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

by Lauren Rowe

  “Wow. Really? Congratulations. What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you—not because I don’t trust you—I do. But I promised my brother I wouldn’t tell anyone about our new business before we’ve told our Uncle William in person—he runs Faraday & Sons with us—and I never break a promise to Jonas. Well, not to anyone—but especially not to Jonas.”

  Her face melts into an expression much like the one she had when she opened her hotel room door to me last night. “I can’t wait to hear all about it whenever you’re allowed to tell me,” she says softly.

  “I can’t wait to tell you. If Jonas and I can pull it off the way we envision it, it’s gonna be epic—well, the way Jonas envisions it—my brother’s always the one with the big ideas—I’m just along for the ride, doing what I can to make myself useful.”

  She smiles and her blue eyes twinkle. “I’m sure it’s gonna be amazing, whatever it is, Josh.”

  I pause. I was about to say something, but I suddenly forgot what it was. She’s so fucking beautiful; occasionally, I lose my concentration when I look at her.

  “So, hey,” I say, looking at my watch. “We’re meeting Henn in the lobby in about seven hours, so I think we’d better get some sleep. We’d better have our wits about us while we’re saving the world tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a freakin’ zombie right now. At some point, I’m definitely gonna need a full eight hours of sleep—you’re killing me, smalls.”

  “Eh, we can sleep when we’re dead, PG. Speaking of which, how ’bout before we sleep, you get that hot little body of yours into my bed and let me make good on that rain check from our shower?”

  “Aren’t you the one who just said we need to get some sleep for tomorrow?”

  I wave my hand. “I meant we need sleep after I give you the best orgasm of your life.”

  Her eyes light up. “You sure you’re up to it? That rain check was for you to go for the gold.”

  I lean in and kiss her slowly, taking my sweet time, grasping the back of her neck firmly as I do, and she ignites under my touch. When I pull away from her, there’s no mistaking the heat in her eyes.

  “I’m positive,” I say, leering at her. “There’s no point in doing it if I don’t do it phenomenally, right?”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Fifty-Four

  Kat

  Josh, Henn and I are sitting in a dive bar in Henderson, Nevada, just down the street from the fifth and final bank of this morning’s money-stealing tour. As far as we know, every single money-transfer went off without a hitch, exactly according to plan—but all we can do now is sit and wait to hear from Jonas to find out whether or not the feds were able to access the money.

  “Just say as little as possible,” Henn coached me this morning as we stood across the street from the first bank on our agenda. “Be pleasant and polite but completely unmemorable,” he added—but then he looked me up and down and rolled his eyes. “Which is like telling LeBron James or an Oompah-Loompah not to be memorable.”

  “Henn, come on,” I whined, trembling. “I’m freaking out. Just tell me exactly what to do.”

  “Don’t freak out, Kat,” Josh said, putting his muscled arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”

  “Indubitably,” Henn agreed.

  I rubbed my face. “Just tell me exactly what to do,” I said, my voice wobbling. “Because I’d rather not go to prison for robbing a bank today.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t go to prison for ‘robbing a bank,’” Henn corrected. “You’d go to prison for multiple counts of bank fraud, grand theft larceny, identity theft, and conspiracy, probably.” He snorted with laughter, but neither Josh nor I joined him.

  “Dude,” Josh said.

  “Not at all funny,” I added, gritting my teeth.

  “Sorry,” Henn said, stifling his grin. “Hacker humor. Gotta keep things light and bright or else you go a little cuckoo. But, okay, listen up. When you go in there, just think, ‘I’m filthy rich and this is my money and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it.’ It’s all in the attitude. You gotta have swagger.”

  “Just like baggin’ a babe,” Josh added, winking.

  “Exactly—except, for God’s sake, don’t ‘dick it up.’” Henn cast a snarky look at Josh. “That might work in a bar, dude, but we’re in my house now.”

  Even through my anxiety, I couldn’t help but grin.

