Blossom in Winter Page 6

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Emma. She’s waiting downstairs.

  Alright, you can do it. I sigh, but I’m decisive. Time to take some risks. Dad might not even come home tonight. Everything will be just fine.

  I leave the house, locking the door behind me just like it was. My head’s going wild. I take the elevator, and while I’m going down, I pray I don’t see Dad at the entrance. My heart starts thundering nervously as I watch the digits decreasing. Oh God…

  The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors open.

  Please, please, please…

  Fortunately, there’s no one in the hallway. Phew! I run as fast as I can outside, look quickly up and down the street, but don’t see any car.

  “Babygirl, here!”

  I follow the tipsy voice sitting behind a male figure on a black Harley-Davidson. “What? Don’t tell me this is how we are going to the party?”

  “Oh, such a baby. It’s alright, the party is not far. Don’t be scared, my friends know how to drive them. Hey, Mike! You take Petra on yours, alright? Be careful, motherfucker. She is my bestie, and I love her.”

  I’m more than frightened to sit behind a total stranger on a motorcycle to go to a secret party in a basement, but I trust Emma and need some serious distraction. I sit behind Mike, he gives me a helmet, the motor roars, and we drive away from Park Avenue.

  It’s my first time on a motorcycle, my first time running away from home, and my first time dressing so daringly. Feeling the fresh wind on my body and face is such an incredible sensation. Even the sound of the engine feels like freedom!

  After a short twenty-minute ride, we stop in front of a traditional Chinese noodle shop. We take our helmets off. Mike is tall and fit with short blond hair and blue eyes, as well as a serious stare and figure.

  “A noodle shop?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Just follow us,” replies Mike in his accent, maybe Eastern European.

  We go inside, greet the old Chinese lady eating a pack of noodles at the counter, and head to a back door leading to what looks to be a warehouse.

  We walk a bit further and find a velvet red curtain with a man in a black suit standing in front of it. Mike says some words in a language I can’t understand, and immediately the man lifts the curtain. I see stairs going down to a barely lit passage. My heart keeps thundering. Mike leads the way, and we follow.

  We finally reach a black door. Mike knocks and someone opens it from the other side. He greets the doorman, and we enter into a house club featuring a big dance floor, chandeliers, and a young, flirty crowd. Girls are dancing with each other in short, skin-tight dresses under dark lights.

  “What do you think, babygirl?” screams Emma in my ear right before draping an arm around my shoulder.

  “You always know how to impress me,” I reply, my eyes taking in the club and its occupants.

  “Let’s go, girls!” Mike grasps my hand and I take Emma’s as we follow him across the club.

  We go upstairs to the area behind the DJ booth; the security guard lifts the velvet rope and lets us in. This space is even darker, with no strobe light, more intimate, but the tables are full. It looks quite pompous. Girls are young, some maybe barely twenty-one. Most are probably my age. Shit. I get it! This must be an illegal club. Oh God, I hope Dad never finds out.

  Mike greets some friends who’re already sitting at his table. They all speak in a language I can’t discern.

  “What language is that?” I finally dare to ask.

  “Ukrainian,” replies Mike. “So what do you think?” he asks, seeing me visibly impressed by the place.

  “I’ve never been to a club before,” I admit.

  “It’s not just any club. It’s an exclusive one. You need to be a member to get in. Garçon! Please bring us some bottles, two large Grey Goose, and some sodas to start.”

  Emma’s already quite drunk as she devours the mouth of her new boy toy. From my side, I’m not having nearly as much fun. After being at this table for an hour, I’ve found the place to be full of dubious-looking people, with music that’s too loud, girls dressed like hookers flirting with creepy old men, and drugs offered everywhere. To say the least, I shouldn’t be here.

  Mike shows me a silver tray with fine white powder lines. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thank you,” I politely decline.

