by Lauren Rowe
“No,” I say. “That doesn’t describe my Seattle girl.” Honestly, I don’t actually remember my Seattle girl specifically—my whole month in The Club is a bit of a blur—but by Jonas’ description, it’s abundantly clear we didn’t hook up with the same woman. “When I filled out my application,” I continue, glancing at Kat, “I requested only—”
I stop talking midsentence, thanks to the look on Kat’s face: the girl’s sitting on the edge of her seat, looking like she’s literally holding her breath at whatever I’m about to say. Ha! What the fuck does Kat think I’m about to say?
That’s funny. The truth is I was about to say something pretty innocuous—but obviously, the girl’s imagining something pretty fucking titillating, or maybe even really fucked up. Well, far be it for me to disappoint her depraved imagination. In fact, I can plainly see by the revved-up expression on Kat’s face, it’s in my extreme interest to let this girl’s imagination run wild.
“Thank God, bro,” I say, making a big show of my relief. “That would have been just like having sex with you.” I mock-shudder at the thought.
Jonas flashes me his usual look of annoyance. “We’re totally off track here,” he barks out. “The only thing that matters is that these bastards have fucked with Sarah and Kat, and we have no way of knowing whether they’re done fucking with them or if they’re just getting started.”
I lean back on the couch and sigh. Yep. My gut tells me Jonas is overreacting to this situation, probably spurred on by somehow trying to impress Sarah. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, putting my hands behind my head.
Oh shit. Oops. I just unleashed Jonas’ crazy as surely as if I’d opened the door to a rabid dog’s cage.
“Sit down, Jonas,” I say emphatically, over and over, in response to Jonas’ tirade, but he won’t listen to me. “Let’s just talk about this for a minute, rationally.”
“Oh, you’re gonna tell me how to be rational?” Jonas seethes. “Mr. Buys-a-Lamborghini-on-a-Fucking-Whim-When-His-Girlfriend-Breaks-Up-With-Him is gonna tell me to be rational?”
I roll my eyes.
Nice, Jonas. First my stupid-ass brother outs me for joining a sex club and now he’s gonna give me shit for what a pussy I was after Emma drop-kicked me and cheated on me with that Ascot-wearing prick? Talk about a cheap shot.
Up ’til now I was feeling pretty entertained by my asshole-brother, maybe even sympathetic, but now I feel like throttling him. But because I’m the sane and rational twin in this fucked-up duo, I somehow manage to keep my shit together, like I always do. “I’m just saying I don’t know; that’s all,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I’m not saying I disagree. Big difference. Just sit the fuck down for a minute. Jesus, Jonas.”
But, of course, Jonas doesn’t immediately shut the fuck up or calm the fuck down or do anything even remotely resembling sane rationality. Why? Because he’s Jonas, which, I guess, gives him a lifelong pass to act like a fucking lunatic while I sit here holding his shit together for him, even though on any given day it takes almost all my strength to hold my own shit together, thank you very much.
It takes ten minutes of talking to Jonas like the man-child he is, but I finally get him to sit down and breathe deeply.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. Jesus God, give me strength. “Let’s think. What’s the point in taking down the entire organization? I mean, really? Just think about it, logically. That sounds like an awfully big job—and maybe overkill. Think about it, Jonas. Yes, we’ve got to protect Sarah and Kat, of course . . .” I smile at Sarah and then at Kat. “Of course. And we will. I promise. But beyond that, why do we care what The Club does?”
Jonas shifts in his seat. He’s considering.
That’s good. I’m clearly making headway. I take another deep breath.
“Why kill a fly with a sledgehammer when a flyswatter will do?” I continue. “The Club provides a service—and very well, I might add, speaking from experience. So, yeah, maybe things aren’t exactly as they appear, maybe they oversell the fantasy a bit—but so does Disneyland. I mean, you can go ride a rollercoaster anywhere, right?—but you pay ten times more to ride that same roller coaster at Disneyland. Why? Because it’s got Mickey Mouse’s face on it.”
Jonas’ eyes could cut diamonds right now.
