Matt

“A hand would be nice, you know, if you’re not too busy with that beer,” I yell over to Nick while balancing two unopened cases of rum in my hands. He’s sitting on a chair, his legs propped up on a table, crossed at the ankle, watching a baseball game with a beer in hand, as if this is a fucking sports bar. I’m still not used to this new Nick. Last year he was the high-strung control-freak slave-driving partner here at Panic. I guess being in love has made him a total slacker.

Last week, after seeing June, I hired a new PI—it’s the third PI I’ve hired since June went missing about a year ago. But it’s been nothing but dead ends again. I’m frustrated and exhausted. I’ve gone through a spectrum of emotions since June walked out of my life, almost falling into a depression of drugs and alcohol after getting arrested, losing my job, and losing my girl.

But I dug my way out of it, was getting healthy and strong again. I did it alone, never wanting to burden my brother with my problems. And now, seeing her—or thinking that I saw her—has brought all those emotions back. I feel like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at the smallest thing. There are days I just want to scream and hit something.

Looking over his shoulder, Nick puts the bottle down and drops his legs. “Oh, sorry. Why didn’t you say something?” He grabs one of the boxes and places it on the counter.

“It’s Wednesday at five, it’s been the same delivery time since forever. I didn’t know you suddenly needed a reminder,” I grumble, grabbing a box cutter and opening the case. I take out one of the bottles, open it, pour some into a shot glass, and down it, then start putting the rest of the bottles away.

“What’s up your ass?” he asks. Rather ironic, considering I asked him this very same question months ago. He looks at the open bottle and winces. “Rum? You’re drinking rum?”

“Fuck off,” I bite out, unpacking the bottles and taking inventory. “How’s Katie?” Katie is Nick’s fiancée and the reason he’s become this whole new pleasant person. She’s like a sister to me, and she’s a good distraction to get him to talk about something else. After Naomi cheated on him last year, he went from grumpy to a downright prick. But then Katie changed it all. I’ve never seen him so happy.

“Katherine’s perfect. Training for the Corporate Run. I can’t keep up.”

“Good for her.” Katie is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, but she suffers from severe PTSD and because of that she became agoraphobic. Now with lots of therapy and my brother’s support, she’s been getting out of her house and has started living her life again. I couldn’t be happier for the two of them.

“Ugh, come on!” Nick yells at the television. “They interrupted the game.”

I look up to see some sort of press conference. “Wonder what happened,” I muse, downing another shot. Ack…rum. I hate it.

Nick shrugs, then takes the other case and starts putting the bottles away. We listen to the police’s statement about some big criminal ring bust while we work. “Sounds like MDPD’s been busy,” Nick says. I happen to glance up at the television, my eyes open wide, and I stop dead.

“What is it?” Nick asks from behind me.

Squinting at the screen, I say, “That looks like June.”

“Everyone looks like June to you.”

Ignoring the comment, I grab the remote and increase the volume. They say her name is April White, and apparently she was undercover.

“It looks like her, but not really,” Nick muses.

I didn’t tell him about my encounter with the woman last week on Lincoln Road. He’s already been up my ass about my obsession with finding June for the last year, and I don’t want to hear it. If he knew I hired a PI again, he’d have an attack.

My eyes are glued to the television, and when the press conference is over, the baseball game resumes. “Do you think…,” I begin, my thoughts suddenly running rampant and my heart accelerating. “No…” I shake my head and take a swig straight from the bottle. “No, it can’t be.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Do you think she was undercover? I mean, it looks so much like her, could that…could she be June?” I plop down on the nearest chair.

Nick pulls the bottle of rum away from me and hands me a glass of water. I down it while staring off into space, replaying the press conference in my head and focusing on April White.

Who is apparently June Simpson.

It’s been a week since the press conference, and I’m obsessed with the notion that June might be April. I’ve Googled it and watched video of the press conference over and over again. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

April is June. And I can’t help but wonder if she was the reason we were arrested last year, which cost me my job with the law firm. The reason my dad’s rotting in prison. The reason we’re trying to save Panic. I down a shot of tequila and again start watching the video of the press conference. My mind wanders….

“I didn’t realize pharmaceutical reps worked so many hours. Is there a particular drug you push?”

“Uh…yeah, a type of blood pressure medication.”

“And you need to travel that much?”

“Yep. When new offices open, we have to go sell our product. Boring stuff.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “So, you must have a lot of downtime at Panic during the week.”

The change of subject is jarring, but she’s already told me how intrigued she is with Panic. “We have a lot of private events during the week.”

“Really? That’s cool. Anyone famous?”

“Sometimes. I don’t work those because I’m at the firm during the week, but I do review the contracts.”

“Really? Contracts? How formal.”

“Yeah, it’s a real business, with contracts and deposits and everything,” I tease, but she seems distracted.

Pharmaceutical rep? How could I have been so stupid? She used me. She disappeared because her case was over and I wasn’t needed anymore.

Discarded.

Abandoned.

Played.

I don’t completely understand, and I’m not sure if I can deal with the feeling of betrayal that is sitting heavily on my shoulders. And a ticking time bomb inside me has been lit.

My brother sent me home two days ago, after the press conference. I was hitting the bottle heavily, and he forbade me to come back to Panic until I was sober. He’s never seen me this way, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend everything is okay when it’s clearly not.

But fuck that. It’s my bar too, and I’m not drunk. I’m drinking, but I’m not drunk…I think, I tell myself as I crack open a beer.

Sitting at the bar with my back to the door, signing a stack of invoices, I hear the beep from the alarm, signaling that someone is coming inside. It’s eerily quiet at this time of day, since we don’t open until night. I set the pen down and look over my shoulder…and see the one face that I don’t want to see.

