Chapter 5

We’re eating pie on my sofa after dinner. Her bare feet are tucked underneath her and she’s leaning into me. It feels so familiar and intimate, I forget what I’m saying.

“Matt? The new server, Stephanie? You were telling me about Nick’s reaction.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. My mind went elsewhere.” I tell her about Nick and how he’s being more ornery than usual. “And he doesn’t even realize that Naomi is strung out most of the time. He seems to think she’s just having a little fun.”

“And you’re sure she’s using drugs?” she asks, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Yeah, she’s definitely using something, and it’s not just alcohol. She’s tweaked out of her mind most of the time, you know what I mean?”

“Nope. Never done a single drug in my life. I can’t imagine feeling out of control. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would make me feel that way, you know?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” I’m in a difficult place now, because I don’t want lies to taint what we are starting to build. “Well, I feel like I should tell you something.” I take a deep breath. “The kind of lifestyle I live, being up most nights, that party environment, I drink too much sometimes, and sometimes I’ll…” I don’t even know how to say it. It feels so wrong all of a sudden, and I’m disgusted with myself.

“You’ll what?” She looks as if she’s braced for the worst possible news.

“I’ll…I have done some drugs.”

“Like when you were a stupid teenager?”

I groan out in frustration. “No, like recently. Recreationally. Some pot, some coke.”

She moves away to the other side of the couch. “Seriously?”

“But I haven’t since I met you. I haven’t felt the need or the desire. I’m not a drug addict or anything—I just need a little something sometimes to handle things.”

“Handle things?”

“Running Panic can be stressful, but handling my father and Nick is more so.”

“You always seem like nothing bothers you.”

“That’s always been the way I am. I joke, I make light of most situations, but it doesn’t mean things don’t bother me.”

“I bet you’re one of those people who never gets mad, but when you do…get out of the way, because you’re a nuclear bomb. Maybe talking it out and expressing your feelings is a better outlet.”

I think about that. How many times have I truly been mad? In court, when I have a son of a bitch as opposing counsel or a lying client or a dick judge, yeah, I get mad, but even then I always keep my cool and outsmart them by not letting things get to me, which seems to throw people off. But lately I’ve been feeling a little overwhelmed by the lack of sleep and the days that turn into weeks without a single break. In the past, when I’ve felt this way, that’s when I drink too much or take a hit of coke. Maybe June’s right.

“Matt, I can’t be with someone who does drugs.”

“I don’t,” I quickly say, and then amend, “I won’t. I promise. I don’t even want to. Lately you’ve taken over most of my thoughts. It really hasn’t crossed my mind.”

“How do you even get it? The drugs, I mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Girls’ll slip it to me, or there’s a guy I know…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’ll tell me if you start again? I—I just—it’s not something I want around me.”

“I will. But I won’t, okay? I just wanted to tell you. I don’t want to start things out with you on a lie.” I feel gross and like the lowest form of human. This woman doesn’t deserve to be around a guy who copes with his feeling by snorting or drinking.

There’s a noticeable tic from her when I say that, and her body is wound tight. I’m not sure whether she’s having second thoughts about me or if it’s something else. “Get back over here.” I pull her back to the crook of my arm, where she was sitting until just a few moments ago.

“Okay. I trust you. Tell me about your dad,” she says, and it’s a very welcome subject change.

“Dad? Well, he’s on a cruise right now. With some chick named Misty who is less than half his age. Cheated on my mom when we were younger, probably screwed most of the women who set foot in Panic in the eighties and most of the nineties.”

“But he must’ve been a good businessman if he was able to make Panic so successful.”

“Yeah, he was. Well, he is,” I say, thinking back on it, my fingers running through her hair. “He’s smart. Savvy. Cutthroat. He knows what he likes and won’t settle for anything else. That’s how he’s always been. But he’s stuck in his old ways, and what worked for him fifteen years ago doesn’t necessarily work anymore. The club’s doing great, but it could do better. Like, all that gaudy gold and filigree decor? People still come to Panic because of its name, because of who they may run into, because it’s iconic. But compared to the upscale nightclubs in town—Mansion, Club Eleven—this place needs a major overhaul. Major.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen some pretty crazy things going down, huh?”

