by Lauren Rowe
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll know for sure after I read your application. And by the way, I didn’t say anything about waking up gagged. You just added that part.” She raises one of her eyebrows at me.
I feel my cheeks blazing, despite my best efforts to keep a neutral face.
“Sarah sure enjoyed reading Jonas’ application,” she says. “Maybe I’ll like yours as much as she liked his.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is about. Jonas and Sarah.”
She shrugs, but her body language tells me I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“But Jonas didn’t willingly give Sarah his application, you might recall—he sent it to an anonymous intake agent. If Jonas had met Sarah in real life the way I’ve met you, he never would have given her his fucking application, not in a million years, I guarantee it. Sarah only had it because Jonas had no choice in the matter—and she misappropriated it for her personal use.” I sip my drink slowly. “Shame on her.”
“But that’s my whole point. Jonas wouldn’t normally have given it to her—and yet that’s exactly why they clicked so hard and fast. All cards on the table. Nothing to hide. No way to hold back, even if they wanted to. I think there’s something to that kind of forced honesty.”
Oh, she’s good, but I’m not gonna fall for her manipulations. “Sure you wanna try it—it’s a one-way street. No downside for you.”
We sip our drinks again, eying each other.
“Yeah, but most likely a huge upside for you,” she says. “Think about it like that.”
She makes an excellent point, I must admit. But I’d never tell her that. “Did Sarah show you Jonas’ application, by any chance?” I ask.
“No. She wouldn’t even summarize it verbally for me. And she wouldn’t tell me what she wrote to him in response, either.”
“Yeah, neither would Jonas. Not a word.”
“Damn. I’m dying to know.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, whatever they said to each other, it sure seems to have worked out well for them.” She looks earnest. “It seems like maybe they’re on to something with all that... forced honesty.”
Well, shit. If I knew she was right—if I knew participating in some sort of bizarre honesty-game would turn out to be some sort of unparalleled aphrodisiac, I’d be all in. I really would. But I don’t know if she’s right. For all I know, my application could easily have the opposite effect than she’s anticipating. It could make her run away, screaming. And, regardless, at this point, I’m probably doomed no matter what it might say. She’s pinning so much expectation on the damned thing, it can’t possibly live up to whatever kinkfest she’s imagining it to be. No matter what it says, it’s gonna be anticlimactic now.
And, more importantly, is it gonna open up an entire dialogue I have no intention of having? What I wrote in my application is a fucking time capsule—a moment in time I have no desire to revisit or fucking explain. My stomach twists. Yeah, it’s settled. No matter what, I’m not gonna give this goddamned terrorist my fucking application.
“Do you usually practice ‘complete honesty’ with guys before you’ll even kiss them?” I ask.
“No. I can’t remember ever practicing ‘complete honesty’ with a guy, period,” she replies. “Have you ever practiced complete honesty with a woman?”
“Complete?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I came very close once. It didn’t work out very well.”
She twists her mouth.
“But enough about that.” I drain my drink. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists, like I said. So make your unreasonable demands all night long if you want—you’re not getting what you want.”
She exhales. “I tell you what. Just tell me what your stupid application says—and we’ll call it a day. Tell me and then kiss me and then... who knows what might happen next?” She looks at me suggestively.
“Nope.”
Her pucker turns to a pout.
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“So you keep saying.”
“You don’t even care about my stupid application. You’re just trying to win.”
“I could say the same thing about you. At least I’m being reasonable.”
“You’re being reasonable?”
“Yes. I backed down from my original demand and said you could just tell me what’s in it. And I’ve offered to answer any questions honestly tonight. But you? You’re just sticking to your guns, not budging an inch.”
“All right. Show me how it’s done.” I lean forward, my eyes blazing. “Play the honesty-game.”
“Fine. Ask me anything.”
“Admit Cameron Fucking Schulz bored you to fucking tears.”
She twists her mouth—and then she nods.
I laugh. “I knew it.”
“I went back into the restaurant after we talked and after two minutes with the guy I wanted to gouge my eyes out.”
“Hey, maybe I like this honesty-game, after all.” I chuckle. “So how’d he take it when you turned him down?” I ask, picking up my drink gleefully.
I’m expecting her to laugh with me or at least break into a wide smile. But she doesn’t. Instead, she furrows her brow, takes a long sip of her drink, and levels me with an unflinching gaze. “I didn’t turn him down.”
Fourteen
Josh
She continues staring at me, her blue eyes sparkling with defiance.
“You fucked Cameron Schulz?” I blurt.
Her cheeks flush. “Back at his place.” She maintains my gaze, her eyes blazing. “He has a very nice house, bee tee dubs. Just what you’d expect of a professional baseball player.”
I don’t know whether to cry or scream. Or charter an airplane to Seattle and kick Cameron Fucking Schulz’s ass. Oh my fucking God. I glance around the bar, my heart racing, clenching and unclenching my fists.
She fishes a crunchie thing out of the bowl in front of us and pops it into her mouth. “And I’m not sorry or ashamed about it. He was sweet and I got to check off one of my fantasies. (I’m big on fantasies, bee tee dubs. It’s kinda my thing.) So, yeah, I count the entire experience as a win-win.”