  Henn grinned. “And never flirt. You’ll be too nervous and it’ll come off as weird. Just open with a simple pleasantry to get your nerves out—maybe like, ‘how’s your morning going?’—and then, boom, launch into instructing the teller about the transfer in a clear, calm voice. Don’t explain why you want the transfer or act apologetic—they’re not doing you a favor here—it’s your money.”

  “Jesus,” I mumbled, putting my hands over my face. “You guys really think I can pull this off?”

  “Of course,” Henn said. “The trick is to be Oksana Belenko—not pretend to be Oksana Belenko.”

  “Wax on, wax off, Kat,” Josh added reverently.

  I laughed. “I know, right? Henn’s totally Mr. Miyagi-ing me right now.”

  Henn rolled his eyes and forged ahead. “You already look the part—thanks to Josh’s impeccable sense of style—now all you have to do is be the part.”

  I looked down at my ridiculously priced designer outfit—Prada dress, Louboutin heels, and Gucci bag—all supplied by Josh the day before during a whirlwind shopping spree. “Oksana Belenko wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Prada,” he’d insisted.

  “I have to admit, being dressed like a mill-i-on-aire definitely makes me feel more Oksana-Belenko-ish,” I said, staring at the bank across the street. I tried to smile breezily, but I couldn’t do it.

  Josh assessed my ashen face for a long beat. “Henn, give us a minute,” he said, and without waiting for Henn’s reply, he cupped my entire head in his palms like a bowling ball and kissed me full on the mouth. When he pulled away from kissing me, still holding my head firmly, he leveled me with his sapphire-blue eyes. “You’ve got this, Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he said quietly, gazing with intensity into my eyes—and then he did the thing that’s rapidly becoming my Achilles’ heel: he gently touched the slight indentation in my chin.

  And, just like that, my stomach stopped turning over and my jaw set.

  I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Freak-out officially over.”

  Josh kissed my forehead. “There’s my girl. Okay, Henn,” he called over his shoulder. “Oksana’s ready to rob a bank now.”

  “Yeehaw,” Henn replied. “Oksanta Claus is coming to town, bitches. Let’s do this.”

  And now here we are, an hour and a half later, all transfers completed, drinking beers and Patron shots in a seedy bar, waiting to hear from Jonas.

  Just like Henn promised, the whole thing went off without a hitch (or so it seems thus far). Each and every bank believed, without a doubt, that I was the one and only mill-i-on-aire (many times over) Oksana Belenko—and therefore entitled to do whatever I pleased with my millions of dollars. Of course, I crapped my Stella McCartney panties (another gift from Josh) every single time I waltzed into yet another new bank and informed the teller of my desire to close my account—especially when a teller went to get his or her manager for “standard approvals.” But, each and every time, my panty-crapping turned out to be completely wasted energy because no matter the approvals or security clearances or identification required at any particular bank, thanks to Henn, I always checked out as Oksana Belenko.

  Indubitably.

  Josh throws his head back, laughing at something Henn just said.

  I sip my beer, still trying to get the shakes out.

  “‘Oksanta Claus is coming to town’?” Josh says, laughing. “Where do you come up with the shit you say, Henn?”

  Henn shrugs. “I just get divine inspiration, what can I say?”

  The waitress passes
our table and Josh flags her. “Another round, please.” He holds up an empty shot glass and shoots her a panty-melting smile.

  The waitress visibly swoons. “You got it, sugar.”

  I bring my beer to my lips again, and my hand visibly shakes.

  “You okay, Kat?” Josh asks.

  “Yeah.” But the truth is, I feel like I’m gonna barf—and not from the Patron. Today was insane. It’s one thing to want to do something outrageously scary to help your best friend, and it’s quite another to physically force yourself to actually do it while crapping your pretty undies the entire time. As I found out today, thinking about doing something brave (or tremendously stupid) and doing it are two very different things.

  “Do you need—” Josh begins, but his phone rings and we all jump.

  “Here we go,” Henn says, rubbing his hands together.

  Josh puts his phone to his ear, his eyes bugging out. “Jonas,” he says evenly, and then he listens. “Oh, thank God.” He addresses Henn and me. “We did it, guys. They got it all.”

