“It’s his day off, and VIP isn’t empty, Dad. There’s one empty table, which I’m sure will be full within the hour. It’s still early.”
“I never took a single day off in thirty years.”
“And now you look like you’re eighty-eight instead of just eighty.”
“Fuck you,” he counters with a mischievous smile and thick accent, drinking more of the amber liquid. “Gotta live life, boy. Fun and money, Matty. Fun and money.”
That’s what my dad taught us. Make money—a lot of it. And have fun—a lot of it. He cheated on my mother when we were younger, and it never seemed to bother him that she left him. Fucked most of the staff and half the clientele—how many times had I seen a movie star walking out of his office adjusting her shirt, wiping her mouth? That was why Nick implemented the no-fucking-the-staff rule. To my father’s credit, he wasn’t in our face about it—he still kept some sort of fatherly decorum. But Victor Moreno definitely acquired a reputation.
My parents’ divorce took a big toll on my mother and my older sister. We never talk about it. Talking about our feelings is just not something Moreno men do. And me? I’m the most closed off of all, slapping a smile on my face and minding my own business.
“How you doing, Dad?” I ask as I take him in—his thick gold chain with a San Lazaro medallion visible at his neck from the unbuttoned collar of his crisp blue shirt, a thick gold ring with diamonds on his right hand and another gold monstrosity on the left. His look is gaudy, his accent is heavy, never having improved through the years, and his full head of white hair is slicked back.
“Great. Never been better, Matty boy. Leaving on a cruise next week.”
“Good. You need some rest.”
“Rest?” He laughs. “I’m taking Misty with me. Hopefully there won’t be any rest.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “Misty? Really, old man? I think she’s younger than me. I hope you’re taking a huge supply of Viagra.”
“She’s thirty-one. A few years younger.” He taps his chest. “Keeps me young. Good for the heart. Moreno men don’t need Viagra, son.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
As I’m pouring myself a scotch, Nick walks in. “Do you people ever work?” he jokes, taking the drink from my hand and downing it in one shot. I shake my head and pour another one for myself, then take the seat next to Nick.
“I thought you were off today,” I say to my brother.
“I am. Wanted to check in on things.”
I’m not the kind of person who gets easily upset. Actually, let me retract that. I’m not the kind of person who lets people know they’ve upset me. Even when my parents divorced and my mother fell into a deep depression, I was the one who smiled and did my best to keep things light. I have my emotions on lockdown, and most people who know me would say I’m the happy-go-lucky twin with a don’t-give-a-shit attitude. This is partly true. I try not to get frazzled, and I tend to let things go. When I can’t, I plant a smile on my face and pretend I’m okay. But the way Nick’s been lately is starting to piss me off. “Why ask me to come and help if you’re up my ass all the time?”
“I didn’t ask you to come back home and help.”
“Stop arguing,” Dad snaps. “I asked him because you need help. Can’t do it alone, son.” He levels his gaze at Nick. “I don’t pay you two to sit around and drink all night. Go do some work, will ya?”
“I was just down there, old man. Calm your fucking tits.” I finish my drink, pat Nick’s shoulder, and walk back out toward the pounding music, hoping to see June again. I also wonder why Nick is here instead of at home with his crazy-ass girlfriend, Naomi.
At the bar, I have no time to think. I start mixing drinks as orders are immediately shouted at me. Still, I can’t help glancing over to the entrance of the club every ten minutes, hoping to see June walk in. It’s been a week, but a man can hope. I’ve never been so affected by someone before, and I regret not getting her number.
I’m itching for a hit of coke tonight to take some of the edge off, but I decide against it. I don’t want to fall into a habit. As I’m thinking this, I see Naomi, of all people, dancing wildly up on the stage. So this is why Nick’s here—keeping an eye on his girlfriend, who likes to party more than any other woman I know. Toro is trying to pry her off the stage, but she’s being belligerent, it seems. As I jog over to the stage I take my phone out and text Nick to come control his girlfriend.
