by Lauren Rowe
“Exactly,” I say. “I told you—the dude could keep a severed head in his fridge and I’d totally reach behind it to get myself a Diet Coke while giggling at something he just said.”
Dax laughs and looks at his phone again. “Yeah, both of ’em are just stupid-good-looking. It’s like God fell asleep at the ‘good looking’ switch and didn’t move on to the next guy on the conveyor belt like he was supposed to.”
“And I just spent a week with him in freaking Las Vegas of all places—and all expenses paid, too. No wonder I can’t distinguish fantasy from reality. The whole thing was like a fairytale.”
“Snow White and the Seven Sybians.”
“How the hell do you even know what a Sybian is, by the way?”
He scoffs. “Dude, I’m twenty and I’m a guy,” