Matt

ABOUT EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO…

The acrid smell of weed permeates the east bar, where I’m bartending tonight. No matter how many times we kick people out for lighting up inside the club, someone always flagrantly pulls out a joint and smokes in the middle of the mass of people swaying to the beat. Strobing light makes it hard to see clearly, and the thumping bass makes it hard to hear anything. But weed? We all smell it.

And this has become my normal.

I’m not complaining.

How can I? I’m not a hypocrite. I took a hit of the coke I have stashed in the drawer of my office before starting out on the long night of work. So who am I to judge? But that’s my secret—I’m not pulling it out and spreading it out on the bar for everyone to see. I’m not even proud of it, unlike the assholes smoking weed out in the open at my club. Shaking my head, I duck under the bar looking for the culprits. When I find them, a group of guys in their early twenties laughing in the middle of the dance floor, I find the guy who’s smoking and pull the joint out of his mouth.

“Hey, man!” I hear him exclaim, surprised.

“Next time go to the bathroom or the alley to do this, morons.” I roll my eyes and walk away.

Before any of them has a chance to get stupid, one of the bouncers comes to the floor and herds the idiots out of the club. I duck back to the bar, extinguish the joint, and toss it in the garbage can.

And that’s basically how I spend most of my weekends these days.

Again, I’m not complaining.

Agreeing to come help my twin brother, Nick, and my dad, Victor, run Panic definitely has its perks. I have a lucrative career in a law firm and I’m not ready to let all that go yet, so I come down from Fort Lauderdale on Fridays and stick around until Sunday. The busiest days at Panic are Thursday through Saturday nights, and sometimes we have parties on Sundays, but that’s rare. Thursdays Nick and Dad handle things, and on the weekends it’s mostly me and Nick, with Dad sticking his nose in everything we do. The travel and workload are exhausting, and sometimes I need a little boost to keep up with the grueling schedule. I’ve only been juggling the two jobs for about three months, but all in all it’s not terrible.

Not since I was in my early twenties have I had so much available pussy. It’s everywhere. When I look around it’s all tits and ass and ass and tits. Life is fucking sweet. I might not be getting laid as often as one would think, but I definitely can’t complain about the copious amounts of pussy tempting me every day. It’s nice to have options at my disposal.

But my motto is: Look but don’t touch.

Though sometimes temptation is just too much and my motto gets a little skewed: Touch but don’t taste.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint. I’ve gotten some shit from Nick—the serious twin—who doesn’t appreciate me sneaking off to the office for a blow job or finding me fucking two women in the DJ booth after hours. Because, damn, I’m just a man, after all. And the times I touch occasionally lead to tasting and, well, fucking. Rarely, however, does it lead to feelings. But the truth of the matter is, my reputation is bigger than the reality. Most of my little rendezvous happened before, when I would come down to Panic for fun. Not a lot of them have happened since I’ve been working. Honestly, I just don’t have the time. Running a busy nightclub and sneaking off to fuck? I don’t have that kind of multitasking skill.

I’m sliding Cosmos to three women dressed in short tight dresses, all trying to conjure up their Sex and the City personas. I’ve seen it before; that’s the MO of most of the tourists who come to Panic. The Samantha of the group winks and licks her lips, her fingers lingering on mine as I hand her the drink. I’ve met this woman before. Well, not her per se, but someone just like her. They all look, sound, and even feel the same. I smile and wink back, but then turn around to help another customer. We’re all playing a game at Panic. I’m the boy-toy bartender one-night-stand fantasy. And she’s probably a bored-outta-her-fucking-skull housewife looking for some fun. However, from years of experience, I’ve learned that most women just want attention. They want to be the one winked at. Flirted with. Stared at. Looked at but not touched. They don’t all necessarily want to cheat on their significant other with the bartender in the storage closet. Some do—but not all. So I play the part, give them the fantasy, and make a shit ton of money for the club.

Tonight, like most nights, the club is packed, which is why I’m down here helping instead of upstairs dealing with all the administrative bullshit. There are people squishing between other people with money in their hands, shouting orders at me and the other three bartenders. “We’ve got this, boss,” Yessi says while serving a drink.

“You sure?” I ask, smiling my signature everything-is-great smile.

“Positive,” she yells over the music, and I duck out of the bar.

