by Lauren Rowe
My skin prickles for just an instant, like I’ve got a chill even under the steaming hot water, and then an epic orgasm slams into me, making me spurt a massive load all over my hands. I shudder with my release and lean my head against the marble shower wall.
“Kat,” I say out loud, like she’s lying next to me in bed. “Oh my God.”
That’s the first time in a really long time I’ve stuck with the fantasy of one woman while jacking off. I usually start out thinking about whatever woman I’ve been seeing lately, whatever sex act we might have recently performed, and then, at some point, move on to that raven-haired dental assistant I always fantasize about, even though she’s married and never gives me the slightest whiff of a come-on, or the college professor I used to fuck during office hours during my second year at UCLA, or, occasionally, the platinum-blonde Swiss foreign exchange student in high school who de-virginized me when I was a wee little freshman, the one who taught me exactly where to touch her and how to get her off. And then, right at climax, without fail, whether I like it or not, my brain inevitably slams me with Emma’s angelic face, the face that fooled me for so long into thinking she was The One.
Hot water is gushing down my back.
“Kat,” I say again, reliving the vision of her riding me, her face awash in ecstasy.
She’s the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.
Holy shit.
I want this girl.
I want her bad.
And I’m stuck here with my goddamned brother.
Seven
Josh
When I enter the family room after my shower, Jonas is nowhere to be found, which is good because, after his little tantrum in the car, I still feel like punching him in his pretty face. I grab a beer from the fridge, plop myself down on Jonas’ pristine white couch, and turn on the basketball game.
Shit. I should be with the Party Girl with a Hyphen right now, pouring on the charm, making her realize this story’s ending is inevitable—not babysitting my high-maintenance brother. But I can’t leave him right now, especially to go chase a girl (even if that girl happens to be a particularly gorgeous one). He’s just too wound up. I’d never forgive myself if he lost his shit completely and did something stupid.
I take a giant swig of my beer. Seriously, though. I don’t blame Jonas for freaking out about Sarah, despite what I said to him before. What the fuck’s going on with her? Is she fucking with him? I mean, in theory I understand why Sarah opted to stay with her mom instead of recuperating at her temperamental boyfriend’s house. Jonas isn’t exactly anyone’s first choice as a relaxation buddy. But why has Sarah been so fucking non-communicative with the poor guy while she’s resting up? Is she doing what I always do—keeping the other person guessing? If so, why? He’s obviously waiting with bated breath to hear from her—she must know that. And yet she’s not calling him back? She’s just been engaging in superficial text conversations with the poor guy, tearing a page right out of my book. I hate to admit it, but things don’t look good for my brother’s chance at a happy ending here.
I shake my head and exhale. Please, God, let this girl call him and tell him she wants him, once and for all. Please, God, let her do the equivalent of holding a boom box over her fucking head. Because if Jonas shatters again, then it’s gonna be me who’ll have to pick up his infinite pieces—again. And at some point, there’s not gonna be enough superglue in the world to hold that motherfucker together anymore.
I take another long swig of my beer.
Well, shit. I should just call Sarah for him and ask her what the fuck’s going on. I down the rest of my beer. Hell yeah. That’s exactly what I should do. Nobody fucks with my brother. She seems like the coolest girl in the world, I must admit—but right now she’s fucking with him. No doubt about it. And that’s not cool.
No. Obviously, I can’t do that. She’s not fucking with him. I’m just being an idiot. She was stabbed. She’s being hunted by a global crime syndicate. Jesus. Maybe placating Jonas’ feelings isn’t high on her priority list right now.
Poor Jonas. My stomach twists. What the fuck am I gonna do with him?
I run my hand through my hair, my stomach twisting into knots. I exhale loudly.
Well, I gotta do something.
A smile dances on my lips. Maybe I should try to get some inside information from her hot best friend? Now there’s a call I certainly don’t mind making.