“Naomi, Nick know you’re here? Come on down.” I try to nudge her, but her eyes are closed, her arms up and swinging side to side in tempo with the music.
“Jesus, this woman is going to kill me,” I hear Nick say as he takes in the scene. “Damn it, Naomi. Get down from there,” he yells up at her.
She looks down and seductively dances over to him. He’s somewhere between utterly pissed and smitten, mostly because the show seems to be for him, even though she’s completely blasted and there’s a group of men hollering at her. But that’s the thing with Naomi. She loves attention. This spectacle shouldn’t be a surprise, being that Nick met her at Panic doing pretty much the same thing she’s doing now.
As I watch the show I wonder how the hell my uptight brother ended up with a woman like Naomi. His total opposite. Probably because of Nick’s need to take care of everyone. He’s like those old ladies who spend their time picking up stray cats—but in this case it’s damaged women and my aging father. As I watch Toro and Nick try to coerce Naomi down, I catch a scent I’ve smelled before, and there’s a glimpse of black hair whipping by.
I whirl around and see June walking by, glancing up at Naomi, who’s still gyrating on the stage. This time June’s alone and in a tight white dress that looks painted on her lean body. The woman has a fucking fantastic rack, well-defined arms, and a thick ass—fuck, that ass is making my dick stand to attention. I know women don’t like their asses referred to as fat, but I’m a sucker for a fit woman with an ass like June’s. I’ve never particularly been a fan of short hair, but the way her hair stops right under her chin, making her neck look long and regal—suddenly I don’t know how I ever thought short hair wasn’t sexy. She hasn’t seen me yet, so I begin moving toward her, but just at that moment she’s swallowed up by the hundreds of people packed tightly together dancing. Damn it.
Bodies are moving in time with the music and the strobing lights make it hard to see, so I jump onto a cordoned-off speaker to see if I can find her. Panic is huge, with two levels and several VIP areas, as well as two enormous bars and three separate dancing areas. I look around until I find the black hair and white dress—which is practically see-through because of the lights—near the bar at the opposite end of the club. Hopping off the speaker, I jog over to her, ignoring the various regulars who try to get my attention. From the corner of my eye I see Nick arguing with Naomi as she hugs him and kisses him, oblivious to where they are.
I tap June’s right shoulder, but when she turns, I whisper over her other shoulder, “You came back.” She startles and turns around the other way to face me.
“Hi,” I say. Her face changes from surprised to a wide smile, and I can’t help it when my face breaks into a stupid grin.
“Hi,” she says back.
That voice.
I signal to Tommy, who’s working the bar tonight. “Olive juice with a little vodka.” He looks at me quizzically. “Extra-dirty martini for the lady.”
June chortles loudly. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget?” I look around. “You alone tonight?”
“Yep,” she replies as Tommy slides the drink toward her.
“It’s my experience that women don’t normally come to nightclubs alone. So, I’m thinking you came back to see me.”
“Arrogant.”
“Hopeful.”
“You going to make me stay? Whatcha got for me tonight?” she teases playfully.
I boldly take her hand. “Come on.” She resists for the briefest of moments, then follows me as I pull he
r through the club to a quiet—well, quieter—area.
“Where’s your line?”
“I’m making you stay. Not asking. Making you.” I wink.
One of the bouncers lifts the velvet rope to let us by, and I lead her to a small table. She’s shaking her head. “I keep sneaking off with you. It’s becoming a habit. I’m still not convinced you’re not some crazy sociopath.”
“You’re making me crazy, if I’m being honest. But I’m not a sociopath. I just wanted to go somewhere more private.” I lean closer to her so she can hear me over the noise.
I can see the outline of her thong and bra, and this strange, uncontrollable, and unfamiliar surge of jealousy rises when I see other men staring at her ass too.
She slides into the booth, and I slide in next to her instead of across from her.