I walk down the long and winding hall that leads to my office on the second floor of the club. The music below beats so loudly that I can feel the walls shake.

Having grown up at Panic, I’ve gotten used to it, but tonight I just want quiet. My head throbs in tempo with the music, and I push my thumbs against my temples to ease some of the pain.

I shut the door behind me as I pull on the Windsor knot around my neck to loosen up the tie that feels like it’s suffocating me. I slump down on the chair behind my glass-and-chrome desk and close my eyes, trying to will the tension headache away. My phone’s been buzzing in my pocket all night; it’s one of the associates who’s working on one of my motions that’s due Monday morning. I left it to the guy because it was easy, but the dude keeps calling. I might as well have done it myself.

Leaving the firm high and dry is not something I’d ever do, even if working at the club exclusively doesn’t feel like the worst idea.

Being a lawyer was never something I wanted, but when I landed a job at one of the most respectable law firms in South Florida, I finally accepted my fate. Then a call from my father telling me how stressed out Nick was, followed by a call from Nick telling me how ill my dad had become lately, made it impossible for me not to do what I can to help my family. Truth be told, I’m not miserable. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed and a lot tired, but being here, running Panic, was always something I wanted to do. Something I always expected to do at some point. A dream that was pushed aside when my father shoved law school down my throat. Which is why I was so bitter for so long. Not that anyone knows this. I tend to keep my emotions locked down.

I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk, moving aside some folders, and find my in-case-of-emergency cure-all. My dirty little secret—the small baggie, the white powder calling my name. During law school and then during the long hours of work at the firm, cocaine became a staple in my life. It’s what I used to tolerate the long boring hours of my life. But then I felt myself spinning out of control, and seeing firsthand how many people in Panic have problems with the stuff, I know how easily one can spiral. So it’s been months since I used, but tonight my energy level has bottomed out and no amount of energy drink is helping. The trial last week left me exhausted and the music thumping around in my head makes me want to scream. The earlier hit has worn off, and right now I need the high, that burst of energy that makes me feel like I can take on the world. Opening the bag, I tap some powder onto the back of my hand and inhale with a snort.

The coke hits me hard, burning along my nasal cavity even as everything around me goes from black and white to Technicolor in a matter of seconds. Quickly closing the bag, I hide it back in the drawer. No one knows about my habit, and I intend to keep it that way.

It’s Saturday night, our busiest night. I should be downstairs making sure things are running smoothly, but instead I’m avoiding the three missed work calls and the big fuck-up that happened in one of the club’s VIP areas tonight. A fuck-up that set us back at least two grand. My brother’s going to have a fucking aneurysm when he finds out. I can practically see the vein in his forehead exploding.

Spinning my chair around, I look through the window down at my club. Bodies swaying sensually. Laughter, alcohol, music…Panic is all about numbness. The illusion of being worry-free, alcohol making you brave and forgetful, lust motivating you to be wicked. The hot, tight bodies of the women our bouncers specifically pull from the line outside and allow in, bringing throngs of men inside to fill my father’s hefty bank account.

Tonight, both bars are packed, people standing two deep trying to catch the bartenders’ attention. I make a mental note to see about hiring another bartender, or maybe it’s time we consider building a third bar elsewhere in the club.

A flash of red from the corner of my eye brings my attention to the entrance. Leaning closer to the window, I see a group of people walking in. Two men and a woman whose shiny jet-black hair is haloed by the glare from the strobe lights. From up here, I can’t make out her features clearly, but I can see her lean body, her toned arms, and the swell of her breasts under her tight-fitting red dress. She’s fidgeting with her hands nervously. One of the men she’s with whispers something in her ear, and she stills, then looks around and smiles.

Wow.

Talk about a punch to the gut.

I’ve never seen such a brilliant and sincere smile. Even from this far away, it’s infectious.

Suddenly I want to run down and buy her a drink.

Behind me, the door to my office slams shut, and I spin my chair back around, even though the last thing I want to do is lose sight of this girl. Nick is stalking toward my desk, the stupid man-bun thing he has on his head a disheveled mess. His eyes look murderous. “What can I do you for, Nicky?” I say, pasting my biggest smile on my face.

“Something’s up with Naomi. She never came over last night. You seen her around tonight?” Nick’s been in a relationship with Naomi for months now. I don’t like to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but this is my brother and I don’t like seeing him tormented over a chick. A chick who, in my opinion, is nothing but bad news.