  Mike turns the tray to his left. “Emma?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” Emma takes a one-hundred-dollar bill from her pocket, rolls it up, puts it front of her right nostril, and sniffs half a line. I know Emma’s into that. I know she likes to consume drugs occasionally, “just for fun,” as she says.

  My iPhone beeps.

  I check the notification. It’s a new WhatsApp message from an unknown number.

  Curious, I open it.

  It was a pity you couldn’t join. I’d have been delighted to see you again. Hope you had a great evening nevertheless. See you soon, Alex.

  What? I can’t believe it. Alexander Van Dieren texted? I check the profile photo. Damn. Definitely him.

  I add him as a contact. I’m actually embarrassed to feel so excited to have his phone number, but after all, he’s my godfather—quite normal to have it.

  I text him back in a formal tone. Thank you for your kind message. Have a great night. Cordially, Ms. Van Gatt. Perfect. Cold and distant enough. A gentle reminder to fuck off.

  “Your boyfriend?” asks Mike, handing me a new glass of vodka and Coke, despite the fact that I didn’t even drink my first one.

  “No. My godfather,” I reply.

  “So no boyfriend?”

  “Nope. No boyfriend.” I smile back. I’m not into him, but decide to be polite with some small talk. “What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  But suddenly a security guard comes up to Mike and whispers in his ear. Mike's face becomes blank, then livid, then terribly serious.

  “We need to go,” he commands, standing up. I leap off the sofa immediately. “Emma, Dimitry, we need to go.” His tone is quite severe. Not a good sign.

  We are escorted to a small door at the back of the club. We go out to a dark, barely lit hallway. We start walking faster than usual, in a hurry to get outside and reach the road.

  “New York Police! Don’t move! Hands in the air!” screams a man surrounded by six others. They seem to emerge out of nowhere, barring our way.

  “What the fuck is happening?” Mike stands with his arms raised while an officer takes him down and handcuffs him.

  “Dimitry Yurkovich and Mike Hawrylak, you are under arrest for the possession and distribution of illicit substances, and for operating a nightclub without license in the state of New York. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions,” informs the officer. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning, now or in the future. Officers, handcuff the ladies too.”

  Oh God! Why us? I try to remain as calm as possible, breathing deeply, but I’m already in tears. I can’t believe this nightmare! Are Dimitry and Mike part of a gang or the Ukrainian mafia? I look back at Emma hoping to find answers, but she’s so high that doesn’t even realize what’s happening. She even giggles, hugs, and tries to kiss the police officer who’s handcuffing her.

  We’ve been escorted to the nearest police station in a separate car. As we enter, Emma finally starts to feel the harsh reality. “We need your parents’ phone numbers here. And your IDs,” snaps the officer at reception.

  “Yeah, right,” mumbles Emma, struggling to hold steady on her feet. “All you’ll get is the fucking number of my attorney.” She grasps the pen, bends slightly over the counter, and writes down her attorney’s information. While Emma has always been very secure and confident, even in the toughest situations, I, on the other hand, have no clue what to do. Heck, I don’t even have a lawyer. Only my dad.
No, definitely not him! I will never write his phone number in a police station book. Dad will be so disappointed, feel so deceived. He’ll even punish me. Probably forbid me to see Emma ever again. What contact can I give them? I feel so anxious, my heart stuck in my throat. Emma hands me the pen. Now it’s my turn, and instinctively, I write down the only name I can think of.

  Afterward, we are led to a cell by the same officer who drove us here. The cell is small with two wooden benches attached to the walls—one in front of the other. Empty, dark, and cold, it smells like aged sweat and urine. Yuck! Disgusting. I can even hear flies buzzing.

  He locks us inside.

  What a nightmare.

  Emma lies on the first bench she sees, closes her eyes, a hand on her belly, and tries to contain the vodka that wants to come back up. She’s beyond drunk—the mix of alcohol and cocaine has left her semiconscious. I just hope she won’t throw up in the cell—the place’s already repugnant enough. I sit on the other bench, head down in my hands. I have no idea how long we’ll stay here. Ten minutes have passed, and yet it feels like an eternity. I look up at Emma, who seems to be dead asleep, and then back down again. My mind is lost and afraid, my eyes drop some tears. I dry them quickly, but they return and roll down my face. Fuck, I’m done.

