by Lauren Rowe
I walked out of my apartment and peered across the street in the direction Derek was pointing—and there, sitting in a nondescript sedan, was Father Time. When Rodney saw me looking at him, he curtly waved, started his engine, and drove away, and I suppressed the urge to laugh with glee that Derek had been the one to show up on my doorstep to take the first shift.
“Come in,” I purred to Derek, brushing past him into my apartment.
“Sure. Just to do a sweep of your surroundings and give you a safety de-briefing. After that, I’ll keep watch from across the street to give you privacy.” His tone was strictly professional—very Kevin-Costner-at-the-beginning-of-The-Bodyguard. Not the least bit flirtatious.
Things looked grim for my chances of singing Whitney’s tune right about then—and honestly I might have dropped the whole thing if it weren’t for what happened next: Derek’s eyes unmistakably darted down to the curve of my breasts in my tight-fitting blouse and then down to my hips in my slim-fitting business skirt and then back up to my lips—at which point they flickered with unmistakable desire. And that’s when I knew Mr. Professional Bodyguard maybe wasn’t quite as all-business underneath that dark suit as he seemed—and that maybe, just maybe, it was only a matter of time before Derek the Bodyguard would be whispering things like, “No, Kat, I can’t protect you like this” and “Not on my shift” and “I was hired to protect you, not to help you shop” into my ear.
“Come in, Derek,” I said, waltzing back into my apartment from the walkway. “You wanna cup of coffee?” I asked breezily, even though coffee wasn’t at all what I was thinking about.
Derek grinds his hard-on into me and kisses me, jolting me back to the delicious present on my couch. His hand skims my thigh under my skirt and I widen my legs to let him know I’m not at all shy here, big fella, that this isn’t my first time at the sexy-times-rodeo and he need not be quite so respectful of my vagina (which I’ve noticed he hasn’t even attempted to touch).
Derek reacts to my implicit invitation by floating his hand up toward the increasingly wet crotch of my panties. Yes. That’s right. Go for it, Bodyguard. Do it. I’ve got the chorus of Whitney’s song all cued up for you, baby. But, damn, his hand stops at the inside of my thigh and then trails across my hipbone and around to my ass.
Damn.
I press into him with increased enthusiasm, and—
My cell phone buzzes on the coffee table, repeatedly, with an incoming call.
Crap. I’m supposed to be at work right now, actually. I had an early breakfast meeting with a client (the owner of a new boutique) about the social media campaign I’m planning for her—and afterwards, I swung by my apartment on my way back to the office “to grab an umbrella.” Or so I said. Yes, it had started to pour—this is Seattle, after all—but we have plenty of extra umbrellas and plastic ponchos at the office. What I was actually doing with the whole “I gotta grab an umbrella” ruse was creating an excuse to lure my new bodyguard (who’d been shadowing my every move all morning long) into my apartment to see if I could seduce him into seducing me.
My phone stops buzzing and I refocus my attention onto Derek’s lips.
I kiss him a bit more enthusiastically and he follows my lead, running his hand over my blouse, right over my nipple. Good. That’s good. Come on, Derek. Let me be your Whitney.
I wonder who was calling. Was that my boss? Or maybe Hannah Banana Montana Milliken? Or maybe it was Sarah, calling to tell me some new juicy tidbit about her new boyfriend (who supposedly loves her but won’t say the actual words)? Or maybe, just maybe, it was the boyfriend’s Hottie-McHottie-pants brother, Josh Faraday?
I smile at the thought, even as I’m kissing Derek.
Josh sure didn’t try to hide his attraction to me the night before last at Jonas’ house.
“Don’t worry about me, guys,” Josh yelled to Jonas and Sarah as Jonas barreled to his room with Sarah slung over his shoulder. “I’ll just party the night away with Party Girl with a Hyphen.”
“Oh no, you won’t, Playboy,” I shot back at him. “You’ll have to find another Mickey Mouse roller coaster to ride tonight.”
Of course, I was wildly attracted to him, too—who wouldn’t be?—but I’m not sure how I felt about his whole “Mickey Mouse rollercoaster” analogy. And, regardless, there’s nothing I love better than taking a cocky guy down a peg. It’s kinda my specialty, actually.