“Nah, man. Haven’t seen her.”

“Damn it,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on with you?” He looks at my hand, which is destroying a paper clip.

“With me?” I shake my head, drop the paper clip, and tuck my hands in my pockets. “Nothing, man. I’m good. So, you serious about this chick?”

“I think so, except I have no clue where the fuck she is.”

“Is that something that happens a lot?”

He pulls out the chair across from me and sits. “Not really. Well, you know how she is. She’s the life of all the parties, so she probably got shit-faced and wound up at Rachel’s house. Who knows? The woman can’t stand still. Doesn’t know how to just stay home and relax.” He glances at me for a moment and adds, “Like you.”

“Like me? I’m not the life of the party.”

“No, but you can’t fucking stay put for two minutes.” As he says this, I realize my leg is bobbing, and I immediately stop. Fucking coke. Although even without drugs I’m an energetic guy. I’m usually moving around. I need to go downstairs and burn some energy. Preferably with that woman I just saw.

Instead, I make an effort to focus on the conversation. “Rachel? As in the crazy bitch we don’t let into Panic anymore?”

“Yep, the one and only.”

“Not good news.”

“No, she’s not,” Nick agrees. “I’m trying to get Naomi to stay away from Rachel. I knew she was drinking too much last night, but I had to go deal with the new DJ. When I came back she was gone. Sent me a text saying she wasn’t feeling well and would call me in the morning. She never did, and now she’s not answering her damn phone. I’m worried.”

I’m about to tell him that maybe he should reconsider his relationship when his phone chirps. “Oh, it’s her. She just got here. Later, man,” he says distractedly, walking out of my office with his eyes on his phone as he types. I’ve never seen Nick so into a woman. The weird thing is that it’s more in a caretaker kind of way. He feels the need to help everyone, and Naomi is a needy woman.

I shake my head and spin back around to look at my club. The bartenders are still slammed, and now the crowds at the bar are three deep. Panic is definitely a moneymaking machine. With its reputation as the hottest nightclub in Miami, Panic is the place to be seen. You don’t visit Miami Beach without coming to Panic, and you don’t live in Miami without having been here a time or two.

I tuck my phone in my pocket and head down to help at the bar, hoping to catch a close-up view of that black-haired sex bomb.

I do a round of the club, walking in between people, saying hello to the regulars while remaining constantly on the lookout. It doesn’t take much time before I spot her red dress, and I go straight to the bar where she is sitting. She’s fidgeting with her dress as Yessi takes her order. “Jac—” she begins, but then scans the bar and says, “Martini, please.”

“Olives?” Yessi asks over the music. I’m behind the bar now, taking a drink order but listening to the interaction.

“Yes. A lot.” She’s so cute I snort out a laugh, but she can’t hear it over the music.

The bar is packed, with people yelling out orders at me, Yessi, and the other two bartenders, and I can tell she is starting to feel crowded.

“Honey, you almost finished there?” a man in his early thirties with slicked-back blond hair asks her with a dirty look that makes me want to kick him right out of my club.

“Excuse me?” she says loudly.

“Slide over, will ya? I need to order a drink.” He sounds as if he’s already had enough drinks and doesn’t need another one. I’m about to tell the guy where he can stick his drink when I see her reach into her purse and pull out her phone. I’m mesmerized. What is she doing? The jerk is staring at her, waiting for her to move, but she’s reading a text instead, completely ignoring him.

But then the man makes the wrong decision. He grabs her elbow and pulls her up from the stool.

“Hey! Get your hands off me!” she shrieks. Her eyes, a piercing light blue that’s almost translucent, glare at the man.

“Is everything okay?” I ask loudly, to be heard over the music.

“Miller Lite,” the guy has the fucking nerve to call out.

But she speaks over him. “No. Everything’s not okay. This guy grabbed me.”

“Calm down, honey. You’ve been sitting here all night. Some of us need room.”

“Well, you could say ‘excuse me.’ ”

“And you can move your fat ass,” he spits back. “It’s not like you need any more drinks.” At that, her mouth opens wide and she gasps. From what I can see there is nothing fat about this woman, but even if there was, the guy’s totally out of line. With both palms on the bar I lean forward and get in the man’s face. “Outta my bar—” But I don’t have a chance to finish before she lifts her glass, stands up, and slowly and deliberately pours the entire drink over the guy’s head, olives and all.

