by Lauren Rowe
A wave of anxiety floods me. “Josh, you aren’t really gonna try to weasel out of giving it to me, are you?”
He flashes me a megawatt smile. “Of course not. I never go back on my word. That’s something you should know about me right up front.” He touches my thigh. “My promise is ironclad.”
I exhale in relief.
“Don’t worry, PG, the review process will continue only as long as we’re in this hotel room together. Just give me this little bubble of time to fuck you without that shit hanging over my head—and when we leave this hotel room, the review process will be complete, your membership will be approved, and that stupid application will be all yours.”
I make a face.
“Aw, come on, PG. I kiss you; I fuck you; I give you my application. That was the deal. Remember? You said kissing you would lead to immediate fuckery. I’m just taking you at your word.”
I glare at him. I’m not sure that was the deal. But sex with Josh is so freakin’ good, I’m not feeling the urge to argue with him.
“Don’t fight me on it, baby, just enjoy the ride.” He snickers. “YOLO, right? Wasn’t that the super-cool thing you told me to say as much as possible?”
I roll my eyes.
“YOLO, Kat. YOOOOOOOLO.”
With that, he pulls the condom off his dick, slaps my ass yet again, and heads into the bathroom—giving me my first ever view of his beautiful bare ass... which, much to my shock (and squealing delight), is stamped across its left cheek with four tiny, but unmistakable, letters.
Thirty-Five
Kat
“What the fuckity, Josh? You didn’t feel the slightest urge to mention the ‘YOLO’ tattoo on your ass cheek when I was going on and on about how ‘YOLO’ tattoos are social suicide?”
We’re sitting in our underwear on Josh’s bed, macking down on double cheeseburgers, fries, and Moscow mules from room service, laughing hysterically and involuntarily wiggling our bodies to the beat of the disco song blaring on Josh’s laptop (“You Dropped a Bomb on Me” by The Gap Band, which Josh says is now his official theme song).
“How the heck did you manage to keep quiet about your tattoo? That must have taken Herculean willpower.”
“Meh, I figured it’d be best for you to find out about it exactly the way you did—by seeing my ass in all its glory after I’d fucked you.” He smiles wickedly. “So much more fun than just telling you about it. Am I right?” He chomps a French fry.
I laugh. “Why the hell do you have ‘YOLO’ stamped on your ass cheek, Josh? It’s inexcusable. Seriously, if I had any self-respect whatsoever, I’d grab my shit and go.”
He laughs. “I lost a bet.” He takes a big bite of his burger.
“What?” I shriek.
“I lost a bet,” he mumbles, his mouth full of burger.
“Well, what was the freaking bet?”
He finishes chewing. “See, that’s the thing. I don’t remember exactly.”
“What?” I shriek. “You got ‘YOLO’ tattooed onto your ass-cheek and you don’t even know why?”
“Well, I know why—generally speaking. The bet was over a quote from Happy Gilmore. I just can’t remember which quote we were arguing over.”
I smack my forehead with my palm. “Please tell me you’re kidding. You got YOLO inked onto your ass over a quote from Happy Gilmore?”
Josh laughs and turns off the blaring disco song. He looks at his laptop for a moment, searching for something. “Oh, this is a good one. Listen to this—Jonas turned me on to these guys.” An acoustic guitar suddenly fills the room. “X Ambassadors. ‘Renegades.’”
“Yeah, great song,” I say. “You were about to tell me how Happy Gilmore led to your tragic ass-tattoo.”
He shrugs. “It’s embarrassing.”
“All the more reason to tell me.”
He rolls his eyes. “It was when I was at UCLA, when I lived in my fraternity house. A group of us used to say ‘YOLO’ all the time, laughing our asses off about it, thinking we totally made it up. And, hell, maybe we did, for all I know—several years later, Zac Efron got ‘YOLO’ tattooed on his hand and my friends and I texted each other like crazy about it, like, ‘Did you see Zac Efron stole our thing, man? We came up with that years ago!’ And, then Drake claimed he invented it in a song, and Reed was like, ‘Yeah, that’s ’cause the fucker came to my house for a fucking party and we were all saying it!’”
