June First

Brant, age 25

She’s on my mind as I accidentally bump into Sydney, nearly spilling my Long Island.

“You okay?” Sydney wonders, arching a worried eyebrow in my direction. “I’m supposed to be the flighty one here.”

I regroup quickly. “I’m good.” Reaching for a top shelf bottle of liquor, I twirl it into the air and catch it with ease, just to prove how “good” I am.

She narrows her eyes, jabbing me in the chest with her long fingernail. “Nice try. I’m the master of the smokeshow—you can’t fool me.”

This time I’m the one raising an eyebrow. “You’re the master at being attractive?”

“Wha?”

Sydney’s sister, Clementine, is perched on one of the bar stools, slurping on a daiquiri and nearly choking at the look on Sydney’s face. We both start laughing.

Sydney blinks rapidly, her eyes flaring with bewilderment. “What? What did I say?”

“Smokescreen,” I correct her, still chuckling as I toss some olives into a martini glass. Clem drops her head to her arms as her shoulders shake with laughter, her blue-streaked hair bouncing. “You’re right, though, I did need the laugh.”

“Wow, I’m a fucking idiot,” Sydney says, smacking the underside of her palm to her forehead. “Sorry. I have a boy on the brain. It’s a legitimate impairment, you know… very serious.”

“Oliveritus,” Clem perks up, snickering under her breath. “Maybe Brant will grant you medical leave so you can take some time off to recover. I think we both know where you can find the cure.”

“You, shush. I’m charging you double for that daiquiri.”

“Brant said it was on the house,” Clem sniffs.

Sydney glares at me. “Traitor.”

My cheeks fill with air as I blow out a breath, accepting a generous tip from a middle-aged couple as I move down the bar to service the next customer. I needed the distraction tonight. After five days of highly emotional, mind-blowing sex with June, where we skirt around the difficult logistics of our predicament, I’m feeling tapped out and run down.

Every morning this week, I’ve woken up with my arms full of June.

My heart full of June.

And two of those mornings, my body full of June when she decided to wake me up by sliding between my legs and wrapping her mouth around my cock.

It’s impossible to be strong in those moments.

Then again—I’m not sure if I even grasp the definition of that word anymore.

What is strength when it comes to us?

Is strength in fighting for this fucked-up, taboo relationship that absolutely nobody will embrace, let alone accept, that will force us to lurk in the shadows for the rest of our lives?

Or is strength in letting June go, because I know—I know—she’s meant for so much more than a shadowed existence?

She’s meant to fly free. She’s meant to burn bright.

She’s meant to outshine every shadow.

Strength, by definition, is overcoming that hard thing… but what happens when every avenue is equally, painfully hard?

It’s a mess.

It’s a mess I’m determined to dig myself deeper into because every time she looks at me with those hopeful blue eyes, and every time she whispers words of adoration into my ear when I’m inside of her, nothing else seems to matter.

I don’t care about being strong or brave or righteous.

All I care about is loving her.

Lost in my wayward thoughts again, I don’t even notice a familiar figure gliding up to the bar, sitting right in front of me. He smacks a singular penny and a five-dollar bill onto the counter. “Penny for your thoughts, and a five for whatever you’ve got on special tonight.”

Startled, I glance up.

Kip.

He takes a seat beside Clem, watching me with a friendly smile. I smile back. “Jägerbombs,” I inform him.

“Ouch. Pass.” He cringes, then says, “These better be some damn good thoughts, then.”

Clem does a double-take as she sips delicately on her beverage, her eyes scanning the man next to her, their shoulders grazing as he resituates on the stool.

Kip glances at her, folding his hands atop the bar counter. His smile stretches. “I like your hair.”

She falters as she instinctively fiddles with a piece of bright blue hair, then takes a generous final slurp through the thin straw. Swallowing, she pulls back from the empty glass and gives him another onceover. “I like your… face.”

Her eyes widen with mortification.

“Wow,” Sydney chimes in, eavesdropping, as she sweeps a rag down the counter. “You just out-lamed me, Sis. Super impressive.”

Clem blushes, pushing away from the bar and snatching her purse. “That’s my cue,” she flusters, shooting me a quick smile. “Thanks for the drink, Brant.”

“You got it.”

“Nice meeting you,” Kip grins at her, hands still folded in front of him.

“Oh, right… you, too,” Clem gulps. “Thanks for the…” She trails off.

Kip circles a finger around his face. “Any time.”

I can’t help but laugh. Sydney snorts.

Clem flushes with embarrassment, then bolts in the opposite direction.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Sydney cuts in, passing out a round of tequila shots as she whizzes around behind the bar. “She’s going through a divorce. She doesn’t know how to flirt yet.”

