Bliss Page 10

  Right there at the bar, Demi found new people to hang out with. Her old pal from high school, Warren, and a few of his friends from his year-round hockey league were holding forth about the best way to hip check without getting a penalty. Demi joined right in, and matched the guys glass for glass, and stat for stat. She knew hockey, and she liked how it felt to be surrounded by men. The shots kept flowing her way, and she kept drinking them.

  Sarah was glaring at Demi with her resting bitch face, like Demi was too loud or having too much fun. The drunker Demi got, the less she gave a crap what Sarah thought of her. But it would be preferable to get out of her line of sight. Demi could just go home, but then she’d be alone with a serious buzz. What fun was that?

  “Hey, let’s go to my place,” she said to Warren and the crew. “No one will bother us.” It seemed like a wiser idea than staying here with Sarah and her stink face. “Who’s in?”

  Three of the guys were into it. This would be the night of a thousand selfies. When Demi left Opus with the guys, she made sure to give Sarah the finger on their way out. They headed to the Audi. After a quick assessment—fingers to nose, walking a straight line—it was determined that Demi was the most sober, so she got behind the wheel. Two of the guys, big, sexy, muscley guys, had to squeeze into the backseat.

  Warren was copilot. “How far?” he asked, putting his hand high on her thigh.

  Flutter in her chest, she said, “Close. Just a few miles.”

  “What’re we waiting for?” he asked. Squeezing her leg, leaving his hand.

  Demi pulled into traffic, driving slow, carefully. Warren’s grip was distracting her, though. She said, “Move your hand.”

  “Okay,” he said, and started rubbing her thigh.

  “I didn’t mean like that!” she said, laughing, swatting at him.

  “Oh, shit,” said Bill? Jim? from the backseat.

  Red and blue lights flashed in her rearview mirror. A cop car was hugging her fender. Just in case she hadn’t gotten the message, the bullhorn blasted, “Pull over.”

  Demi did as she was told. The Grace was only half a block away. She could see the building. Warren was putting his stash in his underwear. The guys in the backseat were cracking up, talking trash. “You’re so busted, Demi. You’re screwed.”

  The cop got out of his white-and-blue, and came up to her window. Demi knew his dash cam was running—it was the law. She felt tempted to wave at it. He was young with a few zits on his chin, around her age or a little older. For all she knew, it was his first day on the job. Dude was textbook. “License, registration, and insurance,” he said.

  She fished them out of the glove box, and handed them over. They were valid and up-to-date. Demi had let some things slip, but not the big stuff, like car, rent, and taxes. Her father had drummed that into her from birth.

  “Were you aware that you rolled through a stop sign?”

  “I should have come to a complete stop. I’m sorry about that.” If she argued about it, he’d definitely write her a ticket. But if she was contrite, he might let her off with a warning.

  He sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking tonight?”

  “Only a tiny bit,” she said, and brought her index and thumb together to made the teensy sign. “Like a cocktail for a cockroach.”

  Warren stifled a giggle, which made him snort. “Sorry,” he said.

  The cop was not amused. “Please stay in your vehicle.”

  Demi turned to Warren and said, “So smooth. I think he likes you.”

  “You better hope he likes you,” said Bill? Jim? What the hell were their names?

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said. Demi had been with James a few times when he was pulled over for minor traffic hiccups. She’d tested her sobriety at their impromptu field test back at Opus. She was fine. Rolling through a stop sign was no big deal. She’d get a warning. Maybe a ticket. And then they’d go back to her place, and see if four people could fit on her mattress on the floor.

  The cop came back with a Breathalyzer, and Demi got a little nervous. Vancouver had one of the toughest DUI laws in the world, and the lowest acceptable blood-alcohol limits. A reading of only 0.05 would qualify as drunk. She had to be under the limit. She didn’t feel drunk, but would she measure that way?

  “You can refuse,” said Warren. “Don’t do it.”

