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

by Lauren Rowe

  Hey, as long as I’m sending myself stuff from Josh’s computer, I figure I might as well send myself his application, too, right? That way, if he distracts me again when he gets up here, I’ll be able to read it later from the comfort of my own bed.

  Just as I press “send” on my second email to myself, a notification message flashes across the upper right corner of Josh’s screen: he’s got an email from someone named “Jennifer LeMonde” with the subject line “Hey, Cutie!”

  My stomach clenches.

  My lip snarls involuntarily.

  Jen.

  Oh, God, I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t. But show me a woman in my exact shoes who wouldn’t read that goddamned email and I’ll show you a woman with no pulse or vagina—or, at the very least, no balls.

  I open the email.

  “Josh!” Jennifer LeMonde writes. “OMFG! I’m so bummed you didn’t come to NYC with me. My mom’s show was amaaaaaaaaaazing. You would have looooooooooved it. Critics are saying she’s a shoo-in for a Tony. And the party afterwards was REDONK. You should have seen the A-listers who showed up! I’ve attached a pic of Mom and me at the after-party. (Mom says hi, btw—she totally remembers you from that time we all stayed at our house in Aspen.)

  “I wanted to send you a quick note to thank you for calling me after Reed’s party. I was pretty bummed at how everything went down that night, to be honest. I’m really glad we had a chance to talk so you could clear everything up for me.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said and I totally understand where you’re coming from. I feel the exact same way. So if you’re ready to chill with someone who’s not gonna explode like a fricking grenade all over you like The Jealous Bitch (can you say drama?? OMG!), then let’s hang out again. I’m totally up for what you suggested. We’ll just hang out and have some fun and see where it leads. No pressure. Nothing serious.

  “So, anyway, next weekend is my birthday (the big 2-9!) and my mom’s letting me use our house in the Hamptons to celebrate. I’m gonna invite a bunch of friends and I really want you to come. No drama. Just FUN FUN FUN! It would be the best birthday present EVER if you’d come and hang out (and hopefully make me scream again!! Heehee!).

  “I know how much you like my ‘pretty titties’ (LOL!) so I’m attaching a special pic just for you. It’s just a little something to tide you over ’til you can come see them in person (and motorboat them again if you want! LMFAO!). Thanks again for explaining everything to me when we talked. We’re defo on the same page. No relationship. Nothing serious. I’m totally down with that plan. XOXOXOXO Jen.”

  I have never felt this capable of murder in my entire life.

  Holy I Wanna Beat the Living Shit Out of Her, Batman.

  And Then I Wanna Cut Off His Balls and Roast Them Over the Burning Embers of His Fucking House, Batman. And Then I Want To Eat Them In Between Two Graham Crackers.

  I’m gritting my teeth so hard, they’re about to crumble like shards of bleu cheese in my mouth. I’m ‘The Jealous Bitch,’ huh? Did Jen coin that cute little nickname for me, or did Josh help her come up with it—perhaps during their after-party phone conversation? Was that phone conversation when Josh “suggested” they get together again so he could “motorboat” Jen’s “pretty titties” again?

  Why the hell did Josh call Jen after Reed’s party? He told me he wasn’t the least bit interested in her. Did he rush back to his room for a little phone sex after washing the barf off his shoes and my hair and putting me to bed?

  I should click out of this email, I really should—that would be the self-preserving thing to do—but instead I torture myself and click on the first photo attached to Jen’s email.

  I shriek.

  What the holy hell? Jen’s mom is Gabrielle LeMonde? I blink rapidly, my brain overloading. Gabrielle LeMonde is a national treasure—an icon! I’ve seen every one of her frickin’ movies—and not just the comedies, either!—the really boring ones in which she spoke in a spot-on British accent, too! What. The. Hell?

  Well, this sure sheds light on why Josh hooked up with Jen in the first place. If I were a twenty-three-year-old guy with a huge dick, I’d have fucked Gabrielle LeMonde’s daughter too, just to be able to say I did—especially if she had a body like Jen’s. And Jesus, now it makes total sense that Jen pals around with movie stars like Isabel Randolph. Good lord, Jen’s entire contacts list must be a who’s-who of Hollywood’s young elite.