“Forgiven.”

Chuckling under my breath, I whip a rag over my shoulder and pop open a beer, setting it down in front of Kip. I lean forward on my palms. “What time are you and Andrew stopping by tomorrow?”

We scheduled a “guys day.”

It’s my only day off this week, and June has to work at the diner—Andrew has been wanting to set something up before summer passes us by, and we all desperately need the R and R. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

So, we’re packing up some beers and lunch, and going tubing up in Wisconsin.

I’m looking forward to it.

I’m looking forward to everything but having to make eye contact with Andrew Bailey, knowing that I’m sleeping with his daughter behind his back.

Kip doesn’t know this either. The last time we spent any time together, he was filling me in on his own tragic, forbidden love story, trying to convince me to run from mine.

Clearly, I learned nothing.

Kip tips his beer to me in thanks, then takes a swig. “Probably around eight or nine.”

“Perfect.”

I’m about to further the conversation, when I feel a presence sidle up beside me, my nose filling with bergamot cologne.

“Mr. Elliott. A word, if you will.”

Pauly gives my shoulder a slap with his meaty paw, and I excuse myself for a moment, making sure Sydney has it covered. Trailing Pauly into the kitchen behind the bar, I scratch at the coarse bristle on my chin, feeling like I’m in trouble. I always feel like that when Pauly wants to talk to me, even though he’s only ever shown me kindness and respect. He has that way about him.

“Everything okay?” I wonder as we come to stop in a quiet corner.

“Yes, of course. I have a proposition for you.” He smooths out his own beard, black with a smattering of silver flecks, striking against his light olive skin. He regards me with umber eyes. “My restaurant in Seattle. I would like you to work at it.”

I frown, my arms crossing. “Seattle?”

“Yes. An executive chef position has opened up, and you are more than qualified. You would receive double the salary from what you are currently making,” he explains, watching my reaction. Studying me. “Mr. Elliott… you are one of the best culinary artists I have had the pleasure of working with in all of my career. I fear you are not living up to your full potential. It would be a great honor if you would consider my offer.”

Swallowing, I exhale a tapered breath, glancing down at the tile floor. I’m speechless.

“You would have more responsibility, of course. Staffing, budgeting, managing ordering—however, you are very smart. Quick on your feet. I believe you are more than capable.”

I glance back up, noting the hint of a smile that crosses his lips. It looks like pride. It almost looks like I would be doing him a favor by saying yes.

My mind reels.

Double the pay.

A new, exciting city.

A huge career advancement, doing something I love.

But…

A breath leaves me as I deflate, and I see the way his eyes flicker with disappointment. He knows my answer before I say it out loud. “I’m extremely honored, Pauly. Humbled. It’s just…” Folding my lips between my teeth, I try to piece my words together in a way that makes sense—in a way that doesn’t sound like, ‘I can’t because I’m in love with June.’

“This is about your family, yes?” Pauly questions. His dark eyebrows crease studiously as he reads me, slipping his hands into his pockets.

My teeth clack together as I nod.

“Your sister.”

I nod again. “Yes,” I admit. “We’re… close. Even more so since we lost Theo, and I just don’t think I can leave her. She still needs me.”

His head bobs up and down ever so slowly, drinking in each word like an aged wine. Then he leans back against the wall as kitchen commotion clatters behind us. “When I was just a young boy, I captured a bird with a broken wing,” he says in a wistful voice, his gaze locked on mine. “My mother let me nurse it back to health. It was a white-breasted Nuthatch—a brilliant little bird with blue and gray wings and a snow white underbelly. I bonded with it, keeping it tucked inside a wire-rimmed cage close to my bed. I named it Annalise because I fancied a schoolmate with the same name.” He chuckles, his eyes glazing with old memories. “It began to fly one day. Its wing healed nice and strong, and even though I had promised my mother I would let it go the moment it could fly, I could not seem to part with it. The bird had become my friend. I loved it.”

I stare at him, my jaw tense. My heart patters with anticipation as I hang on every word.

“One day, the bird tried to fly through my closed window. It dazed itself on the pane of glass. I had cried myself to sleep that night, whispering apologies to the little bird, saddened I had caused it pain. And yet… I still could not part with it. I could not let the bird go.” Pauly’s smile returns, but it’s a watery smile. A smile weighed down by remorse. “The next day, it tried to fly through the window again. One final time,” he tells me. His voice cracks on the last word. “It did not survive that final time.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat. My skin feels clammy, and my eyes mist over as the story resonates. As it digs into me, burrowing deep.

“I still think about that bird, Mr. Elliott,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he lifts up from the wall. He stares just over my shoulder for a moment before meeting my eyes. “I think about where it could have flown, and the life it could have lived… if I had just had the courage to let it go.”

