The Josh and Kat Trilogy: A Bundle of Books 1-3

by Lauren Rowe

  She laughs.

  “Reed got a tattoo that night, too—but not a dragon. His is way, way cooler than mine, actually—which isn’t surprising, since he’s way cooler than me.”

  “Reed was in Bangkok with you?”

  “Yeah. After my first year of college, I traveled the whole summer with Jonas, all over the place, and for a short bit of our trip, some of my buddies joined us.”

  “You like to travel?” she asks.

  “I love it. You?”

  “I haven’t done a lot of it, but I’ve loved it when I’ve gotten the chance. My parents took the whole family to Mexico for their anniversary when I was a teenager. And then we went on a Caribbean cruise for Christmas a couple years later. That was super fun.”

  I make a face.

  “You don’t like the Caribbean?”

  “I don’t like cruises—unless, you know, you’re talking about a private yacht. That’s the only way to travel by sea.”

  She scoffs. “Oh, well. Who doesn’t demand a private yacht when traveling by sea? Duh.”

  I cringe.

  “It’s not like I have stock in a cruise line or anything,” she sniffs. “I was just saying I was happy to get to go somewhere out of the country, that’s all, like most normal people would be. And, by the way, my dad’s a pharmacist and my mom has her own little interior designer company, so it was a really big deal for them to take five kids on a week-long cruise.”

  I feel my cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was really snobby and out-of-touch of me to say. Sometimes my inner douchebag oozes out. Please forgive me.”

  But she’s not done with me yet. “I guess you better get another tattoo to remind yourself to be humble, huh? Because the ‘Grace’ one doesn’t seem to be doing the trick.”

  There’s a really long pause, during which I feel like my tongue is literally tied into knots along with my stomach. She looks out the window of the cab, apparently gathering herself, her cheeks bursting with color, and I stare at her profile, marveling at her beauty. How is it possible she keeps getting more and more attractive to me? Usually, a beautiful woman like Kat becomes less and less physically attractive the more I get to know her. I mean, with someone like Kat, you’d think there’d be only one way to go from here, right? But, nope, I’m more and more drawn to her with each passing minute.

  “I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “I’m a total douchebag sometimes. I know this about myself. Please always call me on it. So few people in my life do.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what you think it means: that you will obviously call me on my shit. No more, no less. That’s all it means.”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, that’s true. I will.”

  “Jesus. You’re insane.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I can’t even blame you for being out of touch, honestly. I mean, how are you supposed to know what’s normal? Just look at your effing shoes, for crying out loud. How much did those things cost?”

  I look down at my shoes.

  “More than a thousand bucks?” she asks.

  I flash her an annoyed look.

  “I thought so.” She shakes her head. “You never stood a chance.”

  “Again, you lick my balls and punch ’em at the same time.”

  She laughs.

  For a moment, we look out the window at the rat-haired horror shows dragging their sorry asses down The Strip in the pre-dawn light.

  “Oh, look at that poor girl,” I say pointing to a young woman who unintentionally looks like an extra in the Thriller video.

  “Poor baby,” Kat says. “Doing the Walk of Shame in Vegas is like reaching the Super Bowl in the sport.” She shakes her head. “I’ve done the walk of shame a time or two myself—but never in Vegas. I’ve got my standards, for crying out loud.”

  I laugh.

  “To be honest, it always pisses me off that people say women are doing a ‘walk of shame,’ but they never say that about guys. I mean it takes two to tango, right?”

  “Absolutely.” I look out the window. “I’ve definitely done my share of shame-walking.” I scoff. “I’ve done my share of everything, actually. I was a bit out of control for a while.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Was The Club part of your out-of-control phase?” she asks.

  Goddammit. I hate that she knows about The Club. There’s no other circumstance in which a woman I’m interested in would know about that. “No,” I say. “The Club was just a short vacation from my adult responsibilities. I did that way after my out-of-control phase. It was just a blip. No more or less.”

  “And now it’s over—the blip, I mean?”

  “Yeah, now it’s over.”