  My head is spinning. I feel like I’m gonna barf. It’s suddenly hitting me like a ton of bricks that Josh is literally one of the world’s most eligible bachelors—like literally. Holy shit. Before this moment, Josh was Sarah’s boyfriend’s brother—his gorgeous and rich brother—his hilarious and well-dressed brother—his smoking hot and sexy brother—his brother who arranged for me to stay in Vegas and keep my job, too—his brother who fucked me so brilliantly, I blacked out there for a minute—but, still, just a human-brother-dude who presumably puts his pants on one leg at a time (and who presumably stows his donkey-dick in one of those pant legs before zipping up).

  But now, out of nowhere, it turns out Josh is some quasi-celebrity-god among men who lives in an alternate universe populated by world-famous actresses and their spawn? And Victoria’s Secret supermodels? Oh, and freaking Red Card Riot, too? What the heck? Who is this Most Interesting Man in the World who could hop a cross-country flight on a whim for no other reason than to attend the birthday party of a fuck-buddy who happens to be the daughter of Gabrielle LeMonde? Gah! Insanity.

  My stomach flips over.

  I’m usually a confident girl—probably more so than the average Jane, if I’m being honest—but how could I ever be so cocky as to think a guy like that would ever pick me out of literally anyone on the planet to choose from? I roll my eyes even though I’m sitting here alone. I’ve always had a pretty high opinion of myself, truthfully (which isn’t something I usually admit out loud), but all of a sudden, in comparison to the women who populate Josh’s rarified world, I feel shockingly average. Not to mention, quite possibly, really gullible, too. Has Josh just been selling me a line of bullshit? Does he make every girl feel special the way I’ve been feeling with him? Have I been a fool?

  Oh, jeez, my eyes are filling with tears. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m standing at Garrett Bennett’s door all over again, about to get annihilated? I take a deep breath to steady myself.

  The healthy choice would be to click out of Jen’s email right now. It’s making me doubt Josh and I don’t want to do that. He’s been nothing but incredible toward me. Generous. Attentive. Affectionate. Passionate. I’m acting crazy right now. So what if Jen’s mom is Gabrielle LeMonde? That doesn’t change anything. Why is that sending me into a tailspin? I should shut Josh’s laptop and stop this right now.

  But I don’t.

  In fact, I do the opposite: I open the second picture attached to Jen’s email.

  Holy Oh-No-She-Didn’t, Batman.

  If I felt sick after seeing the picture of Jen with her movie-star mom, then I feel terminally ill after seeing this second photo.

  It’s a naked selfie of Jen. She’s smiling broadly and pushing her “pretty titties” up toward the camera—obviously inviting Josh to “motorboat” them “again.”

  My eyes prick with tears. Is Jen a pathetically desperate girl who’s pursuing a hot guy after he’s clearly told her to get lost? Or, to the contrary, is she a girl who’s merely going after a guy who slept with her and then continued encouraging her? Josh told me he’s not interested in Jen—and yet he called her after Reed’s party. Why’d he do that? And what did he “suggest” to her when they spoke? Suddenly, I don’t know what’s what anymore.

  My heart is racing. I wipe my eyes. I never cry and I’m not gonna start now. Hell no. It’s so unlike me to feel this jealous and insecure. God, I hate myself right now. I’m acting like a freak and a puss and a lunatic. I need to detach. I need to stop caring. Josh Faraday isn’t my boyfriend (though I admit I want h
im to be), and I’m not his girlfriend. I’ve got no right to feel this way. The man can do what he wants.

  No, he can’t. He’s mine, goddammit. Mine.

  I slam Josh’s laptop shut and set it on the table. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Josh will be here any minute to “distract” me from his application and I need to pull my shit together before then—because right now I feel like I’m going to fly completely off the handle and say a million things I’m gonna regret.

  I stand to leave—just as the door of the suite bursts open.

  Josh bounds into the room. “Hey, Party Girl with a Hyphen,” he says, holding up a condom packet playfully. “Can I interest you in a little distraction from your reading?”

  I stalk straight past Josh toward the front door, my eyes burning and my mouth clamped shut.

  “Kat?”

