April

Three days later and I’m in the same funk, even after sleeping soundly for the last four nights. Matt is always gone before I wake up, and I know it must be weird for him—sleeping with his ex-girlfriend, an ex-girlfriend that broke his heart. But he hasn’t stopped it. In fact, the second day, when I fell asleep on the sofa watching a movie, he picked me up and moved me to his room instead of mine.

I wonder if we should talk about it or just let it go.

I know I’ve been working since I was fifteen years old; I can remember my first job cleaning dishes at a small bakery by the group home. So I don’t know how to just sit and do nothing. I feel useless. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, but I can’t help it. It’s been two weeks since I was discharged from the hospital and a little over a month since I was attacked, and I don’t think I’m any closer to remembering. Maybe I should just go home and deal with this all myself. It’s not fair to Matt to put this burden on him.

Matt walks into the room, barefoot, and heads straight to the kitchen, stopping only when he glances at me. “You look…” He moves his head side to side. “Pissed?”

I shake my head.

“Sad?”

I shake my head.

“Bored?”

“Maybe.”

“I know just the thing.” He jogs back to where he came from. I hear some rummaging and then he comes back with a gift bag. He hands it to me, and I cock an eyebrow questioningly as I pull out a coloring book and some colored pencils. He grins. “My sister’s a psychiatrist, and she sent this to me and Nick. Said it was the most relaxing thing. Adult coloring books, she called it.”

I glare at him, snarl deep in my throat, and, like a toddler, throw the book on the coffee table and cross my arms over my chest.

Chuckling, he sits down next to me and pulls my arms down. He’s been nicer lately, thank God. “Tell me what’s going on with you today.” He looks down at the pen and notebook I keep around to write down any memories I have. It’s something my doctor told me to try at the last appointment. “Anything new you’ve thought of?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to write. Damn, I don’t even know what to write, because I can’t put into words the snippets of memories I get from time to time. I know I’m being petulant, but I’m so frustrated. He lets out a breath. “So, no to coloring books, no to telling me what’s wrong.”

“I want to remember!” I yell.

“Try harder,” he says, sounding disinterested. Quite frankly, he’s being an ass. I reach over and flick his ear. He’s so shocked he doesn’t even move. Then I grab a pillow and hit him with it. Again, he doesn’t move. I grab another, and hit him again and then again, awkwardly—my cast was removed yesterday, but my arm is still sore. He’s just sitting there taking it. When I run out of pillows, he stands and leaves the room. I’ve gone too far. I plop back onto the sofa breathlessly and rest my head on my palms, my eyes full of tears.

I’m careerless, loveless, helpless. And now, thanks to my little tantrum, I’ll probably be homeless.

A flick on my ear startles me. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Here,” he says, handing me my sneakers. “Come on, Rocky. You used to like working out. Your arm is pretty much healed, but be gentle. Don’t overdo it,” he warns, pulling me out of the apartment. I notice he now has sneakers on and his keys are in one hand.

We take the elevator all the way to the top floor of his building, then walk down a hall to double doors. He holds the door open, and we’re inside a gym that has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. All the cardio machines are facing the windows, and I know this is where I’ll be until I recover. I’ve always been athletic, not just in an effort to get through the police academy but because I enjoy it. He pulls me to the punching bag. “Don’t punch it. I don’t want you messing up your arm. But kick it. I think you need to let off some steam.” I look at him, so thankful he’s not mad at me for losing it on him. “My pillows can’t take any more abuse from you.” He winks, then stands behind the bag and holds it so that I can go to town on the black canvas.

Apparently I know how to fight, as I get in position and begin to kick the bag without really thinking about it. Roundhouse kicks, mostly with my right leg, but then my left. I do this for less than five minutes and then I have to stop.

“I remember this April. There’s my feisty girl.”

His girl?

How I wish that were true.

Afterward, I’m feeling better and less sorry for myself. We go back to his place and he makes us dinner. But I still don’t know what to do with myself. I’m just a big lump on his couch, taking up space.

“You want to come to work with me tonight? You used to go to Panic a lot. Maybe you’ll remember something.”

“Yeah, sure,” I agree excitedly.

“Okay, I’m going to get ready. We leave in twenty.”

I have a ton of my clothes here in his house, but nothing nice. I don’t know if it’s because that’s all he brought or because I don’t own anything nice. I pick a pair of jeans that now hang loosely on me, and the nicest shirt I can find. After I shower, I try to avoid looking at the ugly scar on my forehead. Luckily, most of the bruising on my face has disappeared, but I know that I still don’t look like myself. I’m still healing.

“You look great, April,” Matt compliments me, leaning against the door of my bedroom, where I’m trying to style my hair to cover up the scar.

“Look at you, all debonair and dressy. I’m in jeans and there’s not enough makeup in the world to cover this,” I complain, pointing to the scar.

“Let me rephrase it. You don’t look great. You look beautiful.” He pushes himself off the doorframe, walks behind me, and puts his hands on my shoulders.

I look at him in the mirror and think, Was he ever mine? What could have gone wrong? How could I have let him get away? Instead I clear my throat and keep trying to hide the scar. “You have to say that.”