  Henn fist-pumps the air, but all I can do is lean back in my chair, my body melting with outrageous relief.

  “We’re in a bar in Henderson,” Josh says. He looks around and his eyes fall on a television behind the bar. “Yeah, they’ve got one, but it’s not on.” He listens for a moment and rolls his eyes. “Really? We’ve been sitting here wondering this whole fucking time, shitting our pants, and you didn’t—” He listens again and smiles wickedly. “Oh. Well, then I forgive you.” He snickers. “I’m sure you were. Okay, we’ll turn on the TV and check it out. I’ll call you right back.” Josh flags the waitress. “Hey, could you turn on the TV—put it on the news?”

  “Sure, sweetie.” She walks over to the bartender, says something, and the TV comes on—and, literally, instantly, there’s no doubt our crafty little Oceans’ Eleven crew has hit a grand slam homerun.

  “Just keep it here,” Josh calls to the bartender.

  On the screen, a female reporter is talking into the camera while a banner declaring “Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las Vegas” scrolls beneath her. Behind the reporter, law enforcement officers in Kevlar vests are marching in and out of a cement building, carrying boxes.

  “Hey, could you turn up the sound, man?” Josh calls to the bartender.

  “... being told by federal authorities the terrorist plot was ‘sophisticated, imminent and massive,’” the reporter is saying.

  I’m confused. They’re calling The Club terrorists? Maybe I don’t fully understand the implications of that word. The Club was plotting terrorism?

  “... and that the terrorist organization has ties to the Russian government.”

  Henn chuckles. “Dude, it’s like I’m a fucking ventriloquist.”

  “Straight from your puppeteering mouth into the reporter’s,” Josh replies, his eyes fixed on the screen.

  I’m totally confused. What the hell are Josh and Henn talking about?

  An older woman with dyed blonde hair appears on-screen being escorted into a dark sedan.

  “... in this footage from earlier, we see one of the alleged terrorists being taken into custody,” the reporter says.

  “Is that Oksana?” I ask.

  Henn nods. “Yup.”

  “She’s a terrorist?” I ask dumbly.

  The look that passes between Henn and Josh in reaction to my question makes me feel like I must be having a total blonde moment. What the heck am I missing here?

  The reporter continues: “... the names of the two alleged terrorists killed during the raid have now been confirmed by authorities—”

  “Henn,” Josh says insistently, yanking on Henn’s sleeve.

  “Yeah, I know,” Henn says, batting Josh’s hand away like he’s swatting at a fly.

  “... the two men killed in a shoot-out with federal authorities at the scene were Mak-sim Be-len-ko and Yu-ri Na-vol-ska,” the reporter says slowly, clearly doing her mighty best not to screw up the pronunciations of the names.

  “Oh shit,” Josh says, beaming, and Henn high-fives him.

  “Both,” Henn says.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  What are they talking about? My brain is struggling to process. The Maksim guy who got killed is obviously that creepy Max guy who ordered the hit on Sarah and demanded a freebie from her. Well, good riddance to that bastard and may he rot in hell. But who’s the other guy who died in the raid? Yuri something? Sarah mentioned a Yuri during our meeting with Agent Eric, I think—yeah, it was when Henn played that voicemail from her attacker—

  I gasp. Holy shitballs. I just got it. Both. Henn meant that both men directly responsible for the hit on Sarah died today.

  My entire body erupts in goose bumps.

  Oh my God.

  I don’t know how Jonas did it—and what Josh and Henn had to do with it, but those two bad-guys biting the dust today doesn’t seem to be a coincidence. It seems I’m not watching a news story unfold on the television screen—I’m watching a PR campaign.

  “Josh,” I blurt. But before I can say another word, he’s standing next to me, pulling me up from my chair, and enfolding me in his muscled arms.

  “We did it,” he breathes into my lips. “We saved the world.” With that, he kisses me with such ferocious intensity, my knees buckle.

  When Josh breaks away from kissing me, he moves on to Henn, wrapping him in a massive bear hug. “Thank you,” he mumbles into Henn’s ear. “You’re my brother for life, man.”

