies.
“Hmm, not exactly original,” Goatee retorts, a hint of a smile twitching at his lips.
“There’s never been anything under that sink! I don’t even have any tape,” Vadim shoots back, clearly starting to get angry.
He tries to step toward the white package, but the ponytailed policewoman plants herself in front of us, blocking his path.
Her massive frame blocks our view of what the other three are doing as they lean over the table where the package now sits.
Tests, no doubt. I pray that it’s sugar, flour, one of Felix Alonso’s terrible jokes—anything but what I think it is. What I’m afraid it is.
Goatee eventually straightens up, blinks three times, then turns Vadim around and slams him face-first against the wall, exactly like he has been dreaming of doing ever since he entered the apartment.
The click of handcuffs rings out, and I watch the shiny metal tighten around my boyfriend’s wrists. My heart clenches.
“What are you doing?” I scream, rushing toward him.
Ponytail intervenes again, clamping a hand on each of my shoulders.
Goatee starts yelling again, drowning out my screams. “Vadim Arcadi, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, a public defender will be appointed for you by the court. Do you understand what I have said?”
“That stuff isn’t mine, Alma! I swear to you!” Vadim twists his head around, and his tortured gaze meets mine.
“Do you understand what I said?” Goatee repeats, even louder.
“It was Keith, I’m sure of it! He must have come and hidden it here when I was staying at your place!”
“Shut up!” Goatee snaps, pressing Vadim’s head against the wall.
“Don’t hurt him!” I cry out, trying to make myself heard over the general uproar.
“We’re taking him in. Get the girl’s ID!”
“No!” Letting out a long cry of anguish, I scream myself hoarse. By the end of it, I don’t even recognize my voice anymore.
“Quiet down, unless you want to be arrested too,” the young, curly-haired cop advises me. “Don’t make things more complicated.”
Goatee and the other police officer go out the door, each pulling Vadim by one arm. He turns his devastated face toward me one last time as he struggles.
“Don’t tell them anything, Alma! Don’t get involved in this! Promise me!”
Those last words feel like a slap in the face. All he can think about is protecting me, at the exact moment when he’s the one in the most danger. Right now, at this very second, I love him more fiercely than I ever have. And once again, he’s been ripped away from me.
“Last name, first name, address, and phone number,” the young cop demands, pen and notepad in hand.
“Alma Lancaster… What’s going to happen to him now?” I ask, rushing to the window.
“You’re going to go home and remain available to the police. You may be contacted in the coming days. Now, address and phone number,” he repeats.
I stare at his tight, slicked-back curls, thinking of Vadim’s silky waves that I love so much. That I already miss. I’m so scared for him.
“If you want some advice, woman to woman,” the officer with the ponytail says, “change the company you keep. A girl like you has no business in this apartment with this—”
“You don’t know him at all!”
I watch him being shoved into a police car parked in the street, a hand that isn’t mine pressed roughly against his hair. He has just enough time to look up toward the window. His clear gray eyes search for me. My heart implodes with a foolish, futile happiness, as fleeting as it is painful.
He saw me, I know it. He saw that I saw him. And I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, anything to shout down to him…
I’m mortified.
I leave my contact information with the police, who finally leave once they have it. Then, I tidy up the apartment, pick up my underwear, and gather a few things Vadim might need. Will I even be able to take them to him? When? And what am I supposed to do now?
Stop crying, for starters.
Next, find help.
Call Clémentine, Felix. They’ll know what to do.
And I need to go home. I don’t have a choice about that. I need to see my parents. Be home before they are, so they don’t get suspicious. Protect my freedom…
While Vadim is once again deprived of his.