Page 148 of You + Me – Against the World

“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.