“No, actually I don’t. But I did because it’s true.” He takes the brush from me, tosses it on the bed, and grabs my hand. That big palm wrapped around my small hand feels so familiar and so comforting, I know it’s something we’ve done before. “Come on.”

When we get downstairs I see a motorcycle in his parking spot. “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one. The one we’ve been using is Nick’s. How do you feel about bikes?”

“I…think I like them?”

He chuckles. “See, you’re remembering your old self already.”

As if I’ve done it a hundred times, I throw my leg over the seat, strap on the helmet, and wrap my arms around all that is Matt Moreno. His wide shoulders and bulky arms flex as he grips the bars. Refusing to miss the opportunity, I press myself closer to him, using the bike as an excuse, and smell him. The scent of his aftershave and soap is mouthwatering. Maybe I’ve been deprived of male attention for too long, or maybe it’s just Matt, but I want to lean closer and bite that little space under his ear, by his neck. Instead, I squeeze my thighs against him and get ready to ride on a motorcycle for the first time I can remember.

As we take off, I realize I don’t like motorcycles…I fucking love them.

By the time we get to the club, I am feeling so much better than I did earlier today when I had my tantrum. I know my hair is a mess when I take off the helmet, so I try to shake it around to make look somewhat normal. He’s seen me at my worst, and he’s never looked at me like the sick, broken woman I feel like. I know there will be other men at the club and probably beautiful women, but the only one I care about impressing is Matt.

When we walk into Panic, my palms are sweating. I must look like a freak with my face all scarred. But Matt’s right—maybe this will jolt loose some memories. So I let the insecurities fade away.

“April,” he calls over his shoulder. I realize I’m not moving. I’m standing by the huge bouncer, who’s holding a velvet rope open for me to walk through while half of Miami stands impatiently in line waiting to get in. I can hear the techno beat coming from inside.

“Oh, sorry,” I apologize, and shuffle forward. I’m getting some sort of familiar feeling, but at the same time I don’t remember ever being here. It’s bizarre.

The club is packed, and I’m surprised at how big the place is. “Wow. You own this?”

He nods, patiently waiting for me to take it all in. “Come on,” he says a moment later. His hand goes to my lower back and he starts guiding me through the crowd. This is the most he’s touched me since meeting him. Or re-meeting him, I should say. Except when we sleep. But that’s something that neither of us talks about. We wake up wrapped around each other, and I’ve felt his erection pressed against my back on more than one occasion. Last night his hand found its way under my shirt and he was cupping one of my breasts. I didn’t move, fearful he’d realize what he was doing and stop. I wanted more. I pushed back against him a little, hoping he’d get the hint, but instead he shifted and ended up with his mouth buried in my neck, his little snores tickling me in the most delicious way. He seems to want me in his bed and I don’t want to leave it. So we just don’t discuss it. Our subconscious minds have gotten pretty steamy and inappropriate. But since it’s the best part of my day, I don’t want to jinx it by bringing it up.

I’ve felt so alone the last few weeks, lost in my mind and sad that I have no one but Matt and Dean. And Dean is deep undercover and mostly unavailable. No family, no friends. Nothing. But at night, I feel as if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

We make it to a set of elevators, and he swipes his finger across a pad. A flash of recognition assaults me. “Cool,” I say, and he whips his head back, his brow furrowed.

“I remember that,” I say excitedly. “Well, I remember something. It’s like déjà vu.”

I walk into the elevator and he’s quiet, introspective. As if he’s battling something inside. “You’ve been awesome, Matt. I don’t remember what kind of relationship we had, but you doing this for me, bringing me here, letting me stay at your home…” My throat tightens because the gratitude I have for him is so huge, it doesn’t fit in my chest. “Thank you.”

“No sweat.”

No sweat? That’s bullshit. I don’t need to remember him to know that it’s taking a lot for him to help me. “Did you remember something else?” he asks as we walk out of the elevator and down a long hallway.

“No.”

He looks at me as we walk. “Is there something you want to say? Say it.”

“It’s exactly the opposite. I can tell you want to say something. There are moments I can practically see you biting your tongue. I’ve heard you on the phone and seen you with your brother. You’re not the serious man you are with me. Tell me. Tell me what I did that makes you look at me like that.”

We reach an office—his office, I presume. He opens the door and gestures for me to walk in first, then shuts it behind him. Then he walks to a bar by a window and pours himself a drink. “You’re right,” he says, his back to me. “I do bite my tongue around you. Just now it was the fingerprint sensor. The day we met, when you saw that, you said, ‘Cool,’ just like you did tonight.”

“And?”

“April, fuck…” He downs the drink. “You broke my heart. But I’m trying here, I really am. You need to give me some time, too. We are both trying to work things out, even if you don’t realize it.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I take a sip of the drink he hands me.

“Ack!” I yelp, barely able to swallow the small sip. “Gross! It’s salty.” I hand it back.

“That’s your favorite.”

“It is?” I attempt another sip, but at the last moment I shake my head. “No, it can’t be.”

He looks at the drink and then back at me. There is a very noticeable tic in his jaw, and I swear it looks as if he’s going to break the glass in his hand. He slams the glass down, hands me a water bottle, and says gruffly, “Stay put. Be right back.” Then he walks out.

What the hell just happened?