by Lauren Rowe
“Um, I dunno,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. This conversation is overwhelming me in the best possible way. “I’ll need to look at what’s waiting for me on the work calendar and let you know.”
“Cool. Don’t keep me hanging though, or I’m gonna go all Jonas Faraday on your ass.” He laughs to himself. “Oh my fucking God. I can’t wait to see you and get started on our little fantasy-fulfillment exchange. It’s gonna be epic.” He lowers his voice. “Kat, I can’t stop thinking about—” He abruptly stops. There’s a ridiculously long pause. “It.”
It? There’s a long pause. That felt like a weird choice of words.
“I can’t stop thinking about... it, either,” I say slowly, but I’m not completely sure what we’re talking about. Are we saying we can’t stop thinking about our upcoming fantasy-fulfillment exchange? Is that the “it”?
“Oh, they’re boarding my flight,” Josh says quickly. “Be sure to send me a note telling me when you can come to L.A. I’ve still got you on the clock for my ‘PR campaign,’ so if it’ll make it easier for you to get away from work, I’d be happy to throw some more money onto the ‘campaign’ and—”
“Oh, gosh, no, don’t pay anything more to my firm, Josh. Once I get my finder’s fee money, I’ll probably be quitting, anyway, to start my own thing.”
“Awesome, Kat. Wow. Just think—we’ll both be birthin’ babies at the exact same time. My new company with Jonas and Party Girl PR will grow up together.”
“Ha! Well, our babies might be born at the same time, but they’re definitely not gonna grow up together. Your baby’s gonna be in a slightly different tax bracket than mine. Yours will be attending private pre-school and learning to play cello and speak Mandarin while Party Girl PR will be eating paste in the corner at the McDonald’s Play Land.”
Josh hoots with laughter. “God, you’re funny. But, no, Kat, seriously—the size of your business doesn’t matter—you’ll still be an entrepreneur. And in my book, that makes you a fucking beast.” He makes an exaggerated roar like a T-Rex.
I laugh. “Wow.”
“Try it.”
I mimic his roar.
“There you go. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Um... Well, actually, I think my roar is a bit premature. I’ve got a crap-ton to figure out before I decide if I’m actually gonna do it or not.”
“Why wouldn’t you do it?”
“Because I don’t know what the heck I’m doing. I know PR, but I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m only twenty-four, for crying out loud. I’m a wee little baybay, Joshua. Waaah.”
He scoffs. “I started the L.A. office of Faraday & Sons at twenty-four and I didn’t know a goddamned thing. But I kicked fucking ass and took names, anyway—like the wise and powerful man I am. I learned on the job and so will you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a brother and uncle working with me in case I don’t know something—it’s just me, and I don’t know the first thing about a million things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like whether my company should be an LLC or S-Corp or which billing software I should use. Plus, I’ve got to figure out a logo and website design and—oh crap—what if I wanna hire an actual employee? I don’t have the first idea how to set up payroll or—”
“Whoa, slow down, High-Speed,” Josh soothes. “You’re stressing me the fuck out.” He chuckles. “I’ll help you with all that stuff. Piece of chocolate cake, little baybay.”
“Josh, no, you can’t help me with that stuff—I have to learn it, that’s the whole point of starting my own thing.”
“No, doing everything by yourself is most definitely not the whole point, you fool.” He makes yet another scoffing noise. “The point of owning your own business is being your own boss and getting to do the thing that makes you a fucking beast—which in your case is being a PR phenom—it’s definitely not setting up billing software and payroll. And, realistically, you’ll probably be a one-woman operation for a while, so getting you up and running will be easy-peasy. Don’t stress it, babe. I got you.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t know how—”
“Ssh. I tell you what I’m gonna do, baby,” Josh says smoothly. “I’ll line up whatever you’re gonna need to get your business off the ground—an accountant, bookkeeper, IT guy, website designer, whatever. I’ve got all those folks sitting on my contacts list already, so just a couple of quick phone calls and, boom, you’ll be all set.”