  Manhattan, May 18, 2019

  Alexander Van Dieren

  After our formal dinner, I head back to my condo in Manhattan. As I enter the hallway, I see Lucy already naked, kneeling on the marble floor, her head down and legs spread apart.

  “Good evening, little Lucy.” I walk a few steps in her direction. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing your new collar and leash.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” she replies, her voice low and soft.

  I gently stroke the top of her head. “Are you hungry?”

  She nods, her eyes down. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Great. I’m dying to feed you.” I take her leash and little Lucy stands up, following me to the leather sofa in my living room.

  There she sits astride me, devouring my mouth while hurriedly unfastening my belt.

  “Such a hungry little slut. Take it easy.”

  “My apologies, my lord,” she replies.

  Lucy goes down on her knees again and pulls out my cock, but before she can suck me, I lift her chin up, though her stare always remains down. “Where are your manners, little Lucy? I don’t recall you asking.”

  “My lord, may I suck your cock, please?”

  “See? Much better.” I pat her head and lean back. “Good girl. You may do so.”

  But my iPhone starts ringing.

  “Shit. I’m sorry I forgot to turn this off.” I grab it from my pocket and frown instantly—I don’t recognize the number. That’s quite odd. Only family and close friends have my private contact. I decide to answer nevertheless. “Hi…? Yes, it’s me… What?” I push Lucy’s head away from my crotch. “Are you sure it’s her? What the—” I glance at my watch. “Who’s she with? Very well. I’ll be there soon.” I hang up and let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, little Lucy. But we’ll have to play another time.” I kiss the top of her head, close my pants, fasten my belt, and leap off the sofa.

  “But, my lord, I’m starving…”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have something to take care of.” Fuck. I shake my head in annoyance. Roy was right. That Emma is crazy. Seeing Lucy so sad and disappointed, I ask, “Tomorrow night, what do you think?”

  Petra Van Gatt

  After being locked up for an hour, Emma finally wakes up and starts searching her pockets, irritated. “Shit. They took everything. Not even a fucking cigarette left.”

  “Shut up, Emma,” I shout, still agonizing over my fate, my legs trembling, head down.

  Between panting breaths, I sob. “What am I gonna say to Dad? I’m done, Emma. Done. He’ll never let me see you ever again.”

  Emma stands up, tries hard to walk properly, and sits beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Shh... Babygirl, I promise we’ll get out of here before your dad finds out.”

  “I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

  We both stare outside, startled by the interruption and the familiar voice. I gasp in horror. It can’t get any worse!

  “Alex? What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Van Dieren, please,” he corrects, standing on the other side of the bars. He looks sharp and fresh in a black two-piece suit with a slim white shirt, hands in his pockets. It looks like he just came from a party nearby. “Don’t you think the question is more the other way around?”

  “Does Dad know about this?” I ask nevertheless.

  “Let’s get you out of here first, then we’ll talk, Ms. Van Gatt.” The police officer unlocks and opens the cell, but I’m still confused. “Now, kindly go to the car,” he snaps.

  I look at Emma, wondering where her lawyer is. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll be fine. My attorney is coming soon.”

  “Mr. Van Dieren, can’t you pay her bail?”

  “Let me talk to Emma about it. Now go to the car. The driver is waiting outside.”

  I hug her tightly and leave the cell. As I pass by him, I can’t help but smile at his fragrance—it feels so good to finally smell something other than aged urine. The officer closes the door behind me, and I walk away.

  Emma Hasenfratz

  The Dutch hottie waits a few more seconds to be sure we are completely alone before talking to me.