I pull out my phone and I’m assaulted with a naked selfie from Bridgette, her legs spread-eagle, her fingers shoved up her hairless crotch, a huge smile on her face. The note accompanying the photo reads, “Come and get it, Faraday!”
I roll my eyes. What the fuck have I been doing, messing around with Bridgette? She’s stunning to look at, but she’s such a fucking train wreck, it’s not even worth it.
“Your waxer missed a spot,” I text to her in reply.
Her reply is immediate. “Ha, ha. Are you gonna come hit this or not?”
“Not. I’m in Seattle with my brother. Family emergency.”
“Oh damn,” she writes. “I was in the mood for some huge Faraday peen. I don’t always do peen, but when I do, I make it huge Faraday peen.”
“The most interesting woman in the world,” I write, though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“I guess I’ll have to find some other huge peen to satisfy me, then,” Bridgette writes.
“Good luck with that. Once a girl’s had Huge Faraday Peen, no other peen shall do.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to get me some pussy. You know I’m a big believer in affirmative action.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Bridge. Enjoy.”
“So when will you be back in LA?”
“A couple days at least,” I write. “Just depends on how long my brother needs me.” Of course, I have no desire to fuck Bridgette when I get back to LA, whenever that happens to be. I’ve long since lost interest. But we’re so rarely in the same city at the same time, given both of our travel schedules, I’ve never felt the need to make a formal declaration of my lack of interest.
“Okay. See ya around,” she writes. “Say hi to your big dick for me.”
I stare at my phone for a long minute. Really? That’s it? ‘Say hi to your big dick’? I tell the woman I’ve got a family emergency and that the length of my stay in Seattle depends on how long my brother needs me and she doesn’t even ask me what’s up? Or if my brother’s okay? Well, that’s Bridgette for you in a nutshell: a sociopathic narcissist, through and through.
I’m done. I should have done this a long time ago. I’ve spiraled into total douchebaggery since Emma, and I’m fucking sick of myself.
“Hey, Bridgette,” I type. “I’m gonna take a break from meaningless booty calls and sociopathic narcissism for a while. Well, forever, actually. It’s been super fun. Thanks for the memories. Best of luck.” I press send. A total dick move, but I don’t care. She’s not even gonna ask me if everything’s okay with my family? Didn’t I just tell her I’m in Seattle for a fucking family emergency? Jonas is literally my only family, other than my uncle, and she knows it—I told her about Jonas once when she told me about her sister going into rehab—and she’s not even gonna ask me if he’s okay?
“Sure thing,” she writes back immediately. “I’m going to Milan next week and then to Barbados for a shoot. I’ll text you next time I’m in LA, just in case you change your mind, which we both know you will. Küsse, Faraday.”
I’m tempted to write something like, “Erase me from your contacts,” but I refrain. I’ll just leave it. I said what needed to be said. And it felt pretty damned good, too. I just turned down one of the most objectively beautiful women in the entire world. (Well, physically, anyway—I think her heart is filled with battery acid.) That’s got to be a sign I’m headed in a new, healthier direction.
There’s a clattering noise in the kitchen and I look up. Jonas is freshly showered, doing something in the kitchen, looking like a
bull in a china shop. “I’m making myself some kale-apple-beet-spinach-carrot juice,” he shouts at me. “You want some?”
I hold up my beer. “No, I’ve got my vitamins right here, bro, thanks.”
He doesn’t reply.
I feel electrified. I should have told Bridgette I wasn’t interested in her a long time ago. It’s time to clean up my act. My little vacation in The Club was perfectly understandable, and I’m not at all sorry about it, but after that, I just kept going in vacation-mode in my real life, too. I don’t need to see a shrink to figure out I’ve been wallowing in self-pity since Emma, afraid to get back in the dating pool with real women. But it’s been almost a fucking year since Emma kicked me in the teeth and then didn’t even have the courtesy to break up with me officially before running off with that ascot-wearing cocksucker. It’s seriously time for me to move on and stop acting like a douche. That’s it. No more mainlining cotton candy for me—it’s time for me to start feasting on some meat and potatoes again.