“Maybe all these guys who join The Club want to ride a roller coaster with Mickey Mouse’s face on it—and they’re happy as clams to pay a shitload to do it. They don’t even want to know they could ride the same roller coaster without Mickey’s face on it for two bucks down the street.”
I’m trying to make Jonas see another side to things, something he’s never been particularly good at doing, but I’ve clearly just tripped yet another Jonas-landmine—I’ve barely gotten my last words out when the dude begins literally sputtering with outrage, so Sarah steps in to speak for him.
“Josh,” Sarah says, putting her hand gently on Jonas’ forearm. “Your premise is faulty. When you buy a ticket for Disneyland, you know you’re signing up to ride a Mickey Mouse roller coaster. Not everyone signs up to ride a Mickey Mouse roller coaster when they join The Club—but that’s what they give them, anyway.”
Okay, now I’m completely confused. What the hell is she talking about? Why would anyone join The Club, except for the sole purpose of riding a Mickey Mouse roller coaster? That’s all The Club is or could ever be—a vehicle for mainlining cotton candy—no more or less—an unhealthy but delicious diet of pure sugar to be consumed once in a blue moon for a short period of time, even though you know it’s total crap for a growing boy. I mean, shit, only a fucking moron would think he could consume cotton candy as his diet’s main staple, right?
I wait for Sarah to explain further but, apparently, that’s all she’s gonna say. She sits back down on the couch and primly folds her hands in her lap.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Jonas exhales. “She means not everyone is totally fucked-up like you and me.” He clears his throat. “Or, at least, like me—you seem to have been cured of your fuckeduppedness by that stupid book.”
I burst out laughing at that one. Good times.
“She means some people are, you know, normal,” Jonas continues. He sits down on the couch next to Sarah and puts his arm around her, obviously displaying some sort of solidarity with her. Wow, he must really like this girl, because what he just said is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” I ask. “Normal?”
Jonas doesn’t answer. (Of course, he doesn’t—because there’s no defending the idiocy of his comment.)
“Okay, fine, let’s say there are normal people out there... Why the fuck would any normal person join The Club?”
“To find love,” Jonas says quietly. “That’s what normal people want. That’s what The Club promises to the normal ones. And it’s a scam.”
I burst out laughing again. Oh my God, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. But Jonas and Sarah don’t look the slightest bit amused. I glance at Kat, hoping to find one other sane person in this room besides me, and, thankfully, the Party Girl With a Hyphen doesn’t disappoint—she flashes me a sexy little smirk that says she thinks Jonas and Sarah are being ridiculous, too. I match her smirk with one of my own and she flashes me a wide smile that bares her perfect, white teeth.
“It’s true,” Sarah says, like she’s defending truth, honor and the fucking American way.
“Seriously?” I say. I take a beat to study my brother’s face. But, yeah, he’s dead serious. “Did you join The Club looking for love?” I ask. I swear to God, if he says yes, then I know for sure this adorkable Sarah Cruz girl has cast a fucking spell on him. Either that, or he’s truly had a psychotic break.
Jonas looks at Sarah like he’s asking his master for permission to speak, and Sarah nods. Well, that answers that question—she’s cast a spell on him. He kisses the back of her hand. “No, I didn’t,” Jonas says.
&nb
sp; “Well, neither did I,” I say, trying to ignore how pussy-whipped my brother’s acting right now. “I can’t imagine anyone ever would. That’s pretty far-fetched—even if someone’s normal.” I shoot an apologetic look at Sarah. Even if my brother’s acting like a flop-dick right now, that’s no reason for me to be disrespectful to Sarah. Obviously, she’s passionate about this ridiculously naïve notion of hers. “Sorry, Sarah,” I say.
Sarah nods and shoots me a half smile.
“I’m pretty sure I joined The Club because I was having some kind of mental breakdown,” Jonas says softly. “Again.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I shake my head with whiplash. No. Those are the exact words I didn’t want to hear coming out of Jonas’ mouth tonight. I’m not equipped to babysit Jonas through another mental breakdown. No fucking way. I’ve been doing it my whole fucking life and I don’t wanna do it anymore. Shit. And he seemed to be doing so well lately. What have I been missing?
