Damian's POV

For three straight weeks, my inability to deal with my emotions left me in the familiar state of being isolated and alone. Given my choice of actions and words, I should've welcomed the solitude. However, for the first time in twenty-eight years of existence, I was an absolute mess. Being alone wasn't what I wanted, and I deserved every second of my miserable existence.

Wherever I went, my eyes stayed averted. My lips, cheeks, and jaw sagged under their own weight. More than fatigue drooped my eyelids and more times than not, my chest and throat felt dry and constricted. My level of concentration at work was absolute shit. I had no appetite, but when I ate, all food tasted like sawdust. At the gym, I pushed my body past the point of fatigue every day and still paced for thirty minutes in my condo before I could lay down for bed.

All I heard from June was the florist's notification her flowers were delivered. My fingers twitched to contact her but I had no fucking clue how to respond to her silence. The communication ball was in her court. A couple of days compiled more awkwardness. I couldn't hit send on my 'Hope you got the flowers, can we talk?' message, no matter how many times I typed it.

But I could work on myself.

The day after I ordered June's flowers, I scheduled an appointment with a Mental Health Resources Office counselor. Dr. Phillips had his work cut out. Within the first session, we both knew I wasn't an overnight fix and started with a bi-weekly schedule. I hated it, so far, since every session was admitting my faults like a broken record while he wrote down notes with a permanent pensive frown.

About the only productive, tangible outcome was realizing I needed to contact June. It wasn't Dr. Phillips' idea, but my patience ran out. After a few more days where she was the only thing I thought about, I called her number to an automated response that I dialed a non-working number.

"Huh." Had she changed her number or blocked mine? Curiosity pushed me to call her work number. Her direct extension line fed back to an operator, who informed me that Juneau Olstead no longer worked at Wet Dreams.

What the fuck? Hopefully, I didn't have anything to do with that. I clenched my phone and pulled out my asshole card. "I'm her VIP client! I need to speak with her supervisor if she's not there anymore."

"One minute, Sir," the operator said in a flat tone.

Elevator music bled my eardrums by the time I was put out of my auditory misery. Thankfully, eventually, the psychedelic bell ringing ceased, only to be replaced by the voice of the last person I wanted to talk to. "Kevin Barnes, Wet Dreams."

Fuck, not him. I clenched my free hand into a fist that mentally punched this tool's face. "Damian Rivera. I'm trying to reach Juneau."

"I apologize for the inconvenience," he said with no emotion. "She is no longer an employee at Wet Dreams."

Inconvenience? I wanted to inconvenience his smug-ass face with my fist. Muscles within muscles tightened in me, and my nostrils twitched, then flared. Unlike when he hounded me to sign the contract, that fucker hadn't informed me she wasn't there. So much for VIP service. I needed more breaths than I counted before my breath and heart calmed down. "Since when?"

"For confidentiality reasons, I'm not allowed to disclose Juneau's employment status."

Every word Kevin spoke grated on my ears like auditory sandpaper. "What–"

"I'm sure you're very concerned about your contract here, Mr. Rivera, which we intend–"

"I don't care about the fucking contract!" Irritation coursed through my veins, and my voice's volume lifted from casually disinterested to 'annoyed as fuck.' I cared about June.

"I see," Kevin's passive voice conjured a mental image of him with two black eyes and a busted lip. "Here's what I can do for you, Mister Rivera. I'll switch your contract over to another one of our more than capable agents–"

I took a deep breath since my spine bristled and every muscle strained to burst through my skin. My insides flamed with anger, and my mental image of Kevin now had a few teeth knocked out and a broken nose. "Absolutely not. Big fucking no." I wanted June.

"Unfortunately, I can only offer a refund on the remainder of your contract terms, Mister Rivera. Your credit card will be credited accordingly." Kevin's tone added mentally broken ribs.

I grunted, then hung up and fisted my hair in both hands. The hardness of the kitchen counters bit the sides of my fists when I slammed them down, but I ignored the contact pain. I didn't want money. I wanted–Fuck, had she quit? Or lost her job? Hopefully, it wasn't because of me.