I laugh. “You guys started a trend.”
“That’s what cool kids do, baby.” He winks.
“But that doesn’t excuse you getting it stamped onto your ass, Josh Faraday. That’s just inexcusable. Seriously.”
He chuckles.
“Please explain this horrifying tragedy to me.”
He laughs gleefully. “Well, like I say, ‘YOLO’ was kind of a thing with my friends and me, but only because we thought it was super douchey and hilarious and stupid. And one night at the house I was drinking beer with Henn and Reed and a few other guys and we were throwing out movie quotes and guessing the movie, as one does, and Henn threw out some quote from Happy Gilmore. I was like, ‘Dude, no, you’ve got it wrong.’ And he was like, ‘No, dude, I have it exactly right.’ And I was like, ‘No, no, man, it’s this.’ And he was like, ‘No, man, it’s definitely this other thing.’ And I was like, ‘I love you, man, like a brother, but you’re wrong as shit.’ So we went around and around, both of us positive we were one-hundred-percent right, until finally Reed said, ‘Okay, dudes, put your money where your mouth is. Whoever’s wrong has to get ‘YOLO’ inked onto his ass.’ Well, everyone in the room lost his shit. For some reason, that was the funniest idea we’d ever heard. So, of course, I was like, ‘Hell yeah. I’m in, motherfucker.’ Because the chance to saddle Henn with a fucking ‘YOLO’ tattoo, and on his ass cheek no less, for eternity, was too good to pass up. And I guess Henn was thinking the same exact thing about me, so he was like, ‘Boo-fucking-yah.’ So we shook on it and then Reed put on a DVD of Happy Gilmore and found the scene with the quote, whatever it was, and, motherfucker, Henn was exactly right.”
For a long beat, I’m laughing too hard to speak and Josh is right there with me.
“That’s just... insane,” I finally choke out. “What a horrible, horrible reason to get YOLO stamped on your ass.”
“Could there possibly be a good reason?”
I consider. “Yes. If Make-A-Wish called and asked you to do it for some poor kid with cancer. That’s literally the only defensible reason to get a ‘YOLO’ tattoo anywhere on your body.”
Josh laughs. “But, see, the thing is I never go back on my word—no matter what. We went out that very night to a tattoo place in Hollywood and I did it.” He chuckles to himself, seemingly at a memory. “Henn and Reed were laughing so hard the whole time, they wound up on the floor of the place, sobbing like little girls.”
“Well, I hope it was worth it,” I say. “Because you’ve got that horrible thing forever, Josh.”
He shrugs. “Meh, there’s no such thing as forever. Skin’s just temporary—we’re all gonna die, right? Sooner or later, maybe sooner. And, yeah, it was totally worth it—in fact, it turned out to be a very good thing.”
“How could a ‘YOLO’ tattoo on your ass possibly turn out to be a good thing?”
“Because it’s a constant reminder to me of something I don’t wanna forget.” He considers his words for a moment. “I was so fucking sure I was right about that damned quote—and I was dead fucking wrong. So I guess that stupid tattoo reminds me not to get too cocky or comfortable in life—no matter how much I think my shit doesn’t stink, I could always be dead wrong.” All joviality in his demeanor is gone. He swigs his drink.
His face has turned dark. I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure how to respond.
“And, hey, either way, it’s a good story, right?” he adds. He’s obviously trying to lighten things up again. “So that’s always a win in my book.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s definitely a g
ood story,” I agree. “And a very telling one, too.”
“Telling? In what way?”
“About you as a person.”
“Oh yeah? Pray tell—what does my YOLO ass-tattoo tell you about me as a person? Besides the fact that I’m a total dumbshit, of course.”
I chuckle. “It tells me plenty of stuff—some of it kind of deep.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Well, this ought to be good.”
I take a long sip of my drink, gathering my thoughts. “Well, okay, they’re not all deep and profound things—some are kind of, you know, online-profile-ish.”
“Tell me all of it.”
“Okay. Well, you were in a fraternity, obviously.”
He nods.
“And you’re fun.”
