by Lauren Rowe
Please provide a detailed statement regarding your sexual preferences. To maximize your experience in The Club, please be as explicit, detailed, and honest as possible. Please do not self-censor, in any fashion.
“Well, I feel like I’ve already answered this one. I want to read your application, word for word, without censorship of any kind, and then I want you to do whatever freaky things you’ve asked for in your application to me, exactly as described. I want to be your Mickey Mouse roller coaster, Josh—and I want you to be mine. Come on, Josh. YOLO. I’ve told you my secrets. Now it’s time for you to tell me yours.”
Thirty-One
Josh
“We really need to talk to your boss,” Jonas says to the FBI agent sitting across the table from us.
“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen. I’m who you get.”
“I’m Jonas Faraday,” Jonas says smoothly. “And this is my brother, Josh.”
I nod at the guy.
“We run Faraday & Sons in Seattle, L.A. and New York,” Jonas continues. “We’d like to talk to the head of this office.”
The kid shrugs. “I’m the only one available to talk to you, sir. Sorry.”
“How long have you been an agent?” Kat asks.
The guy shifts his attention to Kat in all her blonde glory and his entire demeanor detours from “stop wasting my time, bastard” to “I’d love to help in any way I can.”
“Four months,” he replies, his mouth relaxing into a semi-smile.
“Did you go to Quantico for training like they show in the movies?” Kat asks.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. That’s cool. So what’s your assignment? All I know about the FBI is what I saw in Silence of the Lambs.” Oh my God, Kat’s in full terrorist mode. I can’t help but smirk in admiration.
The agent’s smile broadens. “Well, new agents are assigned to run background checks for the first year, mostly. And, of course, I’m the lucky guy who gets to talk to all the nice people such as yourselves who come in off the streets of Las Vegas to report the crime of the century.”
“Everyone’s gotta start somewhere,” Kat says breezily. She leans forward like she’s telling a dirty secret. “So here’s the thing, Agent Sheffield. I’ve come here today off the streets of Las Vegas to report the crime of the century.”
He laughs.
Kat’s face turns serious. “Actually, I’m not kidding. I’m here to report the crime of the century.”
He props his hand under his chin, obviously enthralled by the mere sight of her, as any man would be. “What’s your name?”
“Katherine Morgan. But you can call me Kat.”
“Kat,” he repeats. “I tell you what. You guys file your report with me and I promise I’ll take a long look at it within the next two weeks—maybe even a week. And, if I see something there, I’ll most certainly investigate further.”
“Thank you, Special Agent Sheffield,” Kat says, biting her lip seductively. “I really appreciate that.” She bats her eyelashes. “What’s your first name?”
“Eric.”
“Special Agent Eric,” she purrs. “The thing is, this is an urgent matter—this is a career-making kind of case for an agent such as yourself, I swear to God.”
Holy shit. I feel like standing up and slow-clapping right now. She’s blatantly flirting to get Eric to read Sarah’s report—anyone could see that, even him—and yet, she’s so damned gorgeous and charming and unapologetic in her sensuality, he obviously doesn’t care if he’s being used.
“Henn,” Sarah interjects. “Will you please play Special Agent Sheffield that voicemail we have cued up?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Henn presses a button on his computer and a gruff male voice speaking Ukrainian fills the room.
“Yuri Navolska,” Sarah says. “About a minute after leaving that message, he sliced the external jugular vein in my neck and stabbed me in the ribcage, causing me to fall back and crack my skull on a sink ledge.”
I’ve suddenly got chills over my entire body, imagining that violence being inflicted on poor Sarah. I glance at Jonas and he’s clenching his jaw.
“If you need to see the scars on my head and torso, I’ll show you,” Sarah continues.
“No, that’s okay. I believe you.”
“Please,” Kat pleads. “These guys tried to kill my best friend. Just give us a couple hours of your time.”
Agent Eric sighs. “You’ve got more voicemails besides this one?”