I open and shut my mouth like a fish on a line.
“News flash, Playboy. Not all sex has to be deep and meaningful. Even for the members of the species with vaginas.”
I’m still speechless.
She drains her drink.
“What fantasy did you get to check off?” I finally say. Oh my God, I feel physically ill just saying the words.
“Well, gosh, that’s kind of a personal question.” She laughs. “But since we’re being completely honest and all, I’ll tell you. One of my all-time fantasies has always been to have sex with a professional athlete—though admittedly, in a manner much more exciting than it went down with Cameron.” She pops another crunchie into her mouth. “I slept with a guy on the football team in college who was drafted by the Lions his senior year, but he went pro after I slept with him so I don’t think that counts as having sex with a pro athlete. Do you think it does?” She pops another crunchie thing into her mouth and washes it down with her martini.
I press my lips together, incapable of saying a goddamned thing. I’m feeling a strange mixture of arousal and rage and complete repulsion.
“Oh, please,” she finally says. “You think sex always has to be something deep and meaningful and profound? Pffft.”
I make a face.
“Well, then. Why should it be any different for me? Just because I have a vagina?”
I lean back in my chair. “So you say. I’m not sure I believe it.”
She laughs.
“Just tell me right now, Kat. Do you really have a vagina? Because I swear to fucking God, if you’re hiding a dick and balls under there, I’m gonna lose my fucking shit.”
She laughs. “I’m not a dude. I promise.”
“Because you’re acting like a dude right now.”
“Nope. Rest assured, I do
indeed have a vagina and ovaries and fallopian tubes. Oh, and boobs, too, which I’ve been told multiple times are ‘absolutely perfect,’ bee tee dubs. But I can certainly understand your confusion about my genitalia, because I’m actually an honorary dude, probably from growing up with four brothers and all.”
I can’t formulate a response. My head is reeling.
“And, to be clear, I don’t have only meaningless sex. I absolutely love meaningful sex, too, but I’m not hung up about it either way. I do what I want—oh, and I’m very selective. I’m just saying when I do have meaningless sex, it’s because I want to do it—and, therefore, I’m not at all sorry or ashamed about it. My choice.”
I mull that over.
“So I take it you’ve never had meaningless sex, then?” she asks. “That’s so sweet.”
“This is a really bizarre conversation. Excuse me,” I say to the bartender. “Two more shots of Patron, please.”
“Have you ever wished you could have meaningless sex, Josh?” she persists.
I roll my eyes. “I’ve had meaningless sex, Kat.”
“But it was somehow supposed to be simultaneously meaningful for the woman you were screwing, is that it?”
“No. Of course, not.”
“Well, there you go. Works both ways. Have you ever had meaningful sex?”
“Of course. I strongly prefer it, actually. But I find it’s much, much harder to come by.”
She nods. “I agree. I prefer it, too—and, yes, it’s much, much harder to come by.”
We stare at each other for a long beat.
The bartender places our shots in front of us.
“To you, Kat—to the honorary dude who’s blowing my mind right now.”
“To you, Josh—to the playboy who’s maybe not quite as much of a playboy as I originally thought.”
We knock back our shots.
“Whew,” she says. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“So do you possess any other dude-like qualities besides unapologetically engaging in meaningless sex with sports stars?” I ask.
“Well, my brothers say I laugh like a dude, but I don’t know about that.”
“You do. Totally.”
“I hardly ever cry.”
“Okay. That’s a plus.”
“I’m not easily offended, but when I am, watch the fuck out, because I’ve got a fucking temper, motherfucker, and I will cut you.”
“Whoa. Good to know. Anything else?”
“Well, I can burp the alphabet. And I don’t flinch when men fart around me—the sound of men farting is just white noise to me at this point, like a sound machine that lulls me to sleep.”
I laugh. “Wow.”
“Yup.”
“What about girlie stuff? Tell me some of that stuff so I don’t start imagining you hiding a dick and balls under there.”
“Well, let’s start with the biggest girlie thing of all: I have a vagina.”
“That’s definitely a biggie. Glad to hear it.”
“Oh, and here’s something. I like saying the word vagina. Vagina, vagina, vagina. I say it a lot. Vagina.”
“Actually, I think that’s another dude thing. Vagina, vagina, vagina. See? I like saying it, too. Vagina.”
“Or maybe that’s a girlie thing about you.”
“Hmm. I never thought of it that way. Vagina. Hmm. I dunno. You may be right.”
“Have you noticed people never say that word?” she says. “Why is that?”
“Because they’re pussies,” I reply.
She laughs.
“What else?” I ask. “Tell me something really girlie about you that’ll prove you’ve got a vagina under there, once and for all.”
“Okay. Well, I’m a sucker for sequins and fringe.”
“You and Neil Diamond. That proves nothing.”
She laughs. “Good point. You’re right. Okay. Let’s see. Pink is my favorite color.” She looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “I love getting pedicures and doing yoga and drinking white wine. Oh, and eating cupcakes. That’s all pretty girlie.”
“Especially if you do all of it while wearing sequins and fringe,” I say.