  I march to the door and fling it open like I’m trying to take the damned thing off its hinges.

  “Oh shit,” Josh says. “You read my application without me?” His voice is pure anguish. “Goddammit, Kat. Lemme explain. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to read that stupid thing in the first place.”

  Forty-Four

  Josh

  “Kat, come on!” I shout at her back, but she keeps marching down the hallway toward the penthouse’s private elevator, her arms swinging wildly. Déjà fucking vu. How many times am I gonna have to chase this goddamned terrorist down a fucking hallway? “Oh, come on, Kat. It wasn’t that bad.”

  But she just keeps on marching. She pounds on the call button for the private elevator and crosses her arms, her back to me.

  “You can’t possibly be this upset. What the hell?”

  She whirls around and I’m shocked to see hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Panic floods me. My application made her cry? Shit. I’ve obviously grossly miscalculated the situation. I’m floored. “Kat,” I blurt, my chest tightening. “I know everything I wrote in that application came off as douche-y and angry and fucked-up, but the truth is I was just heartbroken when I wrote all that shit.” Oh God, the words are tumbling out of my mouth. “I’d just gotten out of a three-year relationship that didn’t end well,” I ramble, “and I won’t go into detail about everything that happened, but trust me, I had some shit to work out.” I take a deep breath. “I was devastated, to be perfectly honest—I felt like there was something deeply wrong with me, and...” My heart is racing. I swallow hard. “For reasons I don’t wanna go into, there was no way for me to do any of that stuff I wrote about with my girlfriend. And that was okay, of course, because I never would have pushed her to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with—never—but when we broke up—well, actually, when she cheated on me instead of doing me the courtesy of actually breaking up with me—I figured, ‘Well, fuck it. YOLO. Life throws you lemons, make lemonade.’ So I joined The Club and rode a month’s worth of Mickey Mouse roller coasters so I could pull my shit together and move on. And I don’t regret any of it because it actually worked—I totally moved on and now I’m perfectly fine.” Shit. I’m rambling. I’m incoherent. I’m out of breath. Fuck. I force myself to stop talking.

  Kat’s tears have dried up. She’s stone-faced and looking at me like I’ve got fingers growing out of my head.

  “To be perfectly honest,” I continue, even though I know I should shut the fuck up, “I didn’t expect you to be so upset by what I wrote. I admit I didn’t wanna give you my application, but it wasn’t because I was ashamed of what I asked for, it was because I didn’t wanna have to explain all this shit about Emma to you. I’m not ashamed about The Club, Kat. I was single. It was one month of my life. No one was hurt—far from it.” I shift my weight. Shit, I think I’m digging myself an even deeper hole. “Frankly,” I continue, deciding the best defense is a good offense, “I’m shocked you’re so upset. Now that I’ve gotten to know you—or at least I thought I’d gotten to know you—I actually thought you’d be pretty understanding about everything I wrote—or, at least, about most of it.” My voice cracks, despite my best efforts to sound calm and collected. I rub my forehead. “I honestly thought you’d maybe even get off on some of it.”

  Her eyes are wide.

  The bell dings on the private elevator behind Kat’s back. The doors open and then close—but, thankfully, Kat doesn’t move from her spot in the hallway.

  What the fuck happened to the woman who wrote me that awesome ‘application’ to the ‘Josh Faraday Club’? The woman who felt crushed when some asshole called her a slut and said she wasn’t ‘marriage material’? Where’s the girl who admitted she has a shitload of crazy-elaborate sexual fantasies, for fuck’s sake? I thought my perverted shit would be right up her alley, I really did. And where the fuck is the incredible girl who rode a Sybian ’til she squirted and literally passed out? Because I can’t imagine that girl reacting to my application with tears. I run my hand through my hair. Shit. I feel like I’m reliving that last, horrible, blindsiding conversation with Emma all over again.

  “Just please tell me why you’re crying,” I say, trying to keep my voice from sounding panicked. “I truly thought you’d understand about my application.”

  “Josh,” Kat begins, but then she pauses.

  My stomach twists with anticipation. Here it comes. I brace myself.

  “I haven’t read your application,” she says softly. “You’ve misunderstood me.”