“Several,” Henn says. “About all kinds of nasty stuff. Maksim Belenko’s a really bad dude—prostitution, weapons, drugs, money laundering.”
“Okay,” Eric says. He nods definitively. “Let’s dig in. We’ll go through the report together, page by page, and if it’s everything you say it is, I’ll take this to my boss today.”
Kat leaps up from her chair and gives Eric a big hug while Sarah and Henn take seats on either side of Agent Eric, their determination and excitement apparent.
I watch Kat for a long beat.
She’s obviously incredible to look at, but, watching her right now, it’s clear she’s much more than a gorgeous face (and slamming body). She’s a fucking force of nature. Smart as hell. Brilliant at reading people. Savvy. The most determined woman I’ve ever met. Which reminds me, what the hell is the email she sent me before we left for the FBI offices? God only knows what that little terrorist is up to now.
“I sent you an email, Playboy,” Kat said coyly about twenty minutes before we left our hotel. “Read it when you can.”
“Sure thing, PG,” I said.
But just then, Jonas asked me to research something about the jurisdiction of the DEA, and I got completely sidetracked.
I guess now would be a good time to read it, whatever it is—Sarah, Henn, Jonas, and Kat are busy talking about Sarah’s report, and I certainly don’t have anything to contribute to their conversation, eye candy that I am.
I quickly pull my laptop from its case and click into my email inbox. I scroll for a moment until I find Kat’s email from two hours ago. The subject line says, “Please read this.” There’s no text in the body of the message, just a Word document and three photo files attached. I click on Kat’s attached Word document and instantly have a fucking heart attack, followed immediately by a fucking boner.
“The following is my application to The Josh Faraday Club,” the document says. “All answers will be one hundred percent honest. (And, bee tee dubs, some of this stuff is kind of personal, so please keep it in confidence.)”
“Oh my God,” I blurt. I look up. Sarah, Henn, Jonas and Eric are absorbed in Sarah’s report—but Kat’s looking right at me, looking like she’s holding her breath.
She knows I’m reading it.
I feel my face turn completely red.
Kat smiles a wicked smile, motions to my computer like she’s saying, “Get back to work, asshole,” and then slowly, ever so slowly, returns her attention to the group.
I look back down at my screen, my heart beating out of my chest, and continue to read:
“. . . my initials spell KUM... Kum Shot, Jizz, Splooge, Pecker-Snot, Man-Yogurt, Dick-Spit, Jizz, Schlong-Juice, Jerk-Sauce,” she writes, and I put my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.
“. . . I have blonde hair, blue eyes, and a VAGINA,” she writes.
This time, I laugh out loud. I can’t stop myself.
I look up at Kat, chuckling. She’s already been watching me intently, biting the tip of her finger nervously. I shake my head at her, nonverbally calling her evil. She nods, a smart-ass expression on her face.
“. . . I’m attaching all three required photos with this application. Enjoy!”
I click into her first attached image. A silly headshot. She’s making a fishy-face and crossing her eyes, and yet, even making this ridiculous face, she’s gorgeous as hell.
Photo number two. Jesus Christ. The body that mesmerized me the other night when it was stomping down that hallway,
dripping wet.
I glance up at her.
Her chest is rising and falling visibly, mirroring mine.
I look back at my screen. Photo number three: something she’d ‘typically wear out in public.’ I click on the image and laugh out loud again. She’s pretending to pray to the porcelain gods, wearing her sparkly dress from the other night.
Jesus Christ.
She truly is the female version of me. Anything for a laugh.
What the fuck am I gonna do about this girl? It suddenly dawns on me, full-force: I’m powerless to resist her. I’ve been thinking all along I’ve got the upper hand with her, but I’ve been kidding myself. At the end of the day, she’s gonna get whatever she wants, eventually, from me and anyone else—no one could possibly resist her—and I know it. It’s inevitable. She’s fucking gravity. Death. Taxes. I feel like I’m hurtling in slow motion toward a brick wall, but I can’t stop myself.
