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

by Lauren Rowe

  I laugh. “With whom?”

  “With... the Common Decency Police.”

  “Okay. Duly noted. Complaint lodged.”

  “Because you suck.”

  “Yes, I do, actually, as we both know very well. And if you ever want me to do it again, then answer my question.”

  Out of nowhere, his fury roars back to life. “Oh, fuck no,” he bellows. “Let me set you straight about something right here and now: I do not tolerate any form of sexual extortion in a relationship. That’s an absolute deal-breaker with me. You wanna suck my dick? Great; then suck it. You don’t wanna suck it? Then don’t. But don’t use sex as a weapon to manipulate me. I fucking hate that.”

  My heart lurches into my throat—and not because Josh is chastising me—I don’t care about that—but because Josh just said he doesn’t tolerate any form of sexual extortion in a relationship. Are Josh and I in a relationship?

  “Jeez,” I manage to say. “Overreact much?”

  “I’m not overreacting,” Josh replies. “I absolutely hate that shit.”

  “Okay, okay. Jeez-us. I’m sorry. I’ll never again say, ‘If you want me to suck your dick, then fill-in-the-blank.’ Happy?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I hate that shit.”

  “Fine. Got it. But I must say I find your whole speech awfully ironic considering I used sexual extortion to get you to give me your application in the first place.”

  He pauses. “Hey, wait a minute—you did, didn’t you? Well, that was kinda shitty of you.”

  “Hey, whatever works.”

  There’s a long beat during which I’m smiling from ear to ear.

  “So,” I say. “You still haven’t answered my question, Playboy: Who are all the blonde playmates?”

  He makes a sound of frustration. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

  “No chance. I’m a Scorpio. We hold grudges. So who are they?”

  “You don’t have permission to be snooping around in that folder, Kat. Click out.”

  I don’t reply to him—I’m too busy looking through the folder.

  “Hello? Madame Terrorist? Did you hear me? Exit the folder. You’re trespassing.”

  “Yeah, I heard you. And I would totally follow your instruction, I really would—but the thing is, I’m having somewhat of a conundrum.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It’s kind of like a dilemma.”

  “Have I done something to give you the impression I’ve got the vocabulary of a sixth-grader? I know what a conundrum is—I’m asking what is your conundrum, specifically?”

  I seriously can’t wipe the smile off my face. “Well, on the one hand,” I say, “I really want to respect your request. I really, really do, because I’m actually a fairly nice person, despite the way I tend to behave around you, and also because I think you’re probably right: it was very, very naughty of me to go through your personal stuff without permission.”

  “Thank you. And on the other hand?”

  “Well, on the other hand, I really, really like being naughty.”

  Josh makes a sexy sound. “Oh. Well, that is quite a conundrum. What on earth are you gonna do about it?”

  “I dunno—I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll just look through your pervy blonde-porn-star folder while I figure it out.” I scroll through the photos again, my smile hurting my cheeks. “These women all look the same, Josh,” I say, still going through the photos. “Looks like you’ve got a type, huh?”

  He audibly shrugs. “I like what I like.”

  “Who are they?”

  He pauses briefly and then exhales. “They’re just women I’ve met.”

  “Met? I’m guessing you’ve done more than meet these girls.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Have you slept with all of these women?”

  “So now you’re slut-shaming me?”

  “No. I’m the last person in the world who would ever slut-shame anyone.”

  “You do realize the whole point of your application to me was to make me feel safe enough to reveal my inner-most perverted thoughts to you? You’re supposed to be luring me into emotional intimacy, Kat.”

  “Oh crap. That’s right. Shoot. I should have warned you: I suck at emotional intimacy. I’m working on it, though, I swear.”

  “You’re never gonna break down my walls now,” Josh says playfully.

  “Damn. Oh well.” I audibly shrug and he laughs. “So who took all these photos? Was it you?”

  “Nope.”