  “Until the next blip.”

  I don’t reply—but she’s pegged me right. Surely, another blip’s coming at some point. When your brother is Jonas—and you’re his only lifeline—losing your shit for more than a blip here or there just isn’t an option.

  “Tell me the story of why you got your ‘grace’ tattoo,” she says. “Were you drunk and high in Thailand for that one, too?”

  I look out the window of the cab. “No, I got that particular tattoo in L.A. when I was stone-cold sober,” I say. “I was twenty-three and recently out of school—it took me a little while to graduate—and I decided it was time to stop throwing my life away on total and complete bullshit and start living a life that my...” I swallow hard. “That I could be proud of.” I shrug. “I decided to start living up to my name. So I decided to open a satellite office of Faraday & Sons and stop destroying myself, and the rest is history.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yeah, I opened the L.A. office about the time Jonas took over the main Seattle office.”

  “No, I mean, did you stop destroying yourself? Did you start living a life you could be proud of?”

  “Oh.” I run my hand through my hair. “Mostly. A few slip-ups now and again over the years.” I look into her gorgeous blue eyes. “But, yeah. By and large.”

  Another long pause.

  “Isn’t Thailand one of those countries where they could put you in jail and throw away the key if you get caught with drugs?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You said you were drunk and high as a kite in Thailand.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well. I thought I was invincible back then. Or maybe I didn’t care if I wasn’t. Actually, it’s funny you say that. I’ve got a pretty hairy story about that night. I’ll tell it to you some time, maybe.”

  There’s a long beat.

  “Josh, I know what happened to your parents,” she says. “Sarah told me. I’m really sorry.”

  I’m stunned. I had no idea Kat knew about my parents. What the fuck? She knows about The Club and my parents? Fuck.

  “It was a long time ago,” I respond stiffly.

  She doesn’t press me, thankfully, but she’s clearly looking at me with sympathy in her eyes. Shit. I don’t have any desire to be the Poor Little Rich Boy in anyone’s eyes, least of all Kat’s.

  “No worries,” I add. I squeeze her hand to reassure her and she squeezes back.

  Our taxi pulls up in front of our hotel and I help Kat out of the car. She’s pretty wobbly.

  “You okay?” I ask, holding her arm.

  “I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Just a little car sick, I think. I’ll be fine once I eat something.”

  We walk toward the front doors of our mammoth hotel.

  “Do you need to put on some dry undies before we eat? My briefs are still wet—I think my dick is getting chafed.”

  “Oh, well, we don’t want that,” she says. “Yeah, I could use a change, too. Let’s run up to our rooms and meet at that Americana restaurant on the far side of the casino in fifteen.”

  “You aren’t gonna pass out on your bed and not come back down, are you?” I ask.

  �
��Not a chance. I’m the Party Girl, remember? I’m a machine.”

  “Atta girl,” I say. “But I’d better walk you up to your room, just to make sure you get there safely.”

  “You mean so you can have sex with me,” she says coyly, batting her eyelashes. “I know your game, Playboy.”

  “Kat, I’m not gonna fuck you for the first time at six in the morning after a long-ass night of partying when you’re obviously drunk off your ass and, no offense, look like road kill.”

  She scowls at me.

  “Oh, wait, scratch all that. I forgot we’re playing the honesty-game here. The truth is I’d totally fuck you, despite all that, for sure—but I’m most definitely not gonna fuck you ’til you’ve dropped your ridiculous demands.”

  She makes a “good luck with that” face.

  “Hey, you’re the one who made The Rules, PG. I’m merely enforcing them.”

  She pauses, considering something. “Well, how about this? What if we fuck without any kissing?” she asks. “Would that be a loophole?”

  I laugh. The woman’s trying to find a loophole from her own bullshit? Clearly, she’s a heartbeat away from caving completely. “You’re not in any shape to negotiate on the bet, PG. You made your demands, and now you have to live with them. The only way out now is to concede. There’s no middle ground.”

  She scowls yet again.