I look down at my screen again and continue reading, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Aw, shit. My heart breaks for this Nate guy.
I keep reading.
And reading.
Motherfucker.
Garrett Bennett.
I grit my teeth. I feel the vein in my neck bulging. I wanna kill this fucker. I wanna hunt him down and rip him limb from limb. What kind of motherfucking asshole does that to a girl—any girl?—but especially one as awesome as Kat? He called my girl a slut? Said she’s not ‘marriage material’ just because she likes sex a whole lot? He’s the one who taught her how to like it so much, after all, didn’t he?—and he certainly reaped the benefits of her newfound sexual prowess. And then he turned it around on her and burned her at the stake for it? I feel literally homicidal right now, I really do. Having a live wire in the bedroom is every guy’s fantasy, and this guy made Kat feel like shit about it? If that motherfucker were here right now, I think it’s safe to say I’d be going to prison for what I’d do to him on federal property.
I keep reading, my blood boiling, my heart clanging in my ears.
“I want to read your application, word for word, without censorship of any kind, and then I want you to do whatever freaky things you’ve asked for in your application to me, exactly as described. I want to be your Mickey Mouse roller coaster, Josh—and I want you to be mine. Come on, Josh. YOLO. I’ve told you my secrets. Now it’s time for you to tell me yours.”
Holy fucking shit.
“So what do you want me to do?” Agent Eric asks, thumbing through the exhibit log.
“We want a meeting in D.C. within the next two days with power players at the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service,” Jonas says.
They continue talking, but I can’t follow their conversation. The words on my computer screen are calling to me like a siren—drawing me in like a drug.
I read the entire application again from start to finish, my mind racing, my heart variously racing and breaking, my blood boiling, and, most of all, my cock throbbing the whole time. And when I’m done reading it for the third time, I close my eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck to do. I’ve never wanted a woman so much in all my life. She’s a force of a nature. How am I supposed to resist a fucking tornado? A tsunami? An earthquake? I can’t.
“You’re not bullshitting me? You can do it?” Agent Eric asks Henn.
“We can do it,” Henn says.
“Then I’ll vouch for you with my boss,” Eric says. “I’ll do everything in my power.”
I breathe deeply, trying to control my racing thoughts and hard dick. What the fuck am I gonna do? I gotta give her my application, don’t I? Shit. Yeah, I do. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I’m gonna do it. There’s no other logical conclusion to this story. The woman just bared her entire soul to me, not just her sexual history. If I don’t at least give her my stupid application in return, then I truly am the sociopath she accused me of being. Not to mention a fucking pussy. And an asshole.
“Hey, Agent Sheffield,” Sarah says. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you. You do background checks, right?”
“Yeah,” Eric replies. “Every day.”
I’m instantly pulled away from my thoughts about Kat. I don’t recall a “favor” being part of the strategy Jonas and I cooked up for today’s meeting. What the fuck is Sarah talking about?
“I’d like you to find two people for me,” Sarah continues.
I look at Jonas as if to say, “What the fuck is she talking about?” and he shakes his head, totally at a loss.
“This isn’t a demand,” Sarah continues. “It’s just a personal favor. But it’s really important.”
I look at Kat and shoot her the same “What the fuck is she talking about?” look I just flashed Jonas. Kat shrugs, clearly as in the dark as the rest of us.
“Who are the two people?” Eric asks.
“The first is a woman named Mariela from Venezuela.”
Thirty-Two
Josh
The room warps and buckles. Did Sarah just say she wants Agent Eric to find Mariela from Venezuela? My brain can’t process what I’m hearing.
I look at Jonas. His face looks exactly the way I feel: blindsided.
If Jonas has told Sarah about Mariela, then he’s surely told her about Mom, too. Does that mean he’s told her everything?
“I don’t know her last name,” Sarah continues calmly, “but she worked for Joseph and Grace Faraday in Seattle during the years from…I’m guessing 1984 to around 1991.”