I was trying to stun Josh into humbled silence with my little zinger, but Josh wasn’t even remotely fazed. He swaggered over to me and leaned his lips right into my ear, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand up and my crotch tingle. “So that’s how we’re gonna play this, huh, Party Girl with a Hyphen?” he said. “We’re gonna play it cool? Okay, babe, fine with me—we’ll play it however you like,” he whispered, his warm breath teasing my ear. “But we both know where this is headed. Mmmm.” And with that, he sauntered out of the room, whistling as he went, and never looked back.
I must have stood there for a solid five minutes, my mouth hanging open and my crotch pulsing in my panties. Day-am.
My phone buzzes sharply with a voicemail on the coffee table next to my couch.
Who the heck is trying to reach me so insistently?
Derek’s tongue is swirling around mine and his hard-on against my thigh is becoming urgent. Well, whoever’s calling, they’ll just have to wait. I press myself into Derek’s erection, goading him on, and he reacts by kneading my ass with his strong hand. Hmm. That ass-kneading thing isn’t really working for me, actually. There’s just no finesse to it. It’s like the dude’s wearing freaking oven mitts. Or maybe the problem is that Derek just isn’t that great a kisser?
Oh, shit, I’ve still gotta come up with my social media campaign for that chain of barbeque restaurants. Damn. Maybe Hannah will help me brainstorm? Yeah, I’ll take her to lunch tomorrow and see if she’ll pretty-please help me out. We haven’t been to The Tavern in a while. They’ve got such great salads—
Oh, jeez. I’m thinking about salad while kissing my hot bodyguard? What the hell? Come on, Kat! Kevin Costner. Whitney Houston. Bodyguard. Focus.
My phone buzzes again, just once, with an incoming text. Oh jeez. Someone’s really trying to reach me. I push on Derek’s chest. “Hang on a minute,” I say. “Lemme check my phone real quick.”
Derek sits up and wipes his mouth, his eyes blazing.
I grab my phone and look at the display. The missed call was from a number I don’t recognize. A “323” number. Isn’t that L.A.? I peek into my texts and the new text is from that same unrecognizable number, too: “Kat, this is Josh Faraday,” the text says. My heart skips a beat. “Call me immediately. Please. It’s urgent that I talk to you.”
Derek kisses me and kneads my ass again.
Could it be the Playboy is calling me with an “urgent” invitation to dinner? Sarah told me Josh asked for my phone number last night, intending to ask me to dinner after Jonas kicked him out of his house, but Sarah told him I was already out to dinner with my new bodyguard. Sarah said Josh looked deflated and said he was gonna hop a flight back to L.A.—but did he change his mind and stay in Seattle?
I push on Derek’s chest again and sit completely upright. “Excuse me, Derek,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ve got to make a quick call.”
Derek exhales, clearly frustrated, but I don’t care. It’s suddenly quite clear to me I’d rather be out on a date with Josh Faraday, world-class Mickey-Mouse-rollercoaster-rider or not, than trying to screw a bodyguard wearing oven mitts who couldn’t kiss his way out of a paper bag.
I practically sprint into my bedroom and close my door behind me, my heart leaping out of my chest.
Josh Faraday. Now there’s a guy who makes visions of blowjobs dance in my head. The minute I laid eyes on the man, I felt like I’d been struck by a sexual lightning bolt—and I’m positive he felt it, too. He didn’t even try to hide it.
But I’ve got to be careful. Josh is obvio
usly a player of staggering proportions, and I’m not a girl who likes to be chewed up and spit out by any man. If anyone’s gonna do the chewing up and spitting out, then it’s gonna be me. And I’m not so sure I could manage getting the upper hand with a seasoned player like Josh Faraday.
Every article I read about the Faraday brothers when I was snooping around in Jonas’ office the other night (and there were a lot of them) made at least passing reference to Josh’s oversized appreciation for beautiful women. But, of course, I would have figured that out without the benefit of those articles. One quick Google search of the guy revealed he burns through supermodels and reality TV starlets and actresses and daughters of moguls like a Weedwacker. I mean, seriously. The dude’s face is plastered all over the Internet with strikingly beautiful women at black-tie events and fundraisers and concerts and parties all over the frickin’ world. Jeez. I love to have fun, too, God knows I do—but I’m just a pharmacist’s daughter living in Seattle and working at a PR firm. My idea of fun is going to a karaoke bar with my friends on a Saturday night—not the Cannes Film Festival with Isabel Randolph. Holy shitballs.