“Bar brawls, hookers, drugs…yeah, the usual.”

“Scandalous! My life is so dull. I want to hear more.”

My eyes are getting heavy; we’ve been sitting here talking for the last two hours and we’ve gone through two bottles of wine. “What do you want to know, sweetheart?” I ask, shifting so she’s pressed against my side, her head on my shoulder. She’s playing with the buttons on my shirt and I’m touching her hair.

“I like when you call me that,” she admits, and I kiss the top of her head.

“I like that you’re here.” I kiss her again. “Stay the night. I won’t try anything, I promise. But I like you here, with me.”

“Matt…” she begins, but a yawn escapes her.

“Please, Junebug. Stay. I make a killer breakfast.”

She yawns again. “Okay, but will you tell me more about growing up at Panic?”

I nod and start to talk, eventually dozing off.

I roll over, uncomfortably, and—

Thump.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelp as I go crashing down onto the tile floor. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. The sun is just starting to shine through the windows—I didn’t close the shades last night. I’m still dressed and I’m on—or was on—the couch.

I rub my face as I stand up and stretch. “June?” I yell out. “Yo, Junebug…”

I know she’s gone, and not just because no one is answering me back, but because my gut tells me she ran. She’s a runner. I already knew that about her, knew it from the first moment we met. When things get too serious, too intense, she splits.

I’m momentarily irritated, but I let it go because I know she likes me just as much as I like her. She’s been back to the club three times, and she came here last night. I haven’t had to chase her, so I’m hopeful she’ll be back. Still, she’s holding out for some reason, and I want to get to the bottom of it.

After my morning routine, I make myself a big breakfast—ham and cheese omelet, bacon, and waffles. Before I dig in, I send her a text. It’s a photo of me with a mouthful of food, holding the plate in my hand. The caption reads, You’re missing out, Junebug.

Twenty minutes later, I send her a photo of my empty plate with me pouting right next to it. Look what you did—you made me eat two servings.

A minute later she finally texts back. Looked more like three servings.

Then another text: I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.

Wanna make it up to me?

Sounds ominous.

You know it.

Before she has a chance to write back, I add, Your feet must be hurting from all that running away you do. Then I continue, When can I see you again?

Again? Jeez, haven’t you had enough? She adds a smiling-face emoji.

Enough? We haven’t even started, woman.

I see the three dots appear and then disappear over and over, as if she’s deciding what to say. I’m practically holding my breath. Finally, an eternity later, she answers, and I literally pump a fist in the air. Dinner at my apartment tomorrow?

It’s Sunday night and it’s pouring outside when I press the button from the entrance of June’s apartment building so that she can let me in. The door clicks open with a buzz and I walk up the flight of stairs to her apartment.

“Oh God. You came on your bike, didn’t you?” she says when she opens the door, her mouth a little pout full of concern, but also a little humor. “Matt, you’re soaking wet.” My shirt is sticking to me and water is dripping down my lashes. But I don’t give a shit. This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught in a flash downpour. It’s Miami. It’s summer.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” I chuckle. “Wait! How’d you know I have a motorcycle?”

“You told me,” she says quickly.

I did? I don’t remember that. But who knows what I said—I’m too preoccupied with her to know what the hell came out of my mouth. “Ahhh, you’re getting me all wet.”

“Oh, really?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Can I see how wet I’m making you, exactly?” I kiss her, and even though I’m teasing her, there’s a current of desire in my tone. “I’ll wait for you as long as you want, June. No pressure. But you gotta know, I want you so bad. So fucking bad. And it isn’t just because I’m horny. Even though I am,” I admit, smiling against her cheek. “But because I can’t seem to get close enough to you.”