What the fuck is happening right now? I feel like Sarah just punched me in the balls. I glance at Jonas again. He’s got his hands over his face. Good idea. I do the same.
“In 1991, Grace Faraday was murdered in her home . . .” Sarah continues, and the minute she says Mom’s name this second time, I suddenly realize she just revealed the true meaning of my “Grace” tattoo to Kat.
I steal a quick look at Kat, and her eyes tell me she’s already put two and two together. She knows. Oh, fuck. I seriously can’t do this. Enough with the honesty-game. It’s too much. I put my hands over my face again. I’m shaking.
“Hang on,” Eric says. “Could you repeat all that?”
Sarah repeats everything again slowly, including Mom’s name, yet again, just in case Kat didn’t catch it the first two times. “Grace Faraday,” Sarah says. “She was murdered in her home... We need you to find Mariela—and if she’s not alive, then her children.”
“Okay. That sounds doable,” Agent Eric says.
Am I hearing that right? This FBI guy is gonna track down Mariela?
I look across the room at Jonas. He looks like he’s in total shock.
“Awesome, Eric,” Sarah says. “Thank you. And there’s one more woman, too. I don’t know her first name—but her maiden name was Westbrook.”
Oh Jesus Christ.
Jonas and I exchange a look of pure astonishment. This is beyond insanity. Sarah’s asking the FBI guy to find Mariela and Miss Westbrook? Well, that settles it beyond a doubt: Jonas has told Sarah literally every little thing about his life, and therefore mine: Mom, Mariela, Miss Westbrook, Dad, The Lunacy. Holy fuck. I never thought I’d see the day. Haven’t we always said no one needs to know about all that—that it’s best if these things remain between us?
“Miss Westbrook was a teacher in Seattle in probably 1992,” Sarah continues, “and then she married a guy in the Navy named Santorini who was later stationed in San Diego.”
“What do these two women have to do with The Club?” Eric asks.
“Absolutely nothing,” Sarah says. She gazes at Jonas in a way I’ve never seen anyone look at him before—with so much tenderness my heart stops vicariously for him. “This would be a personal favor to me,” Sarah says, not taking her eyes off Jonas. “I don’t have the resources to find these ladies by myself without having their full names, but I think you can do it.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank you. I’m gonna need this information as soon as possible, please.”
<
br /> “I’ll do my best.”
I can’t stop staring at Sarah—at the way she’s looking at Jonas. I’ve never seen anyone look at him like that. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone look at me like that.
My eyes are burning. I’ve suddenly got a lump in my throat. Holy shit. What’s happening to me right now? I’m about to lose complete control. I swallow hard and steal a quick look at Kat. Her eyes are glistening and her face is red.
I cover my face with my hands again, too overwhelmed to look at her anymore. I can’t process this. It’s too much.
I honestly never thought Jonas would find a woman he’d tell about Mom and Dad and The Lunacy, too. And I certainly never thought, if he did, that woman would nonetheless look at him like Sarah’s looking at Jonas right now. I swallow hard, forcing my emotions down again. I’m so happy for my brother right now, and so fucking relieved for myself, I feel like crying, which is a fucking crazy thought. Holy shit. Jonas is gonna be happy. Sarah loves him, warts and all. I swallow hard again. This is fucking incredible.
But wait.
My joy for my brother is suddenly derailed by an overwhelming sense of panic for myself.
Kat.
She knows too much. She knows things I never tell anyone—things I don’t want her to know. In the taxi after Reed’s party, Kat already told me she knows about my parents, thanks to Jonas telling Sarah. “It happened a long time ago,” I said breezily, dodging the subject like I always do. But now she knows I’m not quite as unscathed by everything as I let on—that my tattoos aren’t just quippy doodles on my skin or youthful, drunken attempts at being profound. Now she knows my skin is inked with my life’s greatest sorrow.
She knows.
And yet.
Kat gave me her “application” to “The Josh Faraday Club,” didn’t she—even though she knows I’m more scarred than I let on? She did it because she wants to see the scars, whatever they are.