Noir

La cité des anges (City of Angels)

March 23rd.

•••

To think, she hadn't even wanted to leave home that night. A guilt trip, two hours, one false accusation, too many drinks, and a messy brawl later, somebody's birthday party ended in arrests.

Maddox sat on the curb outside that new nightclub on Wilshire, hands cuffed behind her back. Blue and white lights flashed atop police cruisers parked haphazardly nearby. She focused on the officer's legs as she tried to answer his questions, but it was all she could do to keep from vomiting on his nice, shiny shoes, much less provide coherent answers. She needed her jacket; it was an unusually cool March evening, but she'd just have to bear it. The cuffs were too tight and dug into her skin. And the cars whizzing past in the street behind the officer incited motion sickness.

She put her head down, searching for something, anything to ground herself. The wad of gum smashed there would have to do. But then the dirty pavement seemed to rise to meet her. Maddox felt her body swaying and fought to remain upright, figuring falling all over herself wouldn't help matters. Behind her, commotion ensued as her opponent and said opponent's friends loudly insisted the fight was Maddox's doing.

Before she knew it, she turned to face them, the seat of her pants – god, her brand new BCBG pants – grinding against the cement with the speed of her motion. "I didn't start anything! Y'all are fucking lying!" she heard herself slur, that accent she just couldn't lose shining through.

Shut up, Maddox.

But she couldn't, not while they threw her under the bus. She distinctly recalled being in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with no one in particular, mind you, chasing down one Long Island Iced Tea with another when a hard tap to the shoulder sent her spinning. She recalled being hit first, pain shooting through her nose and cheek as someone's fist made hard contact.

Then someone grabbed her hair, which she'd taken special care to straighten for the occasion. Chairs and tables scraped noisily across the floor as the fight ensued, glasses crashing to the ground, their contents splashing everywhere. Defending herself was natural, especially after being caught off guard and having three women pounding on her. Not that she hadn't put up one hell of a fight.

The music blasting through the club following the first few blows was suddenly deafening, her senses overwhelmed. Large arms grabbed at her arms and waist, lifting her from the ground kicking and swinging. She ignored demands that she calm down and instead vehemently denied the allegations the women shouted during and following the altercation.

She didn't know that girl's boyfriend, nor was she dancing with him. She hadn't flirted with anyone all night. Maybe she should have stayed in the corner of the club, babysitting that drink and giving out Instagram likes.

All she had to show for saying yes to a night out was a bloody lip and a criminal record.

•••

"I didn't do shit! I didn't! Do! Shit!"

Maddox watched in horror as a barefoot brunette struggled against two officers, continuing to loudly proclaim her innocence. The tight, metallic silver dress she wore was ripped. Her blue eyes were wild, the left ringed with a dark purple bruise. A third officer shoved a restraint chair underneath her and by the time they carted her off down the hall, they still hadn't gotten her strapped in completely.

They threatened to subdue her via taser, her screams echoing still, though she was out of sight. The officer behind the desk hardly noticed, appearing bored and accustomed to her surroundings. She continued clicking around on the computer, processing yet another L.A. bad girl who'd landed herself in the slammer.