And the way he referred to the women in The Club as Mickey Mouse rollercoasters was kinda Douchey McDouchey-pants I gotta say. I’m certainly not one to judge anyone, guy or girl, for enjoying sex and having a whole frickin’ lot of it—more power to all my horny sistren and brethren—but before I volunteer to be one of Josh Faraday’s many, many rollercoasters, I’d sure like to know what I’d be getting myself into. Holy shitballs. That’s an understatement. I’d give literally anything to read that boy’s application to The Club and find out his dirty little secrets.
But first things first: why’d he call? Well, no sense wondering. I’ll just call him back and find out. And, heck, maybe as a condition to saying yes to dinner (if, indeed, that’s what he’s aiming for), I’ll ask him to email me his Club application. Why not? It sure seems like Sarah reading Jonas’ application from the get-go worked out pretty damned well for them.
I take a deep breath. Okay, yes. That’s my strategy. I’ll say yes to dinner if he sends me his application. Bold. Ballsy. Kind of obnoxious—but awesome. Yes.
I’m about to press the “call back” button next to Josh’s text, when I remember his voicemail message. I’d better listen to it first before calling him back.
“Kat, this is Josh Faraday,” Josh’s voice says—and the tightness of his tone makes my stomach clench. That’s not the tone of a man calling to ask a girl out on a date. “Please call me right away,” he says. “It’s urgent. Thank you.”
Now I’m confused. What on earth could—
I gasp.
Sarah.
Oh my God. Was Jonas right? Was Sarah actually in grave danger, just like he predicted? I can barely breathe as I push the “call back” button on my phone.
Josh picks up my call immediately. “Kat?” he says, his voice tight.
“What happened, Josh?” I blurt. “Is it Sarah?” I sit down on the edge of my bed, swallowing hard. This is gonna be bad. This is gonna be really, really bad. I know it is. I suddenly feel like I’m gonna throw up.
Josh exhales loudly. “Sarah’s been stabbed.”
“No,” I blurt.
“She’s at the hospital now. Jonas just called me.” His voice wobbles. “She was attacked in a bathroom at school.”
“No.” Tears instantly flood my eyes. “Sarah.”
“I’m trying to get a flight back to Seattle—not having any luck. I need you to get Sarah’s mom and get over to the hospital as soon as possible, okay?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Sarah.”
“Kat. Listen to my voice. I need you to get Sarah’s mom and get over to the hospital as soon as possible. Can you do that for me?”
I take a deep breath and wipe my tears. “Okay.”
“Good girl. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I can’t control my emotions anymore. I lose myself to sobs. “Sarah. Oh my God. No.”
Four
Kat
There’s a raging storm outside Sarah’s hospital window, but the rain is no match for my tears. Oh my God, this is the worst day of my life. Sarah’s my best friend. My partner in crime. My rock. We finish each other’s sentences. We laugh ’til we pee. She’s more than my best friend—she’s my sister. We tell each other everything—or, at least, I tell Sarah everything. I’m not sure it works the other way around. But I’ve never cared about that because that’s just Sarah. She’s this weird mixture of shy and reserved and confident and insecure and hilarious and crazy all at once. There’s just nobody like Sarah Cruz. She’s the absolute best.
And some bastard out there purposefully hurt my girl? Just the thought is making me bawl all over again. How could anyone even think of hurting Sarah of all people? The girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. And someone tried to kill her just because she figured out their stupid sex club is actually a prostitution ring? Who the fuck cares? That’s worth killing the best girl in the world over?
I look across the hospital room at Sarah, asleep in her hospital bed. She’s bandaged and hooked up to tubes and wires and monitors. She looks tiny and pale.
I just can’t believe this is happening.