  “No? Oh, I thought you were gonna say yes. Did you take some of them?”

  “So we’re playing a game of Perverted Twenty Questions, are we?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t it fun?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. I’ve still got nineteen questions to go.”

  “Nineteen? Ha! More like ten. And that’s generous.”

  “Okay ten. Did you personally take any of these photos?”

  He exhales loudly. “Just one.”

  “Oh, now that’s an interesting answer. Not what I expected. I thought it’d be all or nothing.” I suddenly remember Sarah saying Oksana photographs every girl in The Club. “By George, I think I’ve got it,” I say. “Are these the women you slept with in The Club?”

  Josh sighs loudly. “Correct. All but two of them.”

  “Well, now I’m confused again. You mean all but two of these women were in The Club—or there are two Clubbers missing from this folder?”

  “Your mind is a scary place, Kat. You’re like Henn but in a totally different context. You’re a man-hacker.”

  I laugh. “Thank you. Now answer the question, please.”

  He exhales audibly. “Every woman from The Club is there—plus there are two non-Clubbers in the folder, too.”

  “Ah. Interesting. Two bonus-women from real life. This just gets more and more intriguing. Which ones are the non-Clubbers and why’d you put them in the folder with all the Clubbers?”

  “Aren’t you out of questions yet?”

  “Nope.” I pause. “I’ve still got eight to go.”

  He scoffs.

  “You personally took one of the non-Clubbers’ photos—not both of them?”

  “Correct.”

  “Hmm. So that means one of the non-Clubbers sent you her photo?”

  “Correct. You’re now officially out of questions.”

  “No way. I’ve still got at least eight left.”

  “Eight? You started with ten and you’ve asked like fifty.”

  “I’ve been asking sub-questions to questions, Josh—sub-questions don’t count as full questions.”

  He grumbles.

  “So, come on, which one of these pretty ladies was the one non-Clubber you personally photographed? And why’d you put her in the Sick Fuck folder with all the others?”

  He pauses. “No comment.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “You’ve got my application. That’s what I promised you—nothing more. Perverted Twenty Questions is now officially over.”

  “Aw. Not fair.”

  “It’s totally fair—and if not, then too bad. Life isn’t fair.”

  “Just tell me why you have all these photos and then I’ll drop it. I promise.”

  Josh exhales. “Okay, Madame Terrorist. Fine.” He mutters something to himself under his breath. “I requested a specific type of girl in my application, and so The Club emailed me photos of women they’d selected for me to make sure they were exactly what I wanted. And at the end of my membership-month, I didn’t know what the fuck to do with all the photos so I put them into a folder.”

  “And labeled it ‘Sick Fuck.’”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “And you didn’t have any inkling these women were hookers before Jonas told you?”

  Josh pauses. “I was pretty specific about what I wanted in my application, so I figured The Club likely made some kind of special arrangement to deliver on my wishes—but I didn’t kn
ow for sure. Just because a woman is willing to meet a rich guy in a hotel room and fulfill his sick-fuck-fantasies doesn’t necessarily make her a hooker, does it?”

  I consider that bit of logic. “No,” I finally say. “Not necessarily. Especially when he looks like you.”

  “Thank you. But, honestly, I really didn’t care one way or the other if the women were being paid on the side—I just didn’t wanna know about it. All I was trying to do was escape reality for a month—I wasn’t looking for some sort of deep soul connection.”

  “So you asked for blondes?”

  “Kat,” he says softly. “You’ve got my application. Just read it. No more questions.”

  The earnest tone of his voice has thrown me. I thought we were bantering, and now, suddenly, he seems totally sincere. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I wait a beat. “But can I ask one more teeny tiny itty bitty question? In the name of emotional intimacy?”

  He chuckles despite himself. “What?” he asks.

  “Thank you. Wow, we’re killing the emotional intimacy thing, Josh. We’re emotionally intimate beasts.”

  He chuckles again. “This isn’t emotional intimacy, Kat—this is just plain torture.”