  “Now, back to us, Ms. Hasenfratz. Your attorney, Anna Griffith, is not coming anytime soon. I called your father and told him I’d take care of it. If you want to go home tonight, you better stop.”

  “Stop what?” I snap instantly.

  “Stop pushing my goddaughter into your pathetic and dangerous lifestyle.”

  What? The Dutch hottie is Petra's godfather? Damn! “Who you think you are, huh? You don’t command me.”

  “I think I’m the one who knows more about you than you can possibly imagine. And you, Emma? Who do you think you are? You think you are a big girl because you hang out in illegal clubs, consume cocaine, and nearly killed a poor guy with a baseball bat at your farewell party?”

  My heart falls to the ground. I can’t believe it. How does he know all that? Who did he pay for that information? My dad surely doesn’t know about it.

  “I told your dad I’d pay for your bail. Unless, of course, you want to stay here until you’re heard by a judge. In what, two, three days?”

  I frown at his threats, my mind boiling with rage. I cross my arms and huff loudly. “Okay... What do you want?”

  “Don’t drag Petra into your pathetic nightlife anymore. Are we clear?”

  Fuck. No one’s ever talked to me like that. Not even my own parents. What a jerk. Unfortunately, we both know I’m not in a position to negotiate, so I have no choice but to accept. I nod icily.

  Van Dieren calls back the officer to open the cell. I finally get out and find my driver waiting outside. But I don’t manage to see babygirl one last time before leaving. I just hope the Dutch hottie won’t say a word to her Dad. Roy really might forbid her from seeing me ever again.

  Petra Van Gatt

  Neither of us dares to talk, nor even look at each other. Our silence is colder than ice. Only the engine and occasional noise from outside can be heard. Alexander remains distant and serious, looking intently out the car window. After ten long minutes, I venture to ask again, in my most innocent and sweetest voice, “Does Dad know?”

  But he doesn’t say a word. I hear nothing but his breath. My heart feels stuck in my throat, and I swallow hard.

  “Not yet,” he snarls while staring absently outside.

  Another minute of silence.

  He lets out a sigh and turns his freezing glare at me. “You got really lucky I texted you. What would you have done if you didn’t have my number?”

  My head remains down, but I can feel his judgmental eyes all over me like sharp arrows stabbing my spine. “I seriously don’t know.” I
swallow my pride and face him again. Oh God. His stare is so disturbingly rigid. “Please don’t tell Dad. I promise I’ll never do it again. I couldn’t sleep, and Emma invited me out. I needed some fresh air. Please… it was the first and last time.”

  “Why should I even believe you? I don’t know you.”

  “Because”—I look briefly around, trying to find a viable excuse—“you’re my godfather.”

  “Wow. So now you’re using the fact that I’m your godfather to hide this entire situation from him? Very well done, Ms. Van Gatt.”

  Pfff. Sarcastic asshole. “It would be our secret…”

  “Why should I do it for you? I don’t see the point.”

  “I can’t believe we are negotiating.”

  “Of course we are. What do I gain hiding the truth from your father?”

  “Um, what do you want in return, then?” I ask.

  He keeps looking idly ahead with a thoughtful expression. Probably amused by his little game, a smile escapes, but he tries to hide it by rubbing a finger over his lips. “First, you won’t see Emma for any more nights out, unless I’m around. That girl only brings you trouble. Second…” He pauses briefly. “You’ll show me your favorite art galleries around New York.”

  I blink twice before I can articulate properly. “Wait. What? You could’ve asked a million things, but the one that came to your mind was being your tour guide?”

  “Exactly. Proper ones are very expensive nowadays. I’m sure you know the best galleries to hang out in.”

  Ugh. I cross my arms in displeasure. “I’m not sure if telling Dad was such a bad idea after all…”

  “I can always call him.” And he pulls out his iPhone.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take you to my favorite galleries, I promise. Please just don't tell him anything about tonight.”

  “You better have an excellent itinerary and surprise me. I’ve never really enjoyed art.”