Our gazes linger and hold, tangling with double meaning.

Then Pauly reaches out and squeezes my bicep, giving me a light slap as he moves past me. “My offer remains,” he says, his voice fading as he strides toward the double doors. “If you change your mind.”

I stand there for a while, hands clenching at my sides.

Eyes clouded over, zoned in on the white plaster wall.

Head spinning.

I stand there, thinking about my Junebug, and all the places she could fly.

When I step into my apartment at nearly midnight, my senses are assaulted by the scent of chocolate baked goods.

June stands in front of the stove with an oven mitt, her long brown tresses bouncing down her back as she waves the mitt back and forth, as if she’s trying to cool something down. She spins around when the door clicks shut.

“Brant!” Her face brightens upon seeing me, her eyes shimmering beneath the brassy yellow ceiling lights. “I know you’re the master chef around here, but I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d whip up some dessert for you.”

A smile crests as I stare at her, my entire body warming.

She jumps to the side, showcasing her creation. “Ta da,” she exclaims. “Brownies. And not just any brownies… these are extra special. I added those little caramel candies for some added sweetness.” June grins, crinkling her nose. “Which is basically a nicer term for calories.”

Milk chocolate and warm caramel floats over to me as I hover in the doorway, my feet frozen to the grubby tiles. June is a picture of perfection, adorning the chef apron she bought for me a few years back, tied around a modest sundress.

I can see it.

I can see it all in that moment.

A future.

June as my wife, baking brownies after I return home from a long day of work. The kitchen alight with sweet smells, the house a mess of toys and living, maybe a happy-go-lucky dog circling my ankles, and the chatter of our children, the ideal soundtrack to our life of bliss.

I can see it so fucking clearly.

And it hurts my heart that the things I see, the things I crave with everything I am, aren’t necessarily the things that are right.

Heaving in a frayed breath, my eyes glaze with unshed tears as I slip out of my shoes and step toward her. June’s smile fades slightly, sensing a heaviness radiating off me. I force a smile, not wanting to worry her—not wanting to be the reason her smile fades. “Hey,” I greet, my hand extending to clasp hers. “They smell amazing.”

Her joy flickers back to life. “Yeah? I’m a little impressed I didn’t burn them,” she says, ducking her chin to her chest. “I used Grams’ recipe. I always thought they were the best.”

June’s words hardly register. The brownies are forgotten as I lift both hands to cradle her cheeks, moving into her until our chests kiss. “Are you happy?” I ask softly. There’s a catch in my voice, sounding louder than my words.

Worry claims her pretty features, and she reaches up to hold my wrists. “Of course, I’m happy. I’m so happy.”

“Even though you’re not dancing? Even though you’re not in New York?”

She falters.

It’s only for a second, only for the briefest, tiniest moment, but I see it.

I see it.

“Yes,” she nods, squeezing me. “I’d rather be here, with you.”

I press our foreheads together. “What if you’re missing out? What if you always regret not chasing your dreams?”

“Brant… I love you. I’ll never regret choosing love.”

“Your dreams have an expiration date, June. Love doesn’t. I’ll always love you,” I murmur, bringing her closer. Breathing her in. “You know that, right?”

She pulls back a little, licking her lips. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake.”

“We’re not a mistake,” she insists. Her nails dig into me, carving little crescents into my arms. “We were written in the stars. Stars don’t make mistakes.”

My eyes close tight, my body swaying, as if it’s being pulled in two different directions.

Dancing and distance are what’s best for June.

No, I’m what’s best for June.

Fuck.

I don’t know.

I don’t know, so I just kiss her, because nothing is scary or messy or wrong when I’m kissing her.

She arches upward, sinking into the kiss, her hands gliding up my arms and landing on my shoulders. Her lips part, pleading for me to slip inside, and when our tongues touch, I groan, gathering her closer and melting.

The urgency swells between us, as it always does. I lift her up by the thighs, wrapping her legs around my waist. When I pull back from her mouth, I breathe out, “I want to make love to you.”

“Okay.” She nods eagerly, arms linked around my neck. “Bedroom.”

I kiss her again, then start walking the short distance to my room. “I want to make love to you, June. Sweet and slow and soft. The way it should have been that first time.”

“It was perfect,” she rasps out, clinging to me as I carry her into the bedroom and set her on the mattress. “It’s always perfect.”

“It’s always rough. Dirty.” I pull off my t-shirt, then start unfastening my belt and slacks. My eyes heat as I watch June shrug out of her cotton sundress, her hair splaying around her on the white sheets. “It’s like I’m trying to bury us deeper into the dirt, until we sink, until there’s no way out. Because I don’t want to find a way out.”