I’m positively swooning right now. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course, I would. I’d do anything for you, Kat.”
Holy shitballs. Josh tossed out that last sentence like he was simply stating the obvious, but I’m floored. “I really didn’t mean to imply I was expecting you to—”
“Oh, I know. I never thought that. I just wanna help.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You know you don’t have to—”
“Dude. You’re pissing me off. Just say ‘thank you.’”
I smile into the phone. “Thank you. Very much.”
“My pleasure.”
I feel light-headed. “So does that mean you’re gonna be, like, an investor?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I don’t want an ownership stake—I’m not making a long-term commitment here. I’m just offering to help you get your baby off the ground, that’s all—no strings attached.”
There’s an awkward pause. He said all that a lot more emphatically than was necessary, I do believe.
“Okay,” I say slowly, my heart beating wildly. Did he just tell me in code he doesn’t want a long-term relationship with me?
There’s a long pause.
“But, I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he stammers. “I’m super excited for you and I wanna help you out.”
I pause, trying to decide what we’re really talking about here. I feel like he just kissed me and slapped me. “Maybe I’d better figure everything out on my own, after all,” I say tentatively. “But thanks for your offer, anyway.”
He makes a sound of frustration. “What the fuck just happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were all happy and grateful and excited and then you suddenly became a chick. What suddenly crawled up your ass?”
I’m shocked. “What crawled up my ass?”
“Oh, Jesus. Vagina!” he shouts. “Sometimes I forget you’re not just a hot-lookin’ dude.”
“What the hell...?” I say, bristling. “What crawled up my ass?”
“Bad choice of words. Sorry. It’s what I’d say to a dude. Forget I said it. Listen, Kat. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna help you because you’re my Party Girl with a Hyphen—not because I want a stake in your company, that’s all I’m saying. Okay? Don’t get all freaked out and start overanalyzing everything and start looking for secret codes.”
Whoa. It’s like he can read my damned mind.
“I’m being above-board with you: I wanna help you. That’s how I feel right now. How will I feel a few months from now? I have no idea. All I know is that right now, I wanna help you. And I wanna see you. And be with you and touch you and fuck you and lick you and fucking bite you, and I can’t stop thinking about you, no matter what the fuck I do—” He abruptly stops talking.
Suddenly, there’s complete silence on the line.
Wow, that was quite the rambling speech from Mr. Joshua William Faraday.
I pause a really long time, collecting myself, my hand on my heart.
He doesn’t say another word.
“Okay,” I finally say. “Well, then, thank you for your short-term and completely uncommitted help. I appreciate and accept it.”
There’s another really long beat.
Josh swallows hard on his end of the line and clears his throat. “Great. You’re welcome. So what do you think about calling the company ‘Party Girl with a Hyphen PR’?” he asks, clearly changing the topic of conversation.
“Is that too long?” he asks.
“Is what too long?”
“The name ‘Party Girl with a Hyphen PR.’”
“Oh. Yeah, definitely,” I manage to reply. “And also too weird.” I clear my throat. “Actually, I was thinking of calling my company ‘PG PR’? Is that too boring? I’m thinking ‘Party Girl PR’ kinda sounds like an event planner.”
“Yeah, you’re totally right. Good call, PG. That’s why they pay you the big bucks. ‘PG PR.’ I like it. Oh fuck, they’re boarding my flight.”
“Okay. Thanks for everything, Josh.”
“My pleasure.”
My pulse is pounding in my ears. “Fly safely.”
“That’s always the plan, babe. Oh, hey, PG. One more thing. Real quick. I sent you a little present. It should be waiting for you when you get home.”
“A present? Oh my God, Josh, no. I still haven’t thanked you enough for everything you’ve already done for me.”
“It’s just a small gift. You’ll see.”
“But, no, Josh, you’ve already done too much.”
“Hey, you’ve done a lot for me, too. By my count, we’re pretty even.”