“Though I didn’t realize it at the time, of course,” Jonas continues. He looks at Sarah. “I joined The Club because I didn’t understand what was really going on with me, what I really wanted—or what I needed. I was spiraling, man.”
My heart is thumping out of my chest. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know what the hell to say. I thought Jonas was kicking ass and taking names lately, I really did. Work has been better than ever—the whole company is a fucking behemoth right now, thanks primarily to Jonas and his incredible instincts for deals. And he’s in the best shape of his life, too.
True, the guy’s been kind of a weird hermit for a while now—obsessed with nothing but climbing and working out and finding new investment opportunities—and, true, I’ve often thought Jonas should get out more, maybe go to a fucking party now and again, fuck some random woman he meets in a fucking bar, for Chrissakes. But that’s just not Jonas. He’s always been the sensitive one, attaching a deeper meaning to everything, including sex.
Actually, I suggested Jonas join The Club for a month in the first place because I figured a little meaningless sex might do the guy a world of good, exactly the way it did for me (and he’s clearly not capable of getting random pussy for himself, that’s for sure, though God only knows why, given what he looks like). And now I’m finding out my poetic brother viewed joining The Club as some sort of “surrender to insanity”? Well, shit.
I run my hand through my hair, desperation descending upon me. I feel like I could cry like a baby right now, even though I haven’t cried since I was ten years old. I seriously cannot do this again. I’ve carried my brother’s sanity on my back my whole fucking life, even when I’ve barely been able to hold the weight of my own. And I’m tired. I cover my face with my hands for a moment, trying to pull myself together.
There’s a long silence in the room.
“Well, all righty, then,” Kat finally says.
I glance up at her and she smiles warmly at me.
And just like that, I regain my footing. “Holy shit, Jonas,” I mumble, rubbing my hands over my face. “I’m all in when it comes to protecting Sarah and Kat, okay? Whatever it takes—you know that, right?”
“I know.” Jonas exhales. “Thanks.”
“I just think maybe you’re overreacting about—”
“Fuck, Josh!” Jonas leaps up from the couch and glowers over me like he’s about to strangle me—but I don’t flinch. The dude wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly and we both know it. “These motherfuckers threatened my girl and her best friend. Do you understand? They crossed the fucking line!”
I stand and open my mouth to speak, but Jonas cuts me off.
“I’m not letting them near her.” He pulls Sarah up off the couch and into him. “I’m gonna protect her—which means decimating the fuck out of them. Do you understand me? Decimating them.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Calm down.” Every hair on my body is standing on end. What the fuck is happening right now? He’s spiraling into some sort of panic attack and I don’t fully understand why.
“I’m not gonna let it happen again, Josh,” he blurts. “I couldn’t survive it this time—I know I couldn’t. I barely survived it before. You didn’t see what I saw... the blood... it was everywhere. You weren’t there.” He shuts his eyes tight. “You didn’t see her. I’m not gonna let it happen again. I can’t do it again.”
I feel like he just punched me in the teeth. Why the fuck is he saying this to me, especially in front of Sarah and Kat? I’m well aware I was sitting at a fucking football game, cheering happily, while Jonas watched our mother being fileted like a fish. No one needs to remind me of that fact.
“Jonas... Oh my God,” I say.
“I thought you’d understand, of all people.” Jonas’ voice is thick with emotion. “I don’t want to do this alone, but I will. I’ll do whatever I have to do, don’t you understand? I can’t let anything happen to her. Not again. Never again.”
This is insane. I can’t believe Jonas is comparing this situation to what happened to our mom. Motherfucker. He’s crossed a line here. He’s fucking crossed a motherfucking line. “Ladies, could you give us a minute?” I say, gritting my teeth. “Please.”
Jonas juts his chin at me and squeezes Sarah like he’s worried I might fucking attack her or something.
“Jonas,” Sarah whispers, brushing her lips against his jawline. “Talk to your brother, baby. He’s on your team.” She touches his face. “Your brother’s on your side. Just listen to him. He dropped everything to come here for you. Listen to him.”