  “If you refuse, you will be arrested and taken into custody,” said the cop. “You will be compelled to give a blood or urine sample.”

  “By then, it’ll be out of your system.”

  “Clearly, you’ve been in this situation before.”

  “I’m in law school,” he said, looking hotter than ever.

  The cop said, “If you don’t do it, we can take your license for a year.”

  “They can threaten, but without evidence, you can fight it.”

  “I’m not drunk,” she said. Demi didn’t want to argue or fight anything. She could see her house. It’d been awhile since her last drink and she was starting to feel kind of miserable about getting fired and everything else. The fastest way out of this was to take the test and be on their way.

  Demi took the device from the cop and blew into the nozzle, stifling a little burp while she did. The digital readout flashed FAIL in big red letters.

  “You’re over,” said the cop. “Exit the vehicle.”

  “Should have listened to me.”

  She got out. He gave her a field sobriety test. “You’re swaying,” he said as she walked a straight line.

  She wasn’t, at all. She felt very firm on her feet. “That’s bullshit,” she said, and immediately regretted it. It’d only make things worse.

  The cop clicked his shoulder walkie-talkie gizmo and said, “I’ve got a DUI. I need a tow truck. Over. All of you, please step out of the vehicle.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered as she followed his instructions.

  “Place your hands on the car,” he said to her, which she did. He swept one of her arms around, and then the other to cuff her. Then he escorted her to the white-and-blue, and locked her in the backseat.

  Warren talked to the cop and then came over to confer with Demi in the squad car. “He said we can go. What do you want us to do?”

  A stand-up guy. He was willing to stay with her. But what would be the point? Why ruin their night as well as hers? “My apartment is right up the street. You guys can take my keys and I’ll meet you back there.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “It might be awhile.”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  She gave him the address. Warren got permission from the cop to take Demi’s keys, and they left, off to smoke and drink and eat her quiche without her.

  “What now?” she asked the cop.

  “We wait for the tow truck. Then we drive to the station. You’re going to be formally charged with DUI.”

  “After that?”

  He said, “I have no idea what’s going to happen to you.”

  Join the club.

  * * *

  “Can I fix my hair?” Demi asked the matron before her mug shot.

  The woman said, “You do realize you’re under arrest, right?”

  That shut her up. Wiseass was her defense mechanism. Maybe not the smartest strategy in jail. The reality settled in during her hour-long wait in the back of the squad car. She was going to lose her license. Vancouver was a driving town. How was she going to get around (not that she had anywhere in particular to go…)? It’d be humiliating to have to call friends for rides. And it could be a lot worse: She might do jail time. She didn’t love the idea of sleeping on a bench or sharing an open toilet with twenty junkies, but she could handle it for a night or two. It would never come to that. Or would it? Demi started to feel a little scared.

  After she was fingerprinted and photographed, Demi was cuffed again and escorted into a large room with about a dozen desks, each manned by a uniformed cop. She was taken to one of them and pushed down in
to the chair next to it. The matron gave a folder to the cop and removed the cuffs.

  The officer was her father’s age, with the same brusque no-bullshit manner. He was white, tending to fat rather than lean, with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair. In a cop show, he’d play the untalented slob who never made it off desk duty and was content to work for the pension. He opened her folder, and started logging info into the computer without really looking at her.

  “Orange is not my color,” she said.

  “You will be arraigned in court fourteen days from today,” he said by rote. “Will you be able to appear before the judge on this date?”

  He’d printed out a sheet, and showed her a date at the end of July. Ironically, it was the opening day of First @ Second. So even if she wanted to attend the festival, she had a really great excuse not to, if Maya cared, which she probably didn’t.

  “I think I can squeeze it into my schedule,” she said.