I signal for Stella, one of the servers in this area, for my usual drink.
“I don’t normally take off with strangers,” she tells me.
“This is the second time. Are you sure about that?”
“Last time you and your big bouncer guy dragged me off. This is the first time I came willingly.”
“I don’t want to seem desperate or anything, but I would’ve thrown you over my shoulder and brought you here again tonight. Anything to be alone with you.”
“Yep, definitely a sociopath.”
“Nah, just not blind. You are gorgeous, you know?”
She smiles widely. “Does that line work for you?”
“It’s not a line.” It’s not. Not this time. The woman is breathtaking.
“In a dark corner again,” she muses, bringing the drink to her lips. “Not my smartest move.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” I reply, admiring her outfit. “I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist, though.”
Her head tilts to the side and her brows draw together. “You don’t know me well enough to make that claim. But I’m not. Why would you say that?”
“Well, I can see that you’re wearing a thong.” Then I lean in. “I can tell that your nude-colored bra is lacy and your nipples are pink. If I look down, I can probably see whether your black hair is natural…everywhere.”
Her mouth is open wide and I’m thinking she’s either going to pour her drink over my head, punch me in the balls, or cover her tits. She does none of those things. “How did you know all that?” she demands.
“With the strobe lights, your dress is basically transparent.”
“What?” Her shriek is so loud I can hear it clearly over the music.
“Like you didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Of course I didn’t do it on purpose!” she exclaims incredulously. Even in the dim light I can see her face redden with embarrassment. “Oh my God, so people can see everything?”
“Pretty much. Well, probably only inside the club, because of the lights.”
“Oh my God. Oh. My. God.” She starts to cross her arms, covering her breasts even though where we are sitting the lights are less harsh and the dress less see-through.
Before she has a chance to completely lose it, I take out my phone and send a text. “Relax. I’ll get you something so you don’t have to give everyone a show on your way out.”
“You mean another show.” She grimaces.
“If it makes you feel better, you’ve got a great body. If anyone should feel comfortable walking around naked…”
“Shut up.” She playfully shoves my shoulder, then crosses her arms over her chest to cover herself up.
“So, Junebug, you came back. Why?”
“It’s a great place. Good music.” As she’s talking, a server comes with one of the suit jackets that I keep in my office, and hands it to me. I, in turn, hand it to June.
“So tell me all about yourself, June.”
“That’s a very open-ended question,” she says, sliding her arms into my jacket. “Thank you for this, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” I say as I help her. “Open-ended questions are what you ask on dates, aren’t they?”
She throws her head back and laughs. It makes me want to lean in and lick her long, slender neck.
“We are not on a date.”
“We’re not?” I pretend to be crestfallen. I look around and then back at her. “We’re having drinks. At night. I’m paying. Is it the food thing? You’re missing food? That’s why it’s not a date?” I take out my phone and pretend to dial. “I can order a pizza.”
She laughs again and pushes the phone down. “I have a feeling you really would make a poor delivery person come in here with a pizza.”
“Of course I would, if that would make you more comfortable.”
“It’s not the food, crazy man. It’s the fact that I don’t know you.”
“Isn’t that why people date? Let’s get to know each other.” I sit back, draping one arm along the top of the booth seat, a tumbler with scotch in my other hand. “Hi. I’m Matt Moreno. I’m an attorney during the week, and I own Panic along with my twin brother, Nick Moreno, and my father Victor Moreno. I come and help out on weekends. I was born and raised here in Miami. I’m thirty-three years old. Single. I love women with short black hair. Specifically when they’re exhibitionists,” I say with a wink, and she rolls her eyes as she gives me a big grin. “I’m fucking terrified of sharks but I love swimming, and Cuban food reminds me of my grandmother, so I try to eat it at least once a week. I don’t like olives. And I hate liars. Your turn.”