  I suppress the urge to laugh out loud at her expression. She’s such a bullshitter, this girl. She wants me so bad, she’s about to pull her hair out. Time to turn up the heat.

  “Plus, I happen to like kissing when I fuck,” I say nonchalantly. “I like it a lot. Every variety of it.”

  She stops walking abruptly and puts her arms out like she’s trying to balance herself on a log.

  Oh man, she’s drunk. Her eyes are half-mast. Her hair’s matted against her head. Her eye makeup is smudged. And she’s still fucking gorgeous.

  “Look, here’s the thing you’re obviously not getting about me, Party Girl: I’ve been exercising superhuman patience my whole fucking life. You think you’re gonna wear me down? Nothing fucking wears me down—I’ve got the patience of a fucking saint. I’ve been the fixer my whole life—and nothing ruffles me. As far as I’m concerned, there’s a time and place for everything—including fucking the one and only Party Girl with a Hyphen—and until the right time for that bit of awesomeness presents itself, I’ll just wait and be patient, let you drip down your thighs ’til you’re begging me for it.”

  She’s speechless.

  I can’t suppress my laughter anymore. She’s too fucking cute. “Come on, PG. Let me get you to your room to change.” I grab her limp arm and usher her toward the hotel again, but after three more steps, she stops short and hunches over.

  “Kat?”

  She nods and puts her hand to her mouth. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She takes two more steps and stops again, grabbing her stomach.

  “Kat?” I grab her shoulders? “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I think I just need to—”

  Without warning, she bends over and barfs—all over the sidewalk—and all over my two-thousand-dollar shoes.

  Twenty-Two

  Kat

  I slowly open my eyes. I don’t feel great, but it definitely could have been a lot worse. When Josh brought me to my room after I barfed all over him, he helped me shower—in my bra and undies, I noticed—ordered me chicken noodle soup from room service, and made me drink a bunch of Gatorade and take four Ibuprofen before finally tucking me into bed. I have to admit, I kinda swooned at how attentive and sweet he was, even through my queasiness.

  I look at the clock. Three o’clock. Wow, I slept a full seven hours. I grab my phone and look at my emails. Damn. I’ve got two messages from my boss, attaching documents that require my attention. Obviously, I’m gonna have to head back to Seattle soon or risk losing my job. My work is piling up and I’ve already used up all my vacation days this year. Hmm. Maybe there’s a way for me to finagle this.

  I forward my boss’s email to my co-worker Hannah, asking her if maybe she’s willing to help a sistah out?

  Hannah’s email reply is immediate. “Of course, baby. I got you. Any time.”

  “Thanks, baby. You know I’ll return the favor.”

  “You’ve helped me with a thousand pitches, girl. And I still owe you big time for helping me with the politician who sent the dick pic to the teenager.”

  “You don’t owe me a damned thing,” I write. “And if you do, then helping me with this pitch puts you way ahead, for sure.”

  “Where are you? Still in Vegas?” Hannah writes.

  “Yeah. And currently hung over. Partied all night. You won’t believe who I partied with.”

  “Who?”

  “RED CARD RIOT!”

  “WTF!!!!!! Are you serious?”

  “Serious. LMFAO,” I write.

  “Cray,” Hannah writes.

  “Probs going to their concert tonight, too. And watching from backstage!!!!!”

  “No way! Double cray. Are they hot?”

  “Totes. But really young. Just wee little baybays.”

  “Oooooh, you could do the Mrs. Robinson thing. That’d be hot.”

  “That’s not one of my fantasies, actually. But, trust me, I’ve got plenty of others.”

  “Oh, I know you do. LOL,” Hannah writes.

  “Thanks again, girl. You’re a great friend.”

  “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, say hi to Sarah. How’s she feeling?”

  “She’s great. Breaking news: she’s in luuuuuurve.”

  “Awesome! With that guy she went to Belize with?”

  “Yup. And he’s in luuuuuuuurve with her, too.”

  “Aw.” Hanna attaches a heart emoji. “I’m jelly.” She attaches a green-faced emoji.