  He glanced at her then, and frowned. “Sign here to confirm you’ve agreed to appear in court on this date.” She signed. “If you fail to appear for arraignment, a bench warrant will be issued for your arrest. A bench warrant is a public record. If you try to get a job, rent an apartment, or apply for a loan, your potential employer, landlord, or banker will see that you’ve been arrested and failed to appear in court. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “If I don’t show up, I’m screwed for life.”

  “Sign here,” he said.

  “You have the right to hire an attorney to come to court with you,” he said. “Otherwise, you can consult with a public defender five minutes before your scheduled arraignment. Sign here.”

  On and on it went. Demi had to sign off on every single detail of what was happening to her. They went in one ear, and threatened to come out her asshole. She simply couldn’t concentrate. “Is there a handout I can take with me?” she asked. “In case I forget something? That would be bad, right?”

  The guy took pity on her, and went off script. “Says here you’re twenty-one. If you were nineteen, I could write off the attitude as youthful ignorance. Twenty-one means you’re an adult. You have to take this seriously. Get a lawyer. Have him argue the margin of error in the borderline reading. You might get the charge expunged, do community service, and get your license back sooner. Or stick with the attitude, and never drive again.”

  “Well, when you put it like that…”

  “If I were you, I’d reconsider who you are surrounding yourself with or your lifestyle. I’ve seen smart pretty girls throw it all away for their lowlife friends. You’re damn lucky you didn’t kill anyone tonight. This could have gotten real ugly, fast.”

  That stopped her cold. He was right. What if she had hit someone?

  The officer went back on script. “I’m giving you a copy of what you signed today, and have set up email and cell phone alerts about your court date. Sign one more time. And you’re free to go.”

  Free to go fuck up your life, he didn’t need to say. It was all over his face.

  She was directed to another desk, where she collected her personal effects—her bag, which had been searched, her phone, and a receipt for her impounded car. Then she left the building and stood on the front steps, absolutely gobsmacked about the entire night.

  She texted Warren. He replied that they left her key in the planter out front hours ago and hoped she was okay. If she ever heard from him again, she’d be shocked.

  What now? Call a cab, go home, and cry herself to sleep?

  She could call Sophia and unfairly ask her to absorb another load of Demi drama. But that was just too much to ask, even of her best friend.

  She could call James and beg him to take her back, swear to him that she didn’t care what he did with other women as long as he made her feel halfway human right now.

  Demi dialed the phone. He picked up after one ring. “Hello, Dad? It’s me.”

  * * *

  Richard Michaels pulled up to the station steps in his Mercedes. He didn’t speak at first, just let her settle in and fasten her seat belt. She had a flashback to when he taught her how to drive. “Listen for the click!” She let the silence hang a bit. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, and tried to appear calm.

  “Are you pissed at me, or at the cops for railroading me?” she asked.

  “I’m furious at him!” he said. “You never got into any trouble before James.” None you knew about, anyway. “I don’t know why or how, but I’d bet my house this is all his fault.”

  Demi considered it. She could twist the situation around to blame James. He drove her to drink, etc. “James has nothing to do with it,” she said. “And now, I’m going to say something that will shock and amaze you. James and I broke up a month ago. He cheated on me. I found out and left him. I moved into God’s waiting room by myself and I’ve been living there for three weeks. What else? I got fired today. Plus this situation here, which is probably the worst of all of it. Basically, it’s been a very bad month. Before you jump down my throat, I didn’t tell you about James before because I didn’t want to hear you gloat, or start issuing life instructions. So don’t bother doing that now. I’ll get out of this car and walk home.”

  The wheels in Dad’s brain were spinning so fast, smoke might come out his ears. If Mom or Demi’s stepparents were here right now, they’d pulled her into a hug. Dad would do the same, but in crisis, his fallback position was problem solver. First he’d yell. Then he’d solve. He used to make Demi take notes while he lectured, and then read them back for his approval.

  Right now, though, Dad looked like he was trying to crush the steering wheel into powder with his bare hands. He didn’t say a word for a full minute. She might have short-circuited his brain.