“If you’re talking about all the amazing sex we’ve had, we’re not close to even—that was all for my benefit, I assure you.”
“Dude. I’m not paying you for sex—though sex with you is so damned good, I gladly would—especially since I know you have a raging call-girl fantasy and all.” He snickers. “But no, you big dummy, I’m talking about evening the score for everything you did in Las Vegas. We all owe you big, Oksana, especially me.”
“Especially you? How’s that?”
“Because if something were to happen to Sarah, then Jonas would fall apart—which means my life would suck. So I need to guard Sarah like the crown jewels. Plus, on a personal note, I’d strongly prefer my application never get into the wrong hands, so I’m pretty relieved about the way things worked out.”
Oh, I never thought about that.
He takes a deep breath. “So, like I said, I’d say we’re pretty much even—in fact, I might very well still owe you—oh shit. Gotta run, PG. Hey, there’ll be wifi on my flight, so be sure to email me when you get my gift.”
“Okay, I will. Thank you again. Fly safely.”
He sounds like he’s running. “Oh, and don’t forget to tell me when you can make it to L.A. so I can book your flight—whoa, whoa, hang on!” He’s obviously shouting to someone on his end of the line. “Yeah, I’m on this flight. Thanks.” He addresses me again. “Okay, PG? Email me.”
“You better go, Josh—don’t miss your flight.”
“Yeah, I’m walking on board now. Talk to you later, Party Girl with a Hyphen. See you soon.”
My stomach bursts with butterflies and my heart squeezes. “Bye-bye, Playboy with a Heart of Gold. Can’t wait.”
He sighs cartoonishly, like he’s Lucy watching Schroeder playing piano. “Bye, Kat.”
I can feel his wide smile through the phone line. I hope he can feel mine in return.
“Bye, Josh.”
I hang up my phone, my mouth hanging open, my eyes as wide as freakin’ saucers. For a long moment, I look out the window of the cab in a daze, staring at the rain pounding insistently on the glass. Holy crappola, as Sarah always says, that entire conversation shocked the living hell out of me. Josh acted like... I can’t even finish the thought without possibly making my heart explode.
And I acted the exact same way toward him.
We both acted like...
Oh my God, both of us did, right? I wasn’t imagining it, was I?
I clutch my chest. Holy My Heart’s Gonna Burst Out of my Chest, Batman. I’m having trouble breathing. I take a deep, steadying breath. That conversation threw me for a loop. It was just so effing... affectionate. And comfortable. And sweet. (Well, except when he asked what crawled up my ass—that wasn’t so sweet.) There was none of our usual cat-and-mouse thing going on—it felt like the cat had already caught its coveted mouse, long ago, and was now pinning it down and licking it from nose to tail.
I stash my phone in my purse—the Gucci bag Josh bought me during our Oksana-inspired shopping spree—and stare at the rain out the taxicab window. Holy hell, Josh’s generosity knows no bounds. He’s already done so much for me, and now he’s gonna help me get my little company off the ground, too? I thought I’d be at least forty before I even attempted to make that particular dream come true.
The windshield wipers are going back and forth at full speed, lulling me into a kind of trance.
I don’t care what Josh says—we’re definitely not even when it comes to the two of us bestowing gifts and favors on each other. I joined our Ocean’s Eleven crew to protect Sarah and possibly myself, too—not to mention to get a free trip to Las Vegas with my best friend. Yes, everything wound up blowing up and becoming way, way bigger than any of us had ever imagined, but still... Josh keeps doing stuff for me, personally, and I most definitely didn’t save the world for him specifically. There’s no way around it: all I’ve done is take, take, take from Josh, letting him give, give, give to me ’til he’s blue in his ridiculously gorgeous face. And I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve his generosity or express my gratitude. In fact, I’m getting perilously close to becoming a total user-abuser, if I’m not already there. But what gift can I possibly give to Josh that would come even close to everything he’s already given to me?