“I am.”
“You’re a guy who’ll do frickin’ anything for a laugh.”
He makes a face like that’s patently obvious.
“You’re an extremely loyal friend.”
“I am. Extremely.”
“You’re a man of your word,” I continue. “That’s pretty deep and profound, I’d say.”
He nods decisively. “I am most definitely a man of my word.”
“Unless you’ve promised to give a girl your application to The Club after you kiss her.”
He rolls his eyes. “Patience, little terrorist. It’s coming. The review process is just a bit lengthier than you realized. Kiss, fuck, application, I told you—we’re still in the ‘fuck’ stage of the proceedings. What else?”
I make a stern face about the application, but he looks so adorably charming, I melt. “Well, you like to party—or at least you did back then.”
He holds up his drink, making it clear this observation is still accurate and I return the gesture. We clink our glasses and take giant swigs of our drinks.
“What else?” he asks.
“You like dumb comedies like Happy Gilmore,” I reply.
He laughs. “Definitely. Oh shit. Please tell me you like dumb comedies. I should have mentioned that’s a bit of a deal-breaker with me. No movies with subtitles, please.”
“Of course, I love dumb comedies,” I say. “Duh. I have four brothers, remember? Until I went off to college, I didn’t know televisions were capable of showing anything besides dumb comedies, football, and my mom’s HGTV.”
Josh laughs. “I really should have asked you about your movie preferences before I fucked you. I got lucky, but it could have gone horribly wrong for me.” He grins. “So what are some of your favorite dumb comedies? Anchorman?”
I nod enthusiastically. “‘I love Scotch. Scotchy, Scotch, Scotch,’” I say, doing my best Ron Burgundy impression. “‘Here it goes down—down into my belly.’”
Josh belly laughs. “‘I’m kind of a big deal.’”
I giggle.
“So what’s at the tippy-top of your list of favorites?” he asks.
“Well, in the modern era I’d have to say Twenty-One Jump Street is pretty damned high on the list.”
“Ah, good one. ‘Hey, hey, stop fuckin’ with Korean Jesus! He ain’t got time for your problems! He busy—with Korean shit!’” Josh shouts, doing his best Ice Cube impression.
I laugh hysterically. “‘Chemistry’s the one with the shapes and shit, right?’” I reply, doing my best stoned Channing Tatum.
“‘Did you just say you have the right to be an attorney?’” Josh adds, laughing his ass off.
“‘You do have the right to be an attorney, if you want to,’” I reply, and Josh laughs his ass off.
“‘You have the right to... suck my dick, motherfucker!’” he says.
Oh, jeez. We’re laughing so hard we can’t breathe.
“Oh my God, Kat—you’re a dude, through and through,” Josh finally says, beaming at me. “A really, really hot dude with a tight, wet, magic pussy.”
I bite my lip. Man, I love this boy’s dirty mouth.
“So what about a classic?” he asks. His face is glowing.
“Hmm. I’d have to go with Zoolander.”
He shoots me the “Blue Steel” male-model face Ben Stiller made famous in that movie.
“Blue steel!” we both shout at the same time.
“Oh my God, Josh,” I say. “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen make ‘Blue Steel’ look good.”
He laughs. “So is that it? Is that everything you’ve figured out about me from my deep and profound ‘YOLO’ ass-tattoo?”
“Oh no, there’s more.” I look at him sideways. “You clearly have a bit of an evil streak.”
“No, I don’t. Not at all. We’re talking about me, not you, remember?”
“Ha, ha.”
“Really, though, I don’t have a mean bone in my body.”
“Ha! You were willing to tag poor Henn’s ass for the rest of his life, for nothing but stupid yucks.”
Josh looks wildly offended. “How the fuck does that make me evil? Henn was willing to do the exact same thing to me—and, in fact, he did do it to me. That makes Henn way more evil than me.”
“But Henn was right.”
“But I didn’t know that. Actually, the most heinous person of all was Reed. He’s the one who came up with the diabolical idea in the first place, just for his sick pleasure, the prick.”
“Yeah, that was pretty evil.”