I turn around again, so that my back is to her, and bark out, “What the fuck are you doing here?” I can see her reflection clearly in the glass behind the bar.

Fidgeting in a pair of jeans and a loose flowery blouse, she has blond hair that falls right over her shoulders, and if it wasn’t for the blue eyes, I wouldn’t even know it’s her. Until she speaks. Because that fucking voice gets under my skin and into my bones every single fucking time. “You saw the press conference.”

I don’t even bother to reply.

“Can we talk?”

“So it is you, June.”

She looks down at her hands, and I swivel my chair back around in order to look at her, my elbows back and resting on the bar. If she’s going to stand here and lie, I want her to look me in the fucking eyes as she does so. Except she doesn’t answer and she doesn’t look up. And I realize one thing at that moment: I hate her.

“Saw the news,” I say, my voice gravelly and leaving no room for misunderstanding. I know she’s a liar, and now she knows that I know.

She looks up at me, and I remember why this is so hard. Those fucking eyes cut deep. Those sad blues pleading for me to understand make me feel as if someone is squeezing my heart. “Please, Matt. Let me explain.”

I swivel the chair back and continue to work, hoping she walks away. I don’t want to risk looking into the eyes of the person I once thought I loved but who instead betrayed me.

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me, Matt.” I can sense she’s a few inches away from me. I can smell her; that perfume she wears is ingrained into my very marrow. I shift a little to get away. “Matt, please.”

Downing back the rest of my beer, I toss the bottle toward the garbage can, making a loud clang in the otherwise quiet room.

“You played me. You fucking played me.”

“No, I didn’t.” She runs her fingers along the ridges on the edge of the bar top, back and forth, back and forth. I cock an eyebrow, waiting for her to spit out whatever the hell she wants to say.

“This is hard.”

“May, August, whatever the fuck your name is, just—”

“My name’s April,” she interrupts me, and then shakes her head. “April Marie White.”

I lean forward, my palms on the counter. “Say what you gotta say, then get the fuck out.”

“I’m a police officer—a detective. I’ve been working deep undercover for the last two years, since before I met you.”

Without even thinking, I pull out a bottle of tequila and a shot glass, fill it up, and gulp the liquid down. Then, because I’m angry, bitter, and fucking pissed off, I do something that I know will bother the hell out of her. Something that, I suppose, can get me arrested. Definitely something my brother would have a fucking coronary over if he saw me. I reach into my pocket, where I have a small baggie stashed. I dab two lines right on the table, roll up a dollar bill and snort coke in the middle of my club, in the middle of the day, in front of a police officer who I thought I loved but who I now fucking hate. And I explode. All the emotions I’ve been trying to hide through alcohol and drugs and a fake smile—they’re all pouring out of me, and she’s going to see it all.

“Oh my God, Matt! What are you doing?” she cries as I press my finger to the table and rub some of the excess against my teeth. “This isn’t you! Please don’t.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? This is me.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

“I couldn’t tell you who I was.”

“And you’re not a cop anymore? You gonna arrest me?” I challenge her. Daring her to fuck with me. I just want to hurt her as much as she hurt me.

“No, of course not. And yes, I am still a cop, but I’m not undercover anymore. I’m out. Closed the last case.”

I run my palm down my face. I can’t seem to process the words I’m hearing. I’m listening to it, but I can’t grasp it. Maybe it’s the drugs and the alcohol.

I pace back and forth. “You told me you were a pharmaceutical rep.”

“You told me you loved me,” she shoots back, sadness filling her face, but in her voice is the same feistiness I fell in love with. “You told me you’d chase me.”

“I did. But it wasn’t you. It was some lying bitch named June Simpson.”

“No.” She shakes her head, holding back tears. “It was me. I told you to remember that that was the real me. You promised you would. You promised.”

“When you said you were traveling to see clients? That was a lie,” I state, still pacing, my fists beginning to clench.

“Matt, I’m so—”

“No!” I stop abruptly on the other side of the room to point at her and yell. “No! Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t say anything. Just answer me. You lied?”

“It was my jo—”

I stalk over to her and get right up in her face. “Shut the fuck up.” She quiets and I see her lip quiver slightly. “You lied to me.”

She exhales slowly and looks down at her feet. “Yes.”

I move away from her because I’ve never been so mad. Not ever. Not when I was fired from the firm because of the “bad publicity” for being involved with Panic’s shit storm. Not even when Nick, my father, and I were arrested.

Fuck! I slap the side of my head. “You were an undercover cop here! You were the reason we were arrested.” I hear an unfamiliar noise come from my throat—a growl? “You fucked me for months in order to shit on us.” I can barely recognize my own voice. I can’t remember ever losing it like this. Not ever.

“No, Matt, that’s not—”

“You fucked up my entire life.” Once I start, I just can’t stop. All the worry from the last year, the heartache, the stress of Panic—everything morphs into anger in this one moment. “You used me to get info on my father. Now I have to work eighty-hour weeks because I need to save this fucking nightclub. I was fired—do you know how humiliating that was? And I can’t stand to look at my father’s face now. I’ve had to pretend everything has been okay for the last year in order for my entire goddamn world not to fall apart. My brother was a fucking mess for a long time. All because of you!” I slam my palms down, hard. “You had me and Nick arrested! Does that even register with you?”

She’s crying now. Full-blown tears. But this woman, she can act. So, fuck her and her fake tears. “I wasn’t the one who was selling drugs at Panic, Matt. That was all your father.”

“Yeah, but you were fucking me in order to get info on him. Makes you a whore, doesn’t it, Junebug?” I hiss, and she flinches. “Whores aren’t allowed in Panic anymore. You made sure of that when we were arrested. Prostitution was one of the charges, remember?” Suddenly I’m standing inches from her. “So, like I said, get the fuck out.”