  “Me, too.” I exhale wistfully. “Okay, gotta go,” I write. “Just woke up. Gotta get some food in this sad-sack body.”

  “By all means. Partying requires fuel. Have fun.”

  “Thanks again for the assist.”

  “No worries. Have an extra drink for me. Or two or three.”

  “Thanks, Hannah Banana Montana Milliken.”

  “LOL. Any time, Kitty Kat.”

  “Meow.”

  “Mwah.”

  Phew. Catastrophe averted. At least for now. I have no doubt Hannah will style me—the woman’s damn good at PR—and that ought to buy me at least a little time. But, clearly, I can’t stay out here in Las Vegas forever. Sooner or later, the jig’s gonna be up. I just wish I knew how long Operation Ocean’s Eleven was going to last (and what my part in it might be).

  I scour the rest of my emails. Nothing important. I move on to my texts.

  There’s a text from Sarah. “Hey, Kitty Kat. What happened with you and Josh last night? Did you have fun? Winky winky boom boom? Jonas and I are heading out to Henderson to meet Oksana the Pimpstress right now. Kerzoinks! I just pissed my pants a little bit writing that. Okay, well, just wanted to check in and say hi and get all the juicy deets about last night. You’re probably sleeping, knowing you. Hope you didn’t barf, girl. But if you did, I hope you didn’t barf on Josh. But if you did, I hope Josh held your hair for you, since I wasn’t there to do it like usual. See you later when we get back. IF WE GET BACK.” She attaches a scared-face emoji. “If I don’t come back, just know I loved you with all my heart and soul. Oh, and, just in case, I hereby bequeath you my One Direction albums.”

  I tap out my reply. “Hey, girl. Just woke up. Yes, I barfed. Yes, Josh held my hair. He showered me and Gatoraded me, too, and then put me to bed.” I attach a blushing emoji. “Don’t say ‘IF we get back.’ NOT FUNNY. I love you, too, with all my heart and soul, and then some. It’s probably too late for you to get this now, but be super-duper careful with the pimpstress. Don’t leave Jonas’ side. See you when you get back. Can’t wait to hear all about it.” I attach an ear emoji. “And I don’t want your stinkin’ 1D albums, you tweener. If
I did, though, does this mean you’re ‘bequeathing me’ (WTF??) your entire laptop? Sorry to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I’m not sure I know how to extract the digital files off your laptop. Heehee. Love you, girl. Meow. Xoxo.”

  My next text is from Josh from an hour ago. “You up yet, PG?”

  I type a reply. “Hi, PB. Just woke up.”

  His reply is instantaneous. “You feeling like death warmed over?”

  “No, I feel pretty fab. Can you talk?”

  My phone rings. “Hey,” his smooth voice says. I hear slot machines ringing and people cheering in the background.

  “Thanks for putting me to bed and taking such good care of me. Sorry I barfed on your fancy shoes.”

  “I hated those shoes anyway. Total douchebag-shoes.”

  “I was thinking of getting something to eat before Jonas and Sarah get back from meeting the Pimpstress Extraordinaire. Do you know if they’re back yet?”

  “Not yet. I saw them before they left. They were both wearing matching platinum bracelets engraved with each other’s names.”

  “What? Oh my God.”

  “You should have seen them, Kat. Seriously, they can’t get enough of each other. They’re pretty cute.”

  My heart flips over in my chest. “Wow. Good for them.”

  There’s a long beat.

  Josh clears his throat. “So did you get any sleep?”

  “A ton. How about you?”

  “A couple hours at most. Henn and I are down in the casino playing craps, waiting for Jonas and Sarah to come back.”

  “Okay, I’ll get dressed and come on down.”

  “No. I don’t want you walking around alone. Text me when you’re ready to come down here.”

  “Will do.”

  I jump in the shower and wash my hair and lather my body from head to toe. And when I’m done with the functional aspects of my shower, I grab the showerhead and stick it between my legs, positioning the strong stream of water right on my clit. My body’s reaction to the vibrating water is extreme and instantaneous. Whoa, oh yeah, I’m ready to go.