There’s a beat as we both sip our drinks, smiling broadly at each other. My skin is buzzing with electricity.
“What else can you tell about me, Party Girl? I like this game.”
“Well, you’ve got an extraordinarily beautiful ass. Perhaps the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you. Back at you. Especially when it’s stomping furiously down a hallway in nothing but a G-string.”
“Oh, you liked that, did you?”
“I liked that a lot.”
“I could tell.” I wink. “Your wet undies were completely see-through, you may recall.”
He licks his lips. “You wanted me so bad,” he says, “you were losing your fucking mind—not to mention dripping down your legs.”
I smirk, but I don’t deny it.
“So tell me more, PG. More, more, more.”
“Well...” I trail off. “Besides the fact that you have a beautiful ass?”
“Besides that. Something deep and profound.”
“Okay. Well . . .” I twist my mouth. “You seem to be ... kind of... I don’t know the word. I took Philosophy 101, but I forget it all. Fatalistic?”
“I think that’s when someone believes their fate is, like, written in the stars—outside their control. Is that what you mean?”
“No. That’s not it. Well, maybe, sort of.”
“Because I am fatalistic to some degree. I think some things are beyond our control—like a brick wall you’re hurtling toward whether you like it or not. Nothing you can do about it.”
“Well, jeez. That’s kind of a bummer.”
“Not necessarily. Some brick walls feel fucking awesome when you crash into them.” His eyes flicker. “Some brick walls are worth the pain.”
I blush.
“What about you—do you believe in fate?”
I shake my head. “No. I believe in kicking ass.”
He smirks. “So, then, what did you mean to say?”
“What is it when someone thinks nothing matters? That everything is kind of pointless in the end?”
“I think that’s nihilism. I’d have to ask Jonas, though. But, of course, I’d never do that because then he’d talk my ear off about fucking philosophy for an hour and then I’d have to kill myself, which would be a major bummer.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t have been able to come up with the word ‘nihilism’ if my life depended on it. I must have meant something else. I dunno.”
“Is that what you think of me? That I don’t think anything matters?”
“No. Of course not. I know things matter to you.”
He shifts his position on the bed. “Because I
definitely think some things matter. A man’s word. Friends. A man’s family—whatever’s left of it, anyway.” A shadow briefly crosses his face. “It’s just that so few things really matter, there’s no sense getting too worked up about much. Getting a stupid ass-tattoo? Who gives a shit, you know? Like I say, in the end we’re all gonna die anyway, might as well just enjoy the ride and not sweat the small stuff.”
“So maybe your YOLO tattoo isn’t really a reminder to you not to get too cocky or comfortable, after all,” I say tentatively. “Maybe, it’s more something to help you remember the few things that actually matter to you.”
There’s a long beat.
“What about your other tattoos?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence. I wasn’t trying to get all deep—it kind of happened by accident. “Did you get your other tattoos in tribute to the few things that matter—or because we’re all gonna die, anyway?”
He makes a face. “Some of each, depending on the tattoo.”
“When did you get the one for your mom?” I ask.
“When I was twenty, I think.”
“She died when you were seven?”
He nods.
“Why did you tell me it means ‘But for the Grace of God I go’ rather than telling me it’s your mom’s name?”
He shrugs. “I never tell people about my mom.”
“Why not?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?”
“Because I gave you my application and you still owe me yours.”
He makes an annoyed face. “When I was really young, I used to tell people about her whenever anyone asked. Jonas and I had to see a therapist when we were kids and I used to just talk and talk and talk. Blah, blah, blaaaah. But when I was a teenager, I noticed every time I told people, I felt worse, not better. Telling people made them look at me funny—like there was something wrong with me because my mom was murdered—like, I dunno, all of a sudden, they thought every time I laughed I was full of shit. And then, after my dad died, and everything that happened with Jonas, I just shut the fuck up completely. From then on, talking about Mom just opened the floodgates to questions about my dad, which meant I’d pretty much be talking about Jonas and all his shit. And I realized I don’t need anyone scrutinizing my face as I’m talking for telltale signs that I’m ‘laughing through the pain.’”