Swear to God—swear to fucking God—all the lights, the music, and the people dancing come to a screeching halt as she slams her empty glass on the table and calmly sits back down. “Another martini, please,” she says sweetly, batting her lashes.

Fucking spectacular.

I think I might be in love.

My mouth is hanging open. I know I should do something, but I’m too amused to move.

The dickhead must be six feet tall and you can tell from the muscles on his arms that he’s been hitting the ’roids. If he wanted to, the man could crush her in a second. But this woman isn’t just beautiful, she’s either completely crazy or a fucking badass. I’m thinking the latter.

She continues to scowl at him fearlessly as she waits for him to react. I can tell that he’s losing his cool and is seconds away from raging. “I’m pressing fucking charges, bitch!” he growls at her. He moves closer, but before it escalates I use my earpiece to call Toro, the club’s head bouncer, over to the bar, and then I hop over to the other side and get in between them.

Within seconds Toro’s there. “Yo, T, escort her upstairs, will ya? I’m calling the cops.” The woman gasps and is about to rip into me when I cut her off and turn to the fuming man. “You.” I point to him. “Stay here. Cops’ll want a statement.” I grab a big handful of napkins and push them against his chest. “Yessi, get this guy a Miller Lite,” I holler, and point my thumb at the man.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“You better fucking believe I’m gonna give them a statement,” he’s yelling as he wipes his face. He’s got more to say, but I don’t hear the rest. I’m already running to catch up to Toro, who is holding the squirming, pissed-off woman by the forearm and leading her to the elevator.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Toro, wait ten minutes and then go tell that douche that she ran away or whatever the fuck. Comp him a drink or two. I got this,” I instruct him.

Just as quickly as he appeared, Toro is gone. And I’m alone with the woman. The woman with the blue eyes, a fiery temper, the sexiest fucking voice I’ve ever heard, and an ass…I press my nails into my palm so as not to grab that ass.

“I can’t believe you’re calling the cops on me,” she snaps, and glances over as the elevator doors open. She doesn’t step inside.

“Fuck no,” I say, which makes her smile brightly. “That was the best thing I’ve seen all week. I’d never call the cops on something as entertaining as that. Come upstairs to the VIP lounge with me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

She hesitates for a moment, tucking the short black hair behind her ear.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m a good guy.”

“That’s what all serial killers say before they start chopping off body parts.”

“True. But I left all my body-part-chopping-off tools at home today.”

She smiles. “Well, that’s good.”

“I’m the owner of Panic. There’s a quiet VIP section upstairs.”

Her head tilts to the side. “Really?”

“Really,” I confirm.

She finally walks into the elevator with me, but even as she does, she says, “I don’t think it’s smart for me to sneak off with a stranger somewhere. Tell me something to make me stay.”

“You want me to make you stay?”

“Yeah. Whatcha got? What’s your best line?”

I’m loving her sass. “I’m already smitten by you. Any girl who’ll toss a top-shelf martini on a man is someone I need to know. Stay. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“That’s it? That’s the best you got?”

“Yeah, it kind of is. Guess I’m outta practice. I’m Matt Moreno. Maybe I should’ve opened with that.” I extend my hand to her.

“June Simpson.” She takes my hand in hers. It’s not soft, like I imagined it to be. Her hand is slightly callused even if delicate, as if she plays an instrument or something. “I guess I have no choice but to accept your offer of a drink. If you end up being a serial killer, how else will I defend myself without a martini to throw on you?” she teases in that sex kitten voice, the likes of which I’ve never heard before.

I chuckle at her comment and lead her to my favorite booth.

“So, a dirty martini?” I ask, leaning inappropriately close. She nods and doesn’t move away, but it’s obvious that she is affected by the distance between us—or lack thereof. I move back a little and order her another martini, plus a Jack and Coke for myself.

“Never seen you here before,” I say.

“Never been here before.”

“Well, I hope you’re ready to have some fun.”

“Always am.”

“June’s my favorite month. By far the hottest one.”

She snorts again. So damn cute, this woman. “Very original.”

“Guess you’ve heard that before. But I’m not lying. Nothing better than June in Miami.”

She crosses her arms and cocks an eyebrow. “Really? It rains every day. And it’s hot and sticky.”