“Hey, you know what?” I call to Jonas. “Yeah, gimme some kale-apple-whatever-whatever juice. Sounds great, bro.”
I swig my beer, letting my mind wander. Today marks a new era for me. No more women who are only in it for courtside seats at Lakers games or backstage passes to concerts—women who don’t even ask me if I’m okay when I’ve had a family fucking emergency.
Kat’s beautiful face flickers across my mind, but I force myself not to think about her. This isn’t about Kat in particular. This is about me checking back into reality. Moving on. Getting my personal life back on track. This is about me getting off the Douche Train.
I tap out a text. “Hey, Party Girl with a Hyphen. I’ve got a quick question for you.”
She answers immediately. “Hey, Playboy. Did you make it back up to Seattle okay? How are you doing? Is Jonas hanging in there?”
Well, holy shit. After my text exchange with Bridgette, Kat’s genuine interest in how we’re doing feels like a thunderbolt cracking the sky. Is this just a coincidence or a sign from God?
“Jonas is a fucking wreck,” I reply. “A total asshole to be around. That’s why I’m texting you, actually. Do you know if Sarah’s been avoiding Jonas?”
“Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?”
“It seems like she’s giving him the cold shoulder, maybe—but, of course, she’s also recently been stabbed by a hitman, so it could be that. But, seriously, Sarah hasn’t asked to see Jonas since she left the hospital. That seems a bit odd. I’m worried he’s about to get crushed. He’s really, really into her, Kat—like, seriously out of his mind for this girl.”
“I’ll see if I can get some info,” Kat writes. “But Sarah’s my best friend, so it’s not a lock I’ll be able to tell you whatever I find out.”
“I understand. But I’m kinda desperate for any little crumb you can feed me. Any intel you could throw my way would be greatly appreciated. I’d owe you one.”
“Well, I will say this—as far as I know, Sarah’s absolutely crazy about Jonas.”
“Good to hear.”
“So how are you doing, Playboy?” Kat writes. “Are you okay? Must be hard trying to keep Jonas on track all the time. From what I saw at Jonas’ house, you have your work cut out for you.”
Yeah, there’s no question about it: this text exchange with Kat is a sign from God. I can’t remember the last time a woman asked me sincerely how I’m doing.
“Thanks for asking,” I write. “I’m okay. I just decided to stop being a total douche so I’m doing pretty good.”
Jonas sits down next to me on the couch and hands me a juice concoction that looks like it was squeezed out of an alien.
“Thanks,” I say.
He doesn’t reply, but instead turns up the volume on the basketball game.
“You’ve decided to stop being a douche? So you were a douche and now you’re magically not one anymore?” Kat writes.
“Correct,” I write.
“Any particular thing that’s inspired your decision to make douchebaggery a thing of the past?”
“Nope. Just had to be done.”
“Hey, you wanna start working on our business plan?” Jonas asks, swatting my thigh. “I’ve got a thousand ideas.”
“When the game’s over,” I say to Jonas. “There’s only ten more minutes left.” I look at my phone again. “Hey, can you talk rather than text?” I type to Kat, suddenly yearning to hear her voice.
“Not right now. I’m just now leaving a client meeting with my boss. We’re heading back to the office in her car.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at a PR firm. We just met with a client about a social media campaign for a chain of barbeque restaurants.”
“How’d it go?”
“Good. They loved everything I came up with, except for my proposed slogan. (Damn it!) But I’m gonna work on it with this awesome girl from my office when I get back to the office. No worries.”
“Hey, I’ve got a great slogan you can use. My gift to you.”
“Awesome. I’ll take any help I can get. Hit me.”
“I’ve got your pulled pork right here, baby!”
“LOL. OMG. That’s actually kind of brillz. This chain is all about being brash and blue-collar and funny. They might actually like it.”