My heart is throbbing in my ears. My chest is tight.
I already know the answer, of course. It’s not a big mystery: his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies served up on a silver platter.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to give him. Right down the line.
Of course, giving Josh complete sexual satisfaction, no matter what form that comes in, isn’t some sort of noble or charitable pursuit on my part—ha! It will be my sublime pleasure to give Josh exactly what he desires in the bedroom, a gift to myself as much as him. Hell yeah, it will.
And it’s not all the gifts and money Josh has given me that’s making me feel this way, either. Nate used to shower me with gifts, too (though on a much smaller scale), and I never once physically ached for him the way I’m aching for Josh right now. I never once daydreamed about feeling Nate pushing himself deep inside me, or closed my eyes and imagined his warm tongue on my clit, or fantasized about waking up in Nate’s arms and wordlessly taking his morning wood into my mouth.
I breathe deeply, arousal suddenly seeping into my panties.
I never once felt a near-desperate urge to fuck Nate any which way he likes it, literally, any which way, no matter how dirty or naughty it might be, or felt the urge to make his desires my own, or fantasized about sitting on his face or riding his cock ’til I’m screaming his name. And I certainly never once imagined Nate sitting at the dinner table with my family on Thanksgiving, or on the couch with my brothers, watching the Seahawks and eating my mom’s famous chili.
I gasp and jerk forward in my seat, clutching my throat like I’m choking on a chicken bone. Oh my fucking shit. What am I thinking? I want to take Josh home to meet my family? I haven’t taken anyone home since Garrett.
I stare at the rain battering the window of the taxicab, still clutching my throat, trying desperately to think of some logical reason why I’m feeling like a tortured, lovesick puppy that doesn’t involve falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor (who, in case I missed it, just told me in not-so-secret code he’s not at all interested in a long-term commitment). But I can’t come up with a damned thing.
I’m falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Oh God.
No. I need to stop feeling this way right now and get a handle on my emotions. I press both of my palms on my cheeks, willing myself to stop feeling this all-consuming ache. Infatuation is fine. Sexual attraction is fine. We’ll-see-where-this-goes is perfectly fine. Really liking someone a whole lot is perfectly fine. But risking inevitable, shattering heartbreak is
emphatically not.
Dude, I need to think rationally, with my brain, and not my lady-parts.
I’m in lust, and nothing more. Well, that and very strong like. Very, very strong like. But once I get back to work and the routine of my real life, once the neon lights and excitement of our spy-caper-porno in Las Vegas have faded for both of us and reality sets in and we remember that Josh and I live not just in different states but in different worlds—because I’m not a supermodel and my mom isn’t a movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Aspen, for crying out loud—I’m sure my fairytale-delusions will crash down to reality without a parachute.
Indubitably.
Fifty-Nine
Kat
When I enter my apartment, my youngest brother, Dax, is on the couch, playing his guitar and singing a song I’ve never heard before. When he sees me, he sets down his guitar and lopes over to me, his lean muscles taut in his tight-fitting T-shirt.
“Jizz,” he says warmly, wrapping me in a big hug. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I kiss his cheek. “Hey, baby brother,” I say. “Thanks for keeping my apartment safe and sound.”
“It was hard work, but somebody had to do it. Was Vegas a blast?”
“Yeah, it was amazing.”
“How much money did you lose?”
“Oh, not too much,” I say coyly. “So, hey, was that a new song you were just playing?”
“Yeah, I was just fine-tuning it. It’s not done yet.”
“Play me what you’ve got.” I lead him to the couch and we sit.
“Naw, I’ll play it for you when I’ve got it finished.”
“I won’t criticize it. Just play me what you got.”
His face lights up. “Well, if you insist.”
I laugh. “I do.”
Dax picks up his guitar and plays an up-tempo song about looking for love in the anonymous faces he passes on a busy city street—and his expressive voice and vulnerable lyrics transport me with every word and note.