  “I’m almost positive they’re one and the same thing,” I say. “Though I can’t be sure.”

  He laughs a full laugh, which I take as a good sign. “Okay, Madame Interrogator, what’s your last question?”

  “Do you typically only sleep with blondes—or just in The Club? And is it sex with blondes that makes you a sick fuck?”

  He pauses for a moment. “That’s two questions.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal: I’m gonna tell you the answer to these two questions and then this interrogation is officially done.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t only sleep with blondes. I’ve been with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, ethnicities, and hair colors, and I’ve enjoyed them all. In fact, I’ve enjoyed them all immensely.”

  “Thanks. Little more info than I needed.”

  “And, no, I don’t have some bizarre complex whereby I think sleeping with a beautiful blonde woman somehow transforms me into a sick fuck. Yes, I specifically requested blondes in The Club because The Club was about fantasy-fulfillment and escape from reality, and, call me unimaginative or trite, but when I shop at the fantasy store, at least for purposes of fulfilling the fantasies I specifically asked for in The Club, that’s what I want—a classic blonde. Why? I don’t know. It’s just the way I’m wired—I definitely have a type.” He makes a sound that emphatically signals he’s done talking.

  “Thank you,” I say smoothly, scrolling through the photos again. “Yep, I’d agree you definitely have a type.” I snort. “Actually, they all look just like...” I abruptly stop speaking. Holy shit.

  There’s a long beat.

  “Yeah, Kat,” Josh finally says. He lets out a loud puff of air. “They look just like you.”

  He’s read my mind. I swallow hard.

  “Less attractive versions of you, of course,” he continues softly. “They’re all wannabe-Kats. You’re what my brother refers to as the ‘divine original.’”

  I’m tingling all over. “The ‘divine original’?” I breathe. “What’s that?”

  He lets out a long groan. “I can’t believe I just said that. It’s this Plato-thing Jonas is always babbling about. Forget I ever said it—I wanna gouge my eyes out every time my brother mentions it and now it’s me who’s saying it. Gah.”

  I press my phone into my ear, my breathing shallow. “What does it mean, Josh?” I ask softly. “Whatever it means, it’s making me tingle all over.”

  “It just means you’re the original template and everyone else is a knock-off.” He lets out a long sigh. “Like, you know, you’re the authentic Gucci bag and everyone else is one of those counterfeits they sell on the sidewalk in New York.”

  I pause, letting that sink in. I’ve never been to New York, actually, but his metaphor is still perfectly understandable to me. “So does that mean I make you a sick fuck more than anyone else?”

  He growls with exasperation. “You don’t make me a sick fuck—no one makes me a sick fuck. Someone I cared about once called me a sick fuck and I was pissed as hell about it when I named that folder, that’s all. I was, you know, flipping that person the bird when I named that folder.”

  While Josh has been talking, I’ve been leafing through the photos. There’s one girl I keep going back to again and again. She’s not working the lens or trying to be sexy like the others—in fact, the woman is clearly put off by posing for the photo—and her shyness about the whole thing makes her all the more alluring. Suddenly, there’s no doubt in my mind this shy girl is the non-Clubber Josh photographed himself—and, if my Scooby Doo senses are right, she’s also the one who pissed him off by calling him a “sick fuck.”

  “What about the shy one?” I ask.

  “The shy one?”

  “The one who looks mortified to be posing for a naked photo? She looks pretty divine-original-ish to me. Is she the one you photographed yourself?” I swallow hard. “Is she your ex-girlfriend?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Did she call you a sick fuck?”

  “Click out of there, Kat,” he says softly, a stiffness overtaking his tone. “Interrogation over.”

  My skin erupts in goose bumps. He’s not kidding around. Shoot. He sounds genuinely upset.

  “Okay, I’m out,” I say, exiting the folder.

  “I’m gonna go,” he says evenly. “Happy reading.”