As Jase suggested, I sent the flowers to her work, but maybe that fucker got them instead. In my office, I pulled up the VIP contract email and scrolled to the verbiage on client-representative relationships. "Under direct supervision of management and with provided training, the client relationship representative is responsible for the cultivation, administration, and maintenance of the client relationship per the client's conditions..." I mumbled off the jargon. Direct supervision? Fuck, no wonder she wanted me to use her cell.

"The client relationship representative builds a solely erotic, fantasy-based relationship with the client through the delivery of exceptional customer service characterized by mutual respect, understanding, and trust–What the fuck is this bullshit?" I rubbed my chin.

"Under no conditions may the client representative engage in a personal, out-of-work scope relationship with a client, including but not limited to personal contact, friendship, romantic, or sexual exchanges for the duration of these contract terms. If either the client representative or client breaches these conditions, the contract is automatically nullified, and termination of the client representative is subject to consideration."

"Fuck." I scrolled to the end of the page, sinking in my desk chair at June's signature under mine. Her penmanship was beautiful, each letter a flowing set of cursive scrolls. Mine looked like a chicken scratched it. I groaned and dragged my hands down the sides of my face. The flowers to her work, with my apology note...The fucker fired her. No wonder she was not responding. She probably hated me. She should hate me.

I wanted to tear something apart. With quick stomps, I paced my kitchen island. I wanted to throw my sofa out of the fucking glass windows or, better, my monitor screen. With a quiet huff, I flounced onto my office desk chair and stared at June's pictures. My index finger moved on its own to the one of her in the men's shirt, where I traced the delicate curve of her shoulder. "I'm sorry, June," I mumbled.

After a harsh gym workout and an ice-cold shower, I texted Jason. Thankfully, he called a few hours later. "What's up, man?"

"I'm going fucking crazy." I sighed at the cold dinner I'd pushed around with my fork for the past twenty minutes. "Have you heard from June?"

"June, your girl?"

"No, the fucking month between May and July. Yes, Juneau." I closed my eyes for a breath and propped my free hand's palm under my chin, resting my elbow on the desk. "I sent her the damn flowers. Both weren't turned away, but I haven't heard a fucking thing."

"Hang on. Celia doesn't work there anymore. She quit a few days ago," he said. "Cee! Need your ass."

"Need it for what?" her voice purred in the background.

I closed my eyes. If I'd thought Celia's high-pitched, squeaky voice bothered me in her usual tone, I gagged on my saliva at the version filled with interest in my cousin.

"Later, Celia," Jason's voice strained. "Definitely later, babe."

Disgusting. "You know I can hear this shit," I groaned. "Does she know what happened to Juneau?"

Jason must have put his hand over the phone because, after a few muffled sounds followed. "Juneau got fired two weeks ago." He sighed. "Celia wasn't in the office that day, but Juneau left her a note and a half-dead plant...Cee, you kill another one?"

"Again, Jason," was her curt reply. "You were supposed to water it."

"It's good you two don't have a pet or a kid." I rolled my eyes.

"We're okay with the two of us right now." His softer tone normally sickened me, but it didn't. All I cared about was what happened to June. "Celia's still in contact with Adam, but neither has been able to reach Juneau since the night of our party. Thursday two weeks ago was her last day."

I pulled up my computer's calendar and groaned. That was the morning her flowers were delivered. No fucking coincidence here. "Fuck."

I set my phone down and rubbed my face again. It was my fault. She lost her job because of me and then...disappeared for two weeks? Had she lost her phone too? Or had something dangerous happened to her? Personally, I'd been run over by a bus filled with guilt-infused cement, but the cop part of me took her luck and assumed the worst. So, after I thanked Jason and hung up, I paced my apartment like an unbridled, feral animal. I yanked open the fridge door and random kitchen cabinets, then slammed them shut. Most of the park's trees were gray and leafless. Before I realized I walked out of the living room, I stared at her pictures on my computer screen.

"Fuck it." I changed into my work uniform, grabbed my coat and keys, then headed out. "I'm going today."