  My heart pangs at the earnest tone of Josh’s voice. If I didn’t realize it before now, today’s victory obviously meant something deeply personal for him.

  Josh’s phone rings and he pulls away from Henn, rubbing his face. “Yo,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, we just saw it.” He presses his lips together, obviously containing his emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Jonas. You left no stone unturned.” He listens. “I know. We can finally breathe again... No, no, no. Don’t second-guess yourself, man. It was the perfect measure of force—like a fucking sniper.” He listens for long beat. “Wow. I didn’t know if they’d go for that. Fucking fantastic.” He beams a smile at Henn and me. “Yeah, they’re both standing right here. I’ll let you tell them yourself. Hey, guys. Jonas has some exceedingly good news for you.”

  Josh hands the phone to Henn, a huge smile on his face, and puts his arm around me.

  “Hey, big guy—congrats,” Henn says into the phone. “You’re welcome. I told you, I always wear a white hat.” He listens and his eyes go wide. “Tax free? Are you kidding me? Oh my God.” Henn looks at me, grinning from ear to ear. “Guess what Kitty Kat? We’re each getting our million bucks completely tax-free.”

  “Tax free?” I shriek—and then I promptly burst into gigantic, soggy tears.

  Josh embraces me and I wrap my arms around his neck, sobbing like a kid on her first day of kindergarten.

  “Looks like you’ll be opening that PR firm sooner than you thought,” Josh coos into my ear. He kisses my wet cheeks and then my lips. “Ssh,” he says gently, stroking my back. “You did so good today, babe. You deserve every penny. You kicked ass.”

  Clearly, he thinks I’m crying about the money. And I am. That’s a shitload of money. Holy shitballs, especially tax-free. But that’s not the biggest reason I’m crying, I don’t think. Mostly, I think I’m just relieved that the threat of danger to Sarah (and myself) is now, finally, blessedly, over. And I’m also sobbing with relief that I’m almost certainly not gonna get carted off to prison today—which is good, because God help me if I had to call my dad from jail. And, finally, I think I’m crying for no other reason than the fact that I really, really need a full eight hours of sleep. Holy Sleep Deprivation, Batman—I can’t keep going like this. Even the Party Girl With a Hyphen needs to freaking sleep occasionally, for the love of God!

  “Aw, babe, ssh,” Josh coos, cradling me in his strong arms and kissing my tears. “This is great news—nothing to cry about.”

  Bu
t my body won’t stop wracking with sobs. I squeeze Josh tighter and press myself into his broad chest with all my might.

  Josh chuckles and squeezes back, kissing every inch of my salty, wet, snotty face, and whispers in my ear. “We did it, babe. It’s over now.” He puts his lips right against my ear. “Well, this settles it once and for all: you’ve definitely got a vagina.”

  I burst out laughing through my sobs, and he laughs with me, holding me close.

  After a moment, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and when I pull my nose out of Josh’s neck, Henn’s holding up the phone to me. “Sarah wants to talk to you for sec.”

  I wipe my eyes and take the phone from Henn.

  “Hi, babycakes,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  “Kitty Kat!” Sarah shrieks. “You’re a mill-i-on-aire!”

  I laugh and wipe my eyes again. “So I’ve heard,” I squeak out, my voice cracking. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Aw, Kat,” Sarah says, her voice breaking along with mine. “You were so brave today.”

  “Oh my God, Sarah, no, I wasn’t brave at all,” I reply. “I was totally crapping my pants the whole time.”

  Sarah laughs. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “I can’t wait to hear about D.C.,” I reply.

  “Ha! Talk about pants-crapping. Jeez. I was in the room with all those men in suits and I was so nervous, I kept imagining myself hopping on the table and tap dancing like a frog in a top hat.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Exactly. The whole meeting, I was like, ‘fleffer fleegan geebah doobah.’”

  I laugh.

  “But Jonas was masterful.” She sighs. “Oh, Kat. He’s incredible.”

  “Things going well with you two?” I ask.

  “Amazing-incredible-never-been-happier-best-case-scenario. Gah! I’m so in love, it hurts.”