Sarah’s mom is seated next to Sarah’s bed, asleep and draped over her daughter’s bed. And in the corner of the room, there’s Jonas Faraday, the so-called “boyfriend” himself, sitting in a chair that looks way too small for his large body, his muscled arms crossed over his Seattle Seahawks T-shirt. The poor guy looks horribly pained, even in his sleep—distraught, I’d even say. Gazing at him right now, it’s suddenly perfectly clear I’ve completely misjudged him. I had my doubts about his intentions toward Sarah, and I told him so, but looking at him now, he sure looks every bit the devoted and loyal boyfriend. Shit. I wish I’d been nicer to him at his house yesterday morning. The guy gave me a computer and I acted like a total bitch. Classic Kat.
I look at Sarah again and tears squirt from my eyes for the millionth time today.
Sarah always says I’ve got a heart of gold, but she’s wrong. She’s the one who cares so deeply about making the world a better place, not me. She’s the one who’s always thinking about helping people, not me. Compared to Sarah, I’m a downright bitch. And not just a bitch, a horribly reckless bitch. What the fuck was I thinking, trying to seduce my bodyguard? Jonas hired Derek to protect me, not fuck me. Jonas was right all along—the bad guys really were out to get Sarah and maybe me, too, and what did I do? I made the whole thing about me getting my rocks off. I’m so freaking predictable—and so freaking ashamed of myself, I feel physically ill.
But wait a minute. It takes two to tango. Derek was the one who was supposed to be a professional, right? How the hell did he plan to protect me while pounding me? My life was quite possibly at stake and he was macking down on me! Oh my God. Is my life at stake now? I feel like I’m gonna barf. I throw my hands over my face. This whole situation is crashing into me like a ton of bricks.
My phone buzzes in my purse with a text and I pull it out. Josh Faraday. I wipe my eyes. I feel oddly comforted seeing his name on my screen.
“Are you at the hospital?” Josh writes.
“Yeah, I’m in Sarah’s room now,” I reply. “The doc says Sarah lost a ton of blood and she’s definitely in a lot of pain, but she’s gonna be okay, thank God. She’ll probably go home tomorrow. She got really lucky. The blade didn’t hit anything critical.”
“SO AWESOME. Huge relief. OMG. Is my brother there? He hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls. I’m worried.”
I look across the room at Jonas again. His face is twitching in his sleep like he’s having a nightmare. Just as I’m about to look away from him, his entire body jolts like someone just leaped out from behind a bush and yelled “Boo!” Aw, poor guy. He’s actually kind of breaking my heart right now.
“Yeah, he’s here,” I write. “He’s asleep.”
“When he wakes up, could you tell him I couldn’t ge
t to Seattle tonight? All flights are grounded due to weather.”
As if on cue, thunder crashes outside the hospital window. “Yeah, if he wakes up while I’m still here, I’ll be sure to tell him,” I write.
“Thanks.”
There’s a long beat. Is that the end of our text-conversation? I drop my phone in my lap and stare at Sarah for another long moment, listening to the driving rain outside the window, my thoughts drifting to the thousands of times Sarah’s been the best friend a girl could ever hope for.
I’ve just decided something. I’m done being Classic Kat. From this day forward, I’m New Kat—a responsible and levelheaded girl. A girl like Sarah. Smart. Careful. A look-before-leaping kind of girl, especially when it comes to men. New Kat takes things slow. New Kat has her head on straight. New Kat doesn’t just jump into the sack or throw her heart away willy-nilly. New Kat isn’t tempestuous and crazy. Nope. She’s just like Sarah. Well, pre-Jonas Sarah, that is. I don’t know what the heck’s happened to Sarah since she met Jonas—nowadays, she’s acting like me. But that’s beside the point.
My phone buzzes with another text. “How are you holding up, Party Girl?” Josh asks.
I take a deep breath and tap out an honest answer to the question, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Not good. The Party Girl doesn’t feel at all like partying right now.”
“I know what you mean. The Playboy doesn’t feel at all like playing right now, either.” He adds a sad face to the end of his message.
Well, as long as I’m being honest, I might as well go all in. “I’ve never cried so many tears in all my life, Josh,” I write. And, of course, the act of writing that message makes me cry even harder. “This is the worst day of my life.”
I’ve no sooner pressed send on that message than my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Josh.
I bolt out of my chair and into the hallway to answer. “Hi,” I say softly into my phone, my cheeks suddenly hot. I don’t like crying in front of men, even over the telephone. It always ignites their superhero instincts—and I’m not a girl who needs to be saved.