She is hesitant for far too long. She turns around, pacing a little, warring with herself. I feel as if I know her, but also like she’s the most mysterious woman I’ve ever met. A fucking conundrum is what she is. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t sleep with men casually.”

“I’m not asking for a one-night stand, June. Hell, I’m not even asking for sex. I just want to be with you. Touch you. Keep you.”

Her eyebrows draw together, and the anxiety rolls off her in waves. “Keep me? Oh God, this is bad. So bad.” She is walking back and forth, talking to herself.

“Bad? Am I missing something here?”

“You don’t even know me, Matt.”

“I think I do.”

“No,” she says with a laugh that contains no humor. “You don’t.”

“Well, that’s what dating is all about, right? You get to know me, although I feel like you do already. I’ll get to know you better, and nothing that I find out will make me like you less.”

“You don’t know that.”

She keeps pacing, and I step behind her, putting my palm on her shoulder to keep her still. “I like you, June. I know it’s new, but I like how I feel when I’m with you. How you make me laugh. How sexy you are. How you’re so different from every woman I’ve ever met. So don’t try to end this before we even get started.” I slide my hands up her arms past her shoulders to her face and give her a soft, tender kiss, which makes her shoulders relax a little. I coax her lips open and slide my tongue inside her mouth languidly, taking my time to taste her, giving her what should have been a proper first kiss. Not the intense, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you mauling of our initial kiss. Slowly she sags against me, her hands moving up and locking behind my neck.

“How can things not be good between us when this feels so good?” I ask between kisses, caressing her cheekbones with my thumbs.

“Yes,” she says on a breath. “Yes, you’re right.”

I stop, shocked. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeats. “I want you too.”

“You sure?” I ask one last time.

“I’m sure,” she says, but then adds, “But you have to promise me one thing. Promise me, Matt.”

“Anything.”

“Remember this moment.”

That sounds ominous, and my brow furrows. “Just…” She lets out a breath. “Whatever happens, remember this. This is me and you. This is real.”

“Okay…”

“I’m serious,” she says anxiously. “Okay? This is me.”

“Me and you.”

“Me and you, okay?” She sounds almost desperate for me to understand.

“Okay.” I’m done talking in circles. She is obviously conflicted for some reason that she’s clearly not willing to share. It’s new, this thing between us. I’m willing to give her time to open up. Not everyone talks everything out. Not everyone is open and forthcoming. She needs to get to know me, trust me, and eventually whatever she’s thinking about will work itself out, or at least she’ll share it with me.

Maybe if I show her how I feel, how I’m worthy of her trust, she’ll feel more at ease. I turn her around so her back is pressed to my front. The short casual dress she’s wearing hangs loose on her body.

I run my nose along the back of her neck and then place a small kiss on her favorite spot, and a shiver erupts through her body. Sliding my palms up her arms, I reach her shoulders and worm my fingers underneath the straps of her dress and move them down, leaving trails of kisses along the way. As the straps slide down her arms, the dress begins to go with it, pooling around her hips. But I don’t stop kissing her to look at her almost naked body in the reflection in the window right in front of her; no, I just continue the seduction, listening for her little whimpers and moans as cues, learning what she likes and what she loves. “Can I keep going?” My voice is thick with want, and I hold my breath waiting for her answer, which comes in the form of her head falling back against my shoulder, her eyes shutting, and her tight little ass pressing against my straining cock.

I want to touch her, smell her, taste her. I’ve never wanted a woman this much. I want to get so close to her that we’re fused together. My jean-clad cock aches. She’s so fucking sexy and she absolutely knows it. I call bullshit on her not knowing what those dresses do for her body and to my dick. I slide my hand under her dress, which is now sitting on her hip, until I feel the scrap of lace. Her body arches, pushing my hand down—intentional or not, I’m not sure, and I don’t care. I can feel her heat from right where my hand hovers. The sight of her body against mine, that beautiful hourglass shape as my hand inches lower—I almost come in my pants.