  I close my eyes. Oh, how I wish I could stuff every word I just said back into my stupid goddamned mouth. I open my eyes. Shit.

  “I started reading it, yes,” she continues. “But then I called you when I got to the part about your three photos, and then I saw your ‘Sick Fuck’ folder and—oh, yeah, bee tee dubs, I permanently deleted that folder, sorry, I can be kind of impulsive sometimes.” She takes a deep breath. “And then I went into your email account to send myself that naked photo of you with the gigantic boner—oh, and I also sent myself your application, too, by the way—sorry if that pisses you off, but, whatever, I am what I am—and, anyway, while I was in your email account, you got an incoming email.” Her lip curls with unbridled disgust. “And that’s what I’m crying about, Josh: the freaking email.”

  I can barely breathe. “What email?”

  Her eyes water and she wipes them. “An email from Jen—your blast from the past.”

  The hair on my neck stands on end.

  “And let me just say this,” Kat says, her voice edged with barely contained rage. “If a woman is totally into you and you keep stringing her along, even though you’re not into her, then at some point you’re not a playboy, you’re just a flat-out prick.”

  “What?”

  “Unless, of course, you are into her and you’ve been peddling me a line of total bullshit this whole time—in which case, you’re not just a prick, you’re also a flat-out liar.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Kat?” I ask, dumbfounded. “What did Jen say in her email?” I pull my phone out from my pocket and frantically scroll through my inbox. And there it is—an email from Jen. I quickly read it, doing my best to see Jen’s message through Kat’s (batshit-crazy) eyes. “Oh, Jesus,” I stammer. “No, no, no, Jen completely misunderstood me,” I blurt. “I called to tell her I’m not interested in her—I swear to God—that’s what I told her.”

  “Well, Jen sure seems to think you called to ‘suggest’ something along the lines of you ‘motorboating’ her ‘pretty titties’—again.” Her nostrils flare. Her face is bright red. She looks like a fucking fire-breathing dragon right now.

  Shit. I look at Jen’s email again, my heart racing. “Kat, no. I didn’t suggest a fucking thing. I told Jen I wasn’t interested in her. I said I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  “Maybe you think that’s what you said to her, but clearly you didn’t. Because she clearly thinks there’s still a chance for something with you, Josh, and when it comes to you, she’ll obviously take any little crumb she can get, no matter how small
and pitiful.”

  “Well, shit. Hang on. Lemme read it again.”

  “It makes me wonder if you’re ever completely honest when it comes to women. Do you ever just tell it like it is? Or do you always spin things to avoid hurt feelings—or maybe to keep your motorboating-options open?”

  “Hang the fuck on, Kat. Jesus fucking Christ, you demon-woman, lemme fucking look at it.”

  Kat presses her lips together and crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes blazing. “I don’t mind a manwhore if he’s honest about it—I really don’t—I mean, as long as he’s not running around collecting baby-mommas or STD’s—but I absolutely cannot stomach a goddamned liar.”

  “Fuck, Kat. Would you shut the fuck up for a minute? Jesus, you’re a fucking lunatic.” I look down at my phone and read again while Kat silently fumes. “Okay, clearly there’s been a huge misunderstanding,” I say when I’m done reading.

  “Don’t forget to take a peek at the photos she sent you, too,” Kat says. “They’re super-duper awesome.”

  I’d be a fool to open those photos with Kat standing right here, I know—but I do it, anyway. Why? Because, apparently, I’m every bit the suicide-bomber she is.

  I open the first photo. It’s Jen and her famous mom, their cheeks pressed together.

  “Yeah, so what?” I say. “Who cares if Jen’s mom is—”

  “Open the second photo, Josh.”

  I roll my eyes and open the second photo. Oh. Wow. Hello, Jen’s beautiful tits. Yeah, that woman’s got some gorgeous tits, I must say. But so what? I look up at Kat, ready to tell her she needs to take a chill-pill, and she’s absolutely seething with jealousy. If she were a cartoon character, her skin would be green and steam would be shooting out her ears.

  I stifle a grin, remembering Kat’s sexy little speech about how she never, ever gets jealous. The girl is all talk. I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say a goddamned word, Kat launches into me again.