She laughs. “I have Hello Kitty sheets on my bed. And I’m not talking about my childhood room at my parents’ house. I currently have Hello Kitty sheets on my bed in my apartment.”
“Whoa.”
“Kitty Kat,” she says by way of explanation. She winks.
“I figured.”
“Let’s see. Well, my all-time favorite movie is The Bodyguard. My close second after that is Pretty Woman. And the bronze goes to Magic Mike.”
“Okay, okay. That’s it,” I say, holding up my hands. “I need nothing further. I’m now one hundred percent convinced you’ve got a vagina.”
“Whew. What a relief. I was beginning to worry my dick was really, really tiny.”
I laugh.
We sit and stare at each other for a long moment. I’d pay an inordinate amount of money to know what she’s thinking right now. Right after paying an inordinate amount of money to fuck her.
“You said sleeping with a pro athlete is one of your fantasies?” I say.
“Correct. Well, it was.” She snickers and makes a “check mark” motion with her finger in the air.
I grimace.
She laughs. “But, actually, my pro-athlete fantasy is a bit more elaborate than what I did with Cameron. And it involves an NFL player, actually—not a baseball star—so maybe that checkmark was a wee bit premature.”
“Wow. Your fantasy is pretty specific, huh?”
She nods. “MVP of the Super Bowl, to be exact—in the locker room after the big game.”
“Interesting. Are all your fantasies that specific?”
She nods. “You have no idea.”
“You’ve got a lot of fantasies?” I ask.
“I do. Lots and lots.” She sips her drink.
I’m finding it a bit hard to breathe. “All of them specific?”
“Most of them.”
“Tell me some of them,” I say. I can feel my cheeks blazing.
She leans forward. “I’ll tell you all of them—just as soon as you tell me what you wrote in your application.”
I smile. “Here we go again. No.”
She exhales. “Okay, then. No fantasies for you.” She licks her lips. “Too bad. You would have liked them.”
I squint at her.
“Answer a question for me, Josh.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I sip my drink.
“Did you sleep with someone while you were in New York?”
I choke on my drink. Jesus. This woman’s gonna be the death of me.
Under any other circumstances, I’d lie right now. But after what she told me about Cameron, that’s obviously not an option.
I take a long, deep breath. “Yeah.”
Her eyes light up. “I knew it. Such a hypocrite.”
“I’m not a hypocrite. I slept with a girl I used to know a long time ago. We both just happened to be in New York at the same time, by sheer coincidence. Completely meaningless.”
She smiles. “Ah. Blast-from-your-past sex—definitely not a fantasy of mine.” She shudders. “That can be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How so?”
“It can bring up old feelings—and usually only for one person, which is never good.” She shudders again.
I scoff. “There were no old feelings to bring up. We dated for, like, four months seven years ago, and I don’t think we had sober sex more than twice.”
She purses her lips. “How’d you guys wind up hooking up after all this time?”
I exhale. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
I have no desire to tell this story. I exhale and run my hand through my hair.
“Come on, Playboy. Spill it.”
I roll my eyes. “My good friend Reed happened to be in New York last week because one of his bands was doing Saturday Night Live. Coincidenta
lly, Reed’s ex-girlfriend Isabel and her best friend—the girl in question—had just come back from a week in France and stopped in New York so Isabel could do this TV interview thing. The girls figured out Reed and I were both in New York by total coincidence—thank you, Instagram—so they invited us to go to the show taping with them. After the show, we all went out for dinner and drinks and I... got... shit-faced... and made an impulsive and extremely stupid decision.” I feel sick. I wouldn’t normally be saying a word of this to anyone, let alone a woman I’m interested in sleeping with. Why am I saying all this?
Kat sips her drink quietly. “So your friend Reed’s in a band?”
“That’s what you want to know after everything I just said? You wanna know if my friend Reed’s in a band?”
She shrugs. “To start with, yeah.”
“No, Reed’s not in a band—he owns a record label. He also co-owns a dance club here in Vegas. Maybe I’ll take you there tonight.”
“Oh, I’d love that. I love to dance. Who’s the band that played on Saturday Night Live?”
I pause. “That’s really what you’re curious about? You’re not gonna ask me about her?”
“Oh, I’m getting there, trust me. I’m just playing it cool.”
I laugh. “Ah, stealing a page out of my book.”
“It’s a good page.”
“Red Card Riot.”
“That’s the band on your friend’s label? Wow. I love them.”
“Yeah, they’re awesome.”
She screeches the chorus from Red Card Riot’s monster rock hit, “Shaynee.”
“Great song,” I say.
“Have you met them?” she asks.
“No, the guys in the band didn’t come out with us in New York. I think they had some groupies to ‘meet and greet.’”
“I’m sure they did. They’re huge right now—your friend Reed must be thrilled.”
“Yeah. He’s always had quite the knack for spotting talent. A bit of a Midas touch.”
She takes a sip of her drink and then levels me with an unflinching gaze. “So do you plan to see her again?”
“Okay, here we go.”
“I told you I’d get to it.”
“And you did.”
She pauses. “So do you plan to see her?”