“Exactly.” I waggle my eyebrows playfully, which makes her laugh.

“Do all the guests get this kind of personalized service? No wonder this is such a popular club.”

“What can I say? Beautiful women get special service. Especially when they throw drinks at other guests when they are getting harassed by said guests.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Definitely.” I lean closer. “Anything in particular you’d like, June? Can’t have you leaving Panic for the first time…unsatisfied.”

She sits up straighter. I think my innuendo made her nervous. Maybe I’m coming on too strong. She isn’t the kind of woman I’m used to. I can tell that almost immediately, I think from the way she carries herself—confident and real. She wasn’t at the bar flirting or trying to make men take notice. Don’t get me wrong, she’s hard to miss. Men definitely noticed. But not because she was trying to get their attention. In fact, I’m willing to bet that she was probably hoping that they’d ignore her altogether.

Her dress and shoes look expensive, and even though it’s tight, her dress goes to midcalf and her cleavage isn’t in your face. Most women here, their sexuality is overt. Their tits and ass hang out, making it impossible not to look. There’s no doubt as to why they’re here.

June…I don’t know why she’s here.

I’m intrigued.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, with her own flirtatious smile that is laced with nerves.

“So what brings you to Panic tonight?”

“My friends wanted to go out tonight and dragged me along.”

“The two men I saw you walk in with?”

She stops fidgeting and looks straight at me, and those damn eyes…they make me lose my train of thought for a moment. “You saw me walk in?”

“Clocked you as soon as you set foot inside. You’re a hard woman to miss.”

Her smile is wide.

I turn for a moment to speak with the server who brings us our drinks, and when I turn back she is looking down at her phone. “Everything okay?”

She stuffs her phone back in her purse and looks up. “I need to close out my tab.”

“Already? Not dirty enough?” I look down at her glass, which is still full to the brim.

“Oh, uh…” She picks up the glass and takes a sip. Her eyes water a little as she coughs. “It’s delicious. Definitely dirty enough.” She pulls out the big fat olive, slips it off the little plastic skewer, and eats it. “But I gotta go.” She isn’t looking at me; she’s looking over my shoulder. My eyebrows pull together and I turn to see what she’s looking at. The two men she came in with are walking toward us, looking serious and out of place with their suits and their confident strides. My back straightens.

“They’re also my ride.”

I lean over and whisper, “I can give you a ride, if you’d like.”

She laughs out loud in that raspy tone that’s so damn sexy. “You give good innuendo, Matt.”

“Drinks are on the house, Junebug. Although you seem like more of a May than a June.”

“Why’s that?”

“You see the women around here?” I’m close, so close that I can see goosebumps erupt all over her arms and shoulders. “All these women, they’re all the same. In fact, I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. Different hair, different dress, but really, there’s no difference. But you, you’re so out of place in here, you stick out like a sore thumb.” She pulls back and looks at me like I’ve just said the worst thing I could possibly say, but I continue. “You are a breath of fresh air. Every man in here watched you coming in, and I’ll bet this bar you had no damn clue. You’re more like a fresh spring day. More like a May than a June. And I, for one, love the taste of spring on my tongue.” Her eyes are locked in on my mouth, and I know that I’m laying it on thick and aggressive in my attempt to win her over, but fuck, she’s beautiful and funny and I want her to remember me. I want her to stay. “I hope you come back soon.”

She swallows, then smiles as she slides out of the booth. “You should’ve led with that. That would’ve made me stay,” she whispers, her mouth as close to my ear as mine was to hers, and now I’m the one with goosebumps. She smells so good I just want to pull her in close and breathe her in.

I watch her walk away, and it takes every single fiber of my being not to beg her to stay or to ask her for her number. And I hate that she’s leaving with these men. I can’t figure out who they are, and she didn’t bother explaining. Women, at least the ones I know, are usually chatty and expose more of themselves than necessary. This one, however, is a vault. She gave absolutely no clues, except to walk away ushered by two older-looking suit-wearing guys. It almost looks like they’re her bodyguards, but that can’t be right, since they left her alone at the club while I tried to seduce her.

I’m still staring at her, my mind wondering about the men, when she looks over her shoulder. Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment there’s a tether connecting us—and I know she’ll be back.

She has to.

Because this can’t be the last time I see June.