“Oh no. That wasn’t my slogan idea. That was just me trying to sweet talk you, PG. The slogan idea is this: ‘Hey, if you like barbeque, then we’d appreciate it if you’d eat at our restaurant. Thank you.’ What do you think? Pure genius, right?”
“OMG. I’m literally laughing out loud right now in my boss’ car. You’re a PR whiz, PB.”
“I’ve got all kinds of mad skillz, PG. I’m a wise and powerful man; you should know that up front.”
“And a total douche—oh, wait, except that you’re not now. Scratch that.” She attaches a winking emoji.
“Exactly. You only live once, right? Best not to waste valuable time being a total douche.”
“Hey! I say that ALL THE TIME,” she writes.
“You say ‘best not to waste valuable time being a total douche’ all the time?”
“Haha. No. I say, ‘You only live once.’”
“So do I. YOLO. It’s kind of my thing.”
“Oh, God, no! Not YOLO. Don’t say YOLO! Oh, the humanity!”
“Douchey?”
“Yes. Don’t do it!
“What about ‘go big or go home.’ Can I say that? Because I say that all the time, too,” I write.
“Yes. And you may also say, ‘I can sleep when I’m dead.’ Those are fine. Just not YOLO,” she writes.
“What about ‘Work hard, play hard’? I say that one all the time, too.”
“You like spiffy little catchphrases, huh?”
“Hey, at least I’m not running around quoting Plato all the time.”
“What’s wrong with Plato?” she writes.
“Hang around my crazy-ass brother for a day and you’ll see.”
“LOL. Okay.”
“Oh, I just thought of another one I say all the time. ‘Under-promise and over-perform.’”
“Oh, words to live by,” she writes.
“I do. Religiously.”
“Interesting.”
“So is that it?” I write. “I can say all that stuff, just not YOLO?”
“Correct. Just not YOLO. EVER. Though you CAN say the actual words ‘you only live once.’ Just not ‘YOLO.’”
“So many fucking rules. Jesus.”
“Dude, I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.”
I laugh out loud.
“And for God’s sake don’t get a YOLO tattoo!” she writes. “Promise me!”
I burst out laughing. “I make no such promise.”
“Don’t do it!”
“How about a YOLO tattoo on my ass? Can I do that?”
“LOL! The absolute worst possible scenario! DO NOT DO IT! TOTALLY AGAINST THE RULES!!!!”
I can’t sto
p laughing. “There’s something you really should know about me, PG: I like breaking rules.”
“Do what you must, but you’ve been warned. A YOLO tattoo is social suicide.”
I laugh again. “Okay. Good to know. So what other really uncool things should I avoid like the plague besides a YOLO tattoo on my ass? Help an old man out.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty,” I write.
“Holy shitballs! Where’s your walker?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Aw, just a kitten.”
“Meow.”
“This is good. I need help from a whippersnapper like yourself to keep me in the cool. What else should I absolutely avoid, according to these rules of yours?
“Not MY rules. They’re just THE rules.”
“Okay. What else is against THE rules?”
“A barbed-wire tattoo around your bicep fo shizzles. Don’t do it.”
I laugh to myself. I couldn’t agree more with that one. “Okay,” I write. “I promise I won’t get that no matter how drunk I am.”
“And don’t get a tribal band around your bicep, either, unless you’re from the Islands. Are you an Islander, Josh?”
“Nope. Duly noted.”
“Or dragon. Cliché.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Yup. And God help you if you get a girlfriend’s name tattooed onto your arm. Just ask Johnny Depp. He had to get ‘Winona Forever’ lasered to ‘Wino Forever.’ Lasers are painful, Josh. Not good. Don’t do it.”
“Yeah, I could see how that could be a bit of an oops.”
“A little gold hoop in your left ear. Don’t do it.”
“Jesus. The Rules are as long as my fucking arm. Anything else?”
“Nope. Avoid all that redonkulousness and you’ll be super cool.”
“So you’re allowed to use the word redonkulousness and I can’t say YOLO?”