Make Me Stay: The Panic Series

by Sidney Halston

  This was such a bad idea, I think as I slide out of bed. This time, it’s me who’s running away.

  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 shou
lder. 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?

  Matt

  If I’ve learned one thing, it’s to always knock before entering Nick’s office. If Katie is here, they are probably humping like bunnies on the couch. We had an awkward moment once and I do not want to relive it.

  I knock on his door extra hard, hoping he’s there—fully clothed—and not downstairs. I need to talk to him.

  “Come in.”

  I walk in. He is alone and fully dressed, thank God, and typing something on his computer.

  “What’s up?” he says without looking up.

  “April is in my office.”

  “Here? Oh, good. She could use a change of scenery.”

  “I was hoping this would help her remember.”

  “Okay.” He gives me a quizzical look. “Why do you look like you want to kill someone?”

  “It hasn’t. But it has helped me remember, though.”

  “Not following, brother.”

  “What’s there to follow? She’s a lying, deceitful bitch, Nick. She doesn’t even like martinis. Goddamn it, maybe she doesn’t even like olives. Olives, man! What the fuck!” I snarl, slamming my palms on his desk, causing his cup full of pens to tip over.

  “Okay…well, I didn’t know that olives were a deal breaker for you. Odd kink. I’m trying really hard not to judge here, Matt, but you’re going to have to give me more.” He points to the pens on the floor. “While you pick those up.”

  I bend down and shove all the pens back into the cup and slam it onto the desk. “Do you know how many dirty martinis I bought her? She said that was her favorite drink. It’s not. Just gave her one, and she gagged. She could not physically bring herself to have a second sip. The lies were deep, man. Fucking deep. How do I move on from that? She’s living in my fucking house. She asked me why I’m always a dick around her. We’re sleeping together every night.”

  “You’re sleeping together?”

  “Yeah, but as in actually just sleeping. She gets nightmares, and one thing led to another, and…” I wave my hand, dismissing the subject. It sounds crazy even to my own ears. “Whatever. That’s not the point.”

  “I think it is the point. You can’t dislike her that much if she’s sleeping in your bed. Why don’t you tell her the truth?”

  I slouch forward and throw myself down onto his couch. I think of those big blue eyes. She’s a fucking deer in the headlights. That’s all I can think of. A scared blue-eyed deer. If I tell her she’s a lying bitch, I’ll crush her. She’ll believe me, because she has no other recollection of anything, and then she’ll leave and be all alone. “Dean told me he’d kill me if I hurt her. She knows we dated and that she left me. But that’s about it.”

  “Funny, you never cared about threats before. You sure you’re being a decent guy because of Dean? Could it be because you still have feelings for this girl?”

  I snort. “She lied to me, stepped on my heart, and disappeared.”

  “Yet she’s living with you and you’re sleeping together.”

  “Fuck you very much. I see what you’re doing.”

  Nick leans forward. When he gets all serious, I swear I’m looking at myself in the mirror. A hairy version of myself.

  “Look, you can’t tell her anything. Not yet. It’s not right. I agree that she fucked you over. Hell, she fucked us all over. I should hate her too. But, for some reason, I don’t.”

  “That’s because your head’s in all the pussy you’re getting. You’re not focused on what’s important.”

  “No, brother, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m focused on my woman. That’s what’s important. Not hate. Hate consumes you. It’s not doing anything to make you feel better.” Nick sits back. “Once she starts to remember and is all healed and you want to unload, go ahead. But meanwhile, suck it up, buttercup, ’cause you’re stuc
k.”

  “I hate you sometimes.”

  “Love you too.” He swivels his chair around and throws a bottle of olives at me that I barely catch. “Just in case you want revenge…hide olives in her food.”

  I laugh, leaving the olives on his desk, and head back to my office.

  When I walk in, she is standing by the window looking out, and this time it’s me who has a case of déjà vu. Except this woman isn’t the confident raven-haired beauty I loved; this is the broken blonde. Her shoulders are slumped forward and her arms are wrapped around her body as if she’s holding herself together. I can see her shoulders shaking. When my door closes, she stands up straighter, and even though her back is to me, I can tell she’s wiping away tears. I never saw April cry. Not once. Not even when we stayed up late watching some tearjerker chick flick she wanted to watch and I almost cried.

  “Rum and coke,” I blurt out, and she turns around. Her eyes are puffy. “Let’s try rum and coke.” I walk to my bar and mix a drink. “Vodka tonic is next.”

  When I’m done, I hand it to her but she doesn’t move. “Try it. See if you like it. Let’s try to remember what it is that you like, okay? Let’s start over. I’m going to try to loosen up. Just give me some slack. I’m sorry about what just happened.”

  “What just happened, Matt?”

  “Nothing. I was being a dick,” I say, nudging the drink to her lips. “Yeah? Good?”

  “Not bad, but too sweet,” she says in that raspy voice, which is now a little deeper because of the crying.

  “Okay, try this.” I hand her the vodka tonic.

  She tastes it. “Oh.” Then she takes a second sip. “Better.”

  “Okay, so you don’t like too sweet, but not salty either.”