Crawling on top of her, she immediately coils her legs around my hips and tugs me close, inching up to kiss me. Her hands sift through my hair as she murmurs, “I don’t, either.”

“God, June… I don’t want you to be my filthy little secret. You’re better than this.”

“I’m meant for this.”

My fingers weave through her soft hair as I pepper her face in kisses, from her forehead, to her nose, to her perfect, parted lips. “I want to treasure you. Cherish you. Adore you.”

Her back arcs as I trail my mouth down her neck. “You do that every time.”

I slip down her body, worshiping every freckle, every crease, every birthmark. I spread her thighs and feast on her, taking my time, bringing her to the edge of orgasm, then pulling back and doing it again. Exquisite torture. I make love to every inch of her until she’s writhing and sweat-soaked, moaning my name and tugging my hair, desperate for release.

And when I finally sink my cock into her, my own desperation blinding me, I gather her closer than ever, our faces a whisper apart, our bodies slick and tangled. She whimpers as I move, slow and deep, rocking against her as our eyes remain locked.

Then I say it: “Junebug.”

Her whimpers morph into a startled cry. Something like disbelief.

Glorious disbelief.

My arms cage her in as I hover over her, fingers twining through her hair, my hips pumping languid yet fervent. “You were right,” I confess, my lips caressing hers as I feel her thighs cling tighter around me. “That name didn’t come from innocence, or some kind of familial connection. It was borne out of love. My love for you.” Her eyes glaze with tears, her hands gripping my shoulders. She nods as breathy little sounds spill out of her. “And maybe that love has evolved and blossomed over the years, but it still comes from the same place. And that place is beautiful. That place is pure.”

Wetness stains her cheeks, her lips trembling.

“You’re my Junebug,” I tell her, sweeping back the strands of hair matted to her forehead. I kiss her hairline and finish, “You’ll always be my Junebug.”

She sniffles, sucking in a shuddering breath. “You mean it?”

“Of course, I mean it.”

Releasing a tiny gasp, she kisses me hard.

I groan against her sweet mouth as our tongues take over the conversation, and our bodies continue to move together. I thrust into her with lazy, delicious strokes, clutching her in unwavering arms and whispering words of endless love into her ear. I grip the headboard above her, while my other hand cradles the top of her head, and my speed picks up as the mattress squeaks and our skin slaps. June pants and moans, craning her neck back, her body tremoring with climax.

And as I follow behind, releasing inside of her, sinking and falling and melting, I know I’ve never felt more alive, more at peace, more grateful, than I do in this moment.

For all the tragedy I’ve witnessed, for all the heartache…

I’m lucky.

I’m lucky to have something so good in my life, washing away all the bad.

I’m awoken the next morning by a strange, muffled sound as I’m pulled out of a dream.

A nightmare, really.

Every now and then I’ll have a vivid, bone-chilling nightmare about that night. About the night my father woke me out of a sweet sleep, where my mind had me dancing on rainbow clouds. Those clouds morphed into black storm clouds the moment my father shook me awake, begging for forgiveness. I still see that manic, desperate look in his eyes. I feel the sweat on his skin. I hear his broken voice, telling me to cover my ears.

One more thing, Brant. Cover your ears.

In my nightmares, I do. I always think that if I can’t hear the sound of that gun going off, then maybe it never went off at all.

Rousing groggily, I hear the muffled noise again.

But it’s not June.

It’s not June perched between my legs, sucking me off as the sun spills in through light blue curtains, glinting her eyes while she peers up at me.

June is still nestled in my arms, naked and fast asleep.

I stir, my eyelids fluttering.

And the sound repeats itself.

“Oh… oh God, no.”

It’s a string of sounds—of words… of… horror.

My eyes snap open and I sit up straight, craning toward the wide-open door.

Andrew Bailey and Kip stand at the threshold, staring at me. Andrew cups a hand over his mouth, the color draining from his face as he witnesses his daughter, completely bare, intimately entwined with the man he considers a son.

June rouses beside me, lifting up on her elbows.

She gasps. “Dad?”

“No… this isn’t real,” Andrew mutters, his eyes huge and full of sickening outrage. He stumbles backward, bumping into Kip. “Please, no… no.”

I’m frozen. I’m speechless.

June starts to cry as she yanks the bedsheet up to her chin.

Andrew shakes his head, looking like he’s about to be ill, then clumsily retreats from the room.

Kip stares at me.

I stare back.

Disappointment dims his eyes as he swallows, rubbing a hand down his face, and pivoting away from the door.

Everything else is a blur as June continues to sob, scrambling for her clothes, while I just sit there.

Numb.

Sad.

Done.

Last night I was lucky…

But not today.

Today is just another tragedy.