My lips linger right on the small area behind her ear that makes her wild. “Gonna fuck you with my fingers,” I tell her, but she doesn’t say anything.

She’s lost. Lust has taken over. I could have her any way I want right now and she wouldn’t deny me.

“I want words. Say the words, June.” I cup her pussy, and she moans my name. “That a yes?” I move my left hand up to grab her lace-covered breast. Now I do watch her reflection, and I don’t know what’s hotter, touching her or watching her lost in my touch. “Look at you. Fuck, you’re hot.” I grab her a little harder. Rougher. “Open your eyes and look at yourself,” I demand.

I slide one finger into her pussy lips and rub back and forth, paying special attention to her swollen clit. Her entire body vibrates around me, and I have to hold her tighter against my body so she won’t fall.

I’m mesmerized by the sight: my chin on her shoulder, one hand gripping her tit, the other inside her cunt, her ass pushing against my cock, her head thrown back against me. It’s fucking magnificent, and I can’t look away.

I pinch her clit, and she yells out.

“Think of my teeth right here. It’ll hurt, but in a good way.” I pinch her clit again. She’s so wet that I easily slide three fingers inside of her, and she pushes down. “Ride my fingers, June.”

“No. Not June. Call me something else.” It’s the only thing she says, and I’m not sure why, but I don’t care. I’ll call her whatever the fuck she wants so long as she comes all wet and hard on my cock later this evening.

“Ride me, baby,” I urge, pushing and pumping harder. I rip one bra cup down, tug on her nipple. “I want to lick here.”

“Do it,” she hisses through gritted teeth. I spin her around roughly and slam my mouth on her, walking her back as she tugs my shirt off, losing contact for just a brief moment. Then she undoes my belt and jeans and together we push them down.

I lift her up by her ass, her back pressed against the window and her legs wrapped around me. I take her nipple into my mouth and suck hard. “Ahh!” she yells as I grip her ass harder. “I’m clean. On the pill. You?”

“Clean. Just got checked.” Thank God for Nick and his obsessive organizational skills. We recently got life insurance and had to get a slew of tests done, and I haven’t been with anyone since.

She’s holding on to me with her legs and arms, and I have my cock in my hand, guiding it right to her entrance. Before I pump inside of her, I slide it up and down, wetting it with her juices, and right over her puckered asshole. “Anyone ever fuck you here, baby?”

“No,” she moans in that sexy voice that reverberates right to my dick.

“Next time, it’s mine,” I groan as I slide inside her pussy. “Today I want your slippery little cunt, woman.”

“Matt!”

I love that she’s loud, uninhibited, and lost in the moment. She’s wrapped completely around me. I have one arm against the wall and the other around her back holding her to me as I move in and out in a frenzied need to get us both there. It’s been too long, and the way she’s reacting, her tight grip around my cock—it’s been too long for her too. “Get there!” I demand through gritted teeth. “Get there, woman,” I say one last time as my orgasm hits me hard and fast. Her tightness becomes a vise on my cock, and I know she’s there too.

With my pants around my ankles, I carefully waddle us to her couch and set us both down as I try to catch my breath.

“Matty bear, Matty bear, Matty bear, you are definitely not soft anywhere.”

“Was that a poem? You wrote me an after-sex poem?” I joke, kissing the top of her head with a chuckle. “Sex with me will do that to you, no worries. Next time you may be writing music or solving complex physics problems. I’m mind-blowing that way.”

She playfully slaps my chest. “You’re crazy is what you are.”

We’re lazy for the next half hour, her on top of me, me sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging off. I hear her stomach growl. “So, what’s for dinner?”

She groans into my chest. “I was going to order a pizza.”

“I see you planned.”

“I had a plan. I was going to woo you with the best pizza in all of Miami.”

“Sure you were.”

“Whatever, man. I didn’t hear you complaining a few minutes ago.” She playfully slaps my shoulder.