  “Are we just going to sit here? Because I’m starving. I thought they had to feed prisoners every three hours. Don’t believe the hype.”

  “Did you actually get locked up?” He speaks!

  “If I say ‘yes,’ will you buy me a burger?”

  “Take me to this apartment,” he said. “Now.”

  She gave him directions. While he drove the fifteen minutes to the Grace, she described what had happened with the arrest, and how long it took for the damn tow truck to arrive, the humiliation of walking into the station in handcuffs. “The digital fingerprint machine at the station was way cool,” she admitted. “No ink. Just press onto a tablet, and bam! You’re in the system. Left here. It’s the building on the right.”

  The Mercedes rolled to a stop. “That building? It looks okay.” He looked around. “Nice flower boxes.”

  “That’s Wally’s work. He loves a project. Ohh, you thought that when I said ‘death trap,’ it’d be a junkie squat with broken glass and needles. No, Dad. I’m not an idiot, contrary to popular opinion.” She explained the apartment’s unique history, and brought him up to see her place.

  Catherine heard them coming up the stairs, and opened her door to say hello. Demi made the introductions, but Catherine didn’t start up a conversation or invite them in (not that there was much room for guests in there; Catherine, it turned out, was a collector and her apartment was packed with stuff, which was why she described her place as “messy”). Her neighbor sensed something major was up. “You had some visitors before,” she said.

  “Friends,” said Demi. “They were okay, right?”

  “Lovely boys. Well, nice meeting you,” she said to Richard, and closed her door.

  After a brief tour of Demi’s one-bedroom apartment—he seemed to dig it, and grunted approvingly a few times—he asked, “How can you afford this place? Even with the death discount.”

  “I saved up a ton living with James,” she said. “I’ve got fifteen thousand.”

  He sat down on her brand-new couch, just delivered this week. “Good. You’re going to need it. Lawyers aren’t cheap. I’ll help you find someone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I have conditions,” he said
. “Relax, I’m not going to read you the riot act tonight. I’m sickened by all this, and that you moved without telling me. Does your mother know?”

  “No.”

  He seemed relieved. “I understand why you did it. You’re an adult, and you want to live your life your way. I completely agree. That includes fixing your own mistakes. So you’re going to pay for your lawyer, and all the fines. That fifteen thousand isn’t going to last long, especially without an income. You should download a bus schedule. Write that down. There’s probably an app.”

  She just smiled at him. “I’ll remember. I don’t really have anywhere to go. Job interviews, eventually, and I’ll take a cab.”

  “You do have somewhere to go,” he said. “In exchange for finding you a good lawyer, you’re going to come work for me. Thirty hours a week. You have to show up at my office every morning, and prove to me that you’re okay.”

  “I’m twenty-one. You have no legal right to tell me what to do. You can’t say, on the one hand, I’m an adult and I can make my own mistakes. And then, on the other hand, boss me around.”

  “You got arrested tonight for drunk driving!” he yelled. “You’re lucky you got pulled over! You could have killed someone, or yourself. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but when you have kids one day, you’ll understand. I reserve the right to boss you around until you get your shit together, which seems to be a long way off. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Take the bus, not a cab. You need to reel in the spending. And quit lying to everyone about what’s going on with you.”

  He left soon after that. What else was there to say? If she refused to agree to his terms, her parents (all four of them) would stage an intervention, or put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance (they could do it; there were four of them, after all). She also knew he was right.

  She took a long, hot shower, after which Demi fell onto her mattress. The train wreck of her life was just too mangled to contemplate any more tonight. She closed her eyes and expressed gratitude to the universe for keeping her safe and having people who loved her.

  * * *

  Ten hours later, at eight A.M., she was up and dressed, ready to take the bus to her dad’s office. She opened her apartment door. Propped up against the wall was an old bicycle with a red ribbon. An envelope was taped to the seat with her name on it.