***

Nine hours later, with Shirley side-eying me for at least eight of them, I ignored the cold wind that tore into me or my bike tires rumbling over the uneven, cobblestone-like surface on Front Street. Despite my best restraint, like a borderline stalker, I showed up at June's shitty apartment building. Even in the bright early afternoon sunlight, the neighborhood didn't look safe. Graffiti tagged the wall leading to the worn-down building's entrance. A homeless guy was passed out face-down on the sidewalk.

This was the rent she could afford. She wasn't in good financial standing before, and now she lost her fucking job because of me. I parked my bike where I could see it. With a hard shove, I pushed open the glass entrance door, which, thankfully, led to a small lobby area with a desk.

"Can I help you, Officer?" an elderly woman greeted me. Her gray hair was rolled in curlers, and she wore a nightgown-like dress. Her tired voice reminded me I came here after my shift ended in my work uniform. "Please tell me you're here for the bum outside."

"No." Mental note, call Homeless Services. The guy wasn't a bum and deserved better than sleeping on a cold concrete sidewalk during a New York winter. I flashed her what I hoped was an encouraging smile. "I'm here about one of your residents, Miss Juneau Olstead."

"Moved out weeks ago," she replied and frowned. "She in some kinda trouble?"

I shook my head, my shoulders sagging under that news. Where could she have gone? "No, Ma'am, but I need to track her down."

She walked to a metal filing cabinet, where the door screeched open. She returned with a folder and an apologetic smile. "All's I got is a forwarding address in Clinton, New Jersey."

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. Clinton? Did she leave down? "Thank you, Ma'am." I nodded. "I'll call someone to help the guy outside."

I left with a sense of restlessness, but June was an adult. If she wanted to contact me, she could. Hopefully. The thought didn't reassure me when I climbed on my bike, and it still didn't two weeks later. My only personal interactions were my sessions with Dr. Phillips. Twice a week, we gyrated through the stupidest, most painful exercises, prompting me until I opened up on random feelings.

Like a vulture pecking a dead carcass, Dr. Phillips asked about Dad's work and death. Talking about Dad annoyed me, but admitting how I fucked up with women, June in particular, didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. Despite my open admissions, over and over, Dr. Phillips' sessions felt like he reopened the same wound and poked at it with a fucking stick until I left with festering, bleeding sores. Even after two weeks, he hadn't offered any assistance.

Our constant 'Why do you think you feel like that?' 'Because I'm an assole' exchanges were uncomfortable, open-ended, and unsettling. I squirmed in my seat like a kid who had to take a piss, but I was a stubborn shit determined to push through it for...someone's sake.

Dr. Phillips' approach made sense when he gave me the contact information for the Police Organization Peer Association group, a volunteer organization that helped officers identify and cope with stress. After my answers failed a quick phone call of screener questions, they enlisted me into their Resiliency Support Program for six months. I was a complete skeptic until my first phone counseling appointment. A retired Sergeant named Nick called me.

Within five minutes, a stranger on the phone understood me completely. "I've been there," he admitted before I said a single fucking word. "Drunk, stressed out, hateful, alone."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to know that you're not fucked up beyond repair," he said.

With that short introduction, I drank whatever KoolAid Nick served up...and it helped. He called me daily, every evening at eight pm, offering tips and tricks that pulled him from the darkness. Most made sense, he ate clean, avoided smoking and alcohol, started volunteer work, and apologized more times than he counted. Nick occasionally asked me questions but mostly comforted me with his openness. He was right; hearing his experiences reassured me that maybe I wasn't as fucked up and hopeless as I thought. It truly helped.

"Damian, I know most of the time I do the talking, but I want you to spend the next month getting your shit together. Take care of yourself." Nick paused as if he waited for resistance, but I had none. "I've learned that when a man has his shit together, his whole world comes together."

He snorted before I did. "Cheesy, I know. It was hard, but I learned to make choices that are positive for me, make me happy, and that's the most important gift I can give myself. Because if I'm not fucking happy, I'm in no place to care about anyone else, no matter how much I want to."

His words hit me hard, and I leaned back against my sofa. Fuck. I had more to work toward than I thought. It wasn't easy, unraveling years of defensive habits, but there had to be a better approach. For once, it was for more than my sake.