I put my hands out in defense. “Oh, I’m not. Not at all. I’ll take pussy with a side of pizza anytime.”

“Where do you come up with these things?” she snorts, and reaches around me for her phone, which is lying on the floor. “Everything? Extra bacon?”

“Healthy,” I say with a laugh, but nod. She dials the pizza place and places the order, all while still lying on top of me, naked. I’ve never felt so comfortable or so happy after sex. I mean, obviously, sex makes me happy, but usually I either fall asleep or start looking around for my clothes so I can get dressed and leave. Lazing around after sex—this is a first for me.

The rest of the evening is spent eating pizza naked in her apartment and laughing at stories from the club. She is fascinated with everything that has to do with Panic and she’s an active listener, which I love. When it starts to get late, I take her hand and lead her to her bedroom—there’s no question that I’m staying over. I make sure the doors are locked and the lights are off before I slide into bed with her. We’re facing each other, her hands tucked under her head, much like I am. “Did you just move to this apartment?”

“No. Why?”

I shrug. “Just kind of bare, is all.” Normally women like to decorate and have a ton of knickknacks, but her apartment is pretty plain, only the necessities.

“Oh…uh, I haven’t had a chance to decorate.”

That makes sense. She’s been traveling a lot—when would she have a chance to decorate? Quickly she changes the subject and asks about law school, and she sounds surprised I graduated at the top of my class. “You’re so silly most of the time. It’s hard to see you as a brainiac.”

“You can be silly and smart. Should I be insulted you thought I was dumb?” I say with a smile, my lids starting to feel heavy.

“I didn’t say dumb. I know you’re smart, obviously. Just…you don’t look like an attorney.”

I get that a lot, actually.

“My dad basically forced me. Nick got an MBA and I went to law school. He said he’d rather see Panic close down than leave it to his two uneducated sons. If we didn’t graduate, he wouldn’t let us work there or get an inheritance. So we went to school and I became a lawyer.”

“Why didn’t you go work at Panic after that?”

“Partly because I was actually good at being an attorney and partly as a big fuck-you to my dad. He forced my hand, making me do something I didn’t want to do, so I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of helping him with the club. I was being a little shit, I admit it. I’d been away from Panic for six years between law school and then work, and I missed it. Working at a desk job, even though I’m a good lawyer…sometimes I’m not sure whether it’s for me.”

“I can’t picture you sitting behind a desk all day,” she said, patting my bobbing leg, which makes me stop moving. “Do you drive everyone crazy standing up, sitting, fidgeting, tapping?”

“Maybe you can help me burn some of that energy off. I have a lot of ideas on that, by the way.”

She laughs again and I tuck some hair behind her ear. I like to see all of her face. I don’t want anything covered. For some reason, even though we’re not touching and we’re both under the covers, this position, her this close to me, just looking at each other, talking, opening up, getting to know each other…it feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever done with anyone else, and I wonder if she feels it too.

I ask her about her job as a pharm rep, but she changes the subject, saying it’s boring and she doesn’t like talking about it.

“I doubt anything about you is boring, but fine.” Everything about her is fascinating; one moment she’s pouring a drink on a stranger who could’ve easily hurt her, and the next she’s nervous about going on a date with me. “So, tell me some more about your father.”

“On a routine traffic stop, the guy pulled out a gun and shot him. Not much more to tell than that. It was senseless. I was so little, I don’t remember much about it. But I have a bunch of his awards and badges, and a ton of pictures. He loved being a police officer, or so I was told. My grandmother took me in after that, but she was very old, and she died when I was still young.”

“And then you went to foster care?”

“Yep. That started a string of homes. They weren’t all bad, and I was a good kid, kept my head down and stayed out of trouble.”

We sit like this, talking for hours, and I don’t know which one of the two of us falls asleep first, but the last thing I remember are those crystal-clear blue eyes looking softly at me as if there’s something she wants to tell me.