“Jeez.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her drink. I notice that it’s almost empty, so I signal for another drink from Stella. “Okay, my name is June Simpson, I’m thirty-one years old. I’m a pharmaceutical rep, which means that I travel a lot. I was born in Chicago and moved to Los Angeles to live with my paternal grandmother when I was three, after my father died. I lived there most of my life. Moved down to Miami a month ago for work. Still trying to get used to the fast Spanish, the heat, and the beautiful people. I don’t have many friends in town except for my work friend, Dean. I’m also single and I love sushi and I have absolutely no fear of sharks.”
“How the fuck aren’t you afraid of sharks?”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. I’m probably scared of sharks, but I’ve never come across one, so I’m not really sure if I am or not. Not that I want to come into contact with a shark. But that’s a weird fear, Matt.” She laughs.
I chuckle at the absurdity of the conversation, and I also realize it’s the first time my name has crossed her lips. “Well, they’re vicious sea creatures. Haven’t you seen Jaws?”
She’s laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
“Speaking of crazy, tell me the truth—you came back for me, didn’t you?”
“Why am I starting to think I’m sitting in front of a shark? You are too arrogant for your own good, Mr. Moreno.”
“I’m no shark. I just know what I want and I’m not afraid to go after it, is all.” I pause as the tempo of the music changes to something a little slower. “Dance with me, Junebug.”
She looks down at herself and then back up. “Not in the mood to give the entire club a peep show.” Then she adds, “Maybe if there was a more secluded area…”
“It’s dark here. No one can see that you’re practically naked.”
With a giggle she shoves my shoulder. “Stop saying that.”
“Well, I have a completely private area, if you don’t mind coming upstairs with me to my office,” I say, sliding out of the booth and holding out my hand, knowing that it sounds just as nefarious as I’m intending it to sound. I’d love to be alone with this woman if she lets me.
“Just dancing, right?”
“Of course just dancing, I will not have you take advantage of me in my own club on our first date.” I let out a huff and roll my eyes, and again she’s laughing—genuinely laughing. I don’t remember the last time I had so much fun just talking to a woman. “I’m a gentleman.”
She reaches for my hand, and I help her out of the b
ooth. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
Once on her feet, she adjusts her dress and closes the buttons on my suit jacket, which swallows her up. I can’t help but like the way she looks wearing my clothes. I take her small hand in my larger one and lead the way. I lean in close to her ear, and just like last week, I see goosebumps rise on her skin. “You’re right, I’m no gentleman.”
“Try to control yourself. We just met,” she admonishes me.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I say, winding around the VIP area and back to another set of elevators. Even though we haven’t remodeled because my father likes the retro vibe, the club has all state-of-the-art equipment, including security. I swipe my finger against the sensor, which recognizes my fingerprint, and the elevator door opens. “Cool!” she says, following me inside. “So what if you have a broken hand or something? Then you can’t open anything around here, huh?”
“I have a key.” Then I hold up my other hand. “And a second hand.”
“Well, you could break both hands.”
“Seems like a stretch. And why would my fingerprints be broken too? And if I have two broken hands and ten broken fingers I won’t be able to use the key, either. This is a weird conversation.”
After I swipe my finger across the pad that opens the doors that lead to the offices upstairs, she gasps. “Wow.” I’ve forgotten how impressive it is to see the photos of all the celebrities lining the walls.
“Yeah, that’s my dad in most of them.”
“And these?” she asks, motioning to some paintings.
“My dad likes art. That’s a Picasso, I think. Not really much into art myself.”
“I love art. Is this the only one he has? I’d love to see more. Oh wow, is this a Monet?” I like how she knows about art. Not because I know anything about it, but I like that it shows some depth, something that’s been lacking in the women I’ve been seeing lately.
“I think so, yes. And there’s another Picasso in his office.”
“Are these originals?” She’s mesmerized. “I’ve never been this close to a real piece of art like this before. I can just imagine the cost of these. Wow.”
Make Me Stay: The Panic Series Page 3