Jonas lets go of Sarah’s hand, grabs her face with both hands, and kisses the hell out of her. Clearly, his kiss is a giant “fuck you” to me, but I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve it.
When Jonas pulls away from kissing Sarah, he looks fiercely at me, his nostrils flaring, glaring at me like he’s daring me to say a fucking word. But I’m not even tempted to speak. There’s nothing I could possibly say that wouldn’t involve the words “crazy” and “fuck” and “you.”
“One can easily forgive a child who’s afraid of the dark,” Jonas says, visibly trembling. “The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
I roll my eyes. Fan-fucking-tastic. Another Plato quote from my crazy-ass brother. Fuck me. This is gonna be a long fucking night.
Three
Kat
As Derek kisses my lips, he runs his fingertips along my thigh underneath my pencil skirt. I return his kiss with equal enthusiasm and run my fingers through his hair. Heck yeah, I do. Derek the ex-SEAL-bodyguard is way, way hotter than Kevin Costner ever was (and Kevin Costner was pretty freaking hot back in the day). I lean back onto the arm of my couch, pulling Derek’s lips with me as I go and coaxing Derek’s body on top of mine. Holy shitballs, this man’s clearly got a hard body beneath that Men’s Wearhouse suit. And that’s not all that’s hard about Derek, either—the bulge behind his slacks feels like it was forged in a steel factory. Good lord.
It’s all I can do not to bust out singing Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You”—not because I will always love Derek Insert-Last-Name-Here, obviously. I only met the guy less than twenty-four hours ago, and, as far as I can tell, he’s got the personality of a baseball bat. No, that iconic song is on the tip of my (extremely busy) tongue right now because oh my effing God I’m about to fulfill a fantasy I’ve had since I first witnessed a certain juggernaut of cinematic artistry at the tender age of nine.
My mom rented The Bodyguard from Blockbuster Video on a Friday night (plus video games for my dad and four brothers to keep them distracted while we two girls watched our movie), and by Sunday afternoon, I’d watched that damned movie at least six times from start to finish (and that was a full year before we got our first DVD player, which means I actually had to rewind that freaking thing every time I wanted to re-watch it, so that tells you how committed I was to Whitney and Kevin’s once-in-a-lifetime love).
And all through the years since that first Bodyguard marathon, through puberty and hi
gh school and college, whenever I’ve been dumped or no one asked me to a dance or I’ve had PMS or gotten a crappy-ass grade in a class (that last one being a fairly common occurrence), I’ve watched Kevin and Whitney as a sort of therapy, I guess, kind of like digging into a cinematic pint of Ben and Jerry’s.
So it’s no wonder that now, as a twenty-four-year-old woman with an unapologetic sex drive and an unwavering dedication to you-only-live-once, having hot sex with my very own real-life bodyguard is right at the top of my sexual bucket list. I mean, come on. Not all sex has to be about some kind of deep soul connection—sometimes, it can simply be about making a lifelong sexual fantasy come true.
“Katherine Morgan?” Derek the Bodyguard asked yesterday when I opened the front door of my apartment and beheld his no-nonsense hotness for the first time. I leaned against the doorjamb and smiled broadly, pleasantly surprised about the gift the universe had just plopped into my lap (or, more accurately, the surprise Sarah’s new boyfriend, Jonas, had just plopped into my lap).
“Yes, I’m Katherine Morgan,” I replied to Derek yesterday, extending my hand and flashing him my most flirtatious smile. “But please, call me Kat.” I knew a bodyguard would be coming to my house, of course—Jonas had already said as much earlier that morning—but only in my wildest dreams did I imagine he’d look like Derek.
“Miss Morgan,” Derek said, seemingly impervious to my charms. “My name is Derek Something-or-Other, and I’ve been assigned to protect you.” He looked at his phone. “By a Jonas P. Faraday?”
“Yeah. Jonas mentioned he’d be sending someone. Thanks for coming.”
“I’ll be watching over you during the daytime,” Derek continued matter-of-factly. “And my partner, Rodney, will take the night shift.” He motioned across the street. “That’s Rodney over there, just so you know what he looks like.”