  “No, wait. Please, Josh. Wait.” The angry edge in his voice has made my chest tighten. Clearly, I’ve pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, Josh. Sometimes I take things too far. It’s a major flaw of mine.”

  Josh chuckles despite himself.

  I bite my lip, smiling into the phone. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Says the woman with a bomb strapped to her chest.” He lets out a long exhale. “Just read my goddamned application, okay? I can’t take it anymore. The anticipation’s killing me. Just read it and make your decision already.”

  “My decision?”

  He pauses. “Whether to sleep with me or not,” he finally says.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Well, a girl’s gotta know if she’s gonna wake up chained to a goat.”

  “No, a donkey.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. A girl’s gotta know these things.”

  “You never know what might happen with me. I’m kind of a sick fuck.”

  “According to whom?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “The Shy Girl?”

  He pauses. “Yeah.”

  “That’s Emma?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, Josh, I haven’t even read your application yet, and I can already tell you Emma was full of shit.”

  He lets out a yelp of surprise.

  I clear my throat. “So back to the reason I called in the first place,” I say. “Where are the three photos you submitted with your application?”

  “Well, strangely enough, Kat, they’re in a folder marked ‘Club Application Photos.’ Imagine that.”

  “Oh. Well, gosh. That makes a whole lot more sense than putting them into a folder called ‘Sick Fuck.’”

  Josh sighs. “Hey, can I just come up there? I thought I wanted to stay as far away as possible while you were reading my application, but all of a sudden I’d rather just sit next to you while you read it and watch your facial expressions.”

  My heart leaps. “Are you by any chance planning to distract me again, Joshua William Faraday?”

  “Maybe.”

  I smile broadly into the phone. “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “Get your YOLO’d-ass up here, Playboy. We’ll read the damned thing together, line by perverted line—and maybe, if you’re extra nice to me, I’l
l let you distract me again.”

  I can hear his smile again.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  Forty-Three

  Kat

  The minute Josh and I hang up from our call, I scroll through his blonde-girl “Sick Fuck” folder again, this time more slowly than before. These are some spectacularly gorgeous women here—and he thinks I’m some sort of ‘ideal form’ of all of them? Surely, he’s just flattering me. I mean, come on.

  I stop scrolling.

  Holy crap.

  I recognize one of the women in the folder. I think she’s a well-known model—like, literally on Victoria’s Secret ads and the covers of fashion magazines. Yep, I’m sure of it. Her name is Bridgette something. Is she the ‘bisexual supermodel’ Josh said he turned down? She’s gotta be the second non-Clubber in the folder.

  I look at my watch. Gah. Josh should be here any minute. I click out of the “Sick Fuck” folder, intending to take a quick peek at his three photos before he arrives, but on a sudden impulse, I find myself dragging the entire “Sick Fuck” folder into the trashcan and pressing “Empty trash.” Oops. My finger must have slipped.

  And now back to my actual mission. I click into the folder marked “Club Application Photos” and open the first of three images. It’s a headshot. Josh is smiling and looking as charismatic and confident as ever. Oh man, those eyes. I could sit and stare at them all day long. He’s gorgeous.

  I click on the next photo. It’s classic Josh Faraday. He’s in a perfectly tailored, blue designer suit, looking like an ad for Hugo Boss or cologne. Yummy.

  I click on the third photo and... ka-boom. My ovaries explode like two little nuclear bombs. Josh is completely nude in this third shot, every inch of his ripped and muscled—and erect—body on full display—and, oh my fuck, the shit-eating grin on his face is so unapologetic, it instantly makes my blood boil with desire. Holy crappola, as Sarah would say, I’m short-circuiting at the sight of him.

  Without even thinking about it, I click into Josh’s email account, address an email to myself attaching Josh’s smoking-hot-bad-boy-with-a-gigantic-boner-selfie, and press send. Zowie, as Sarah also likes to say, that sucker’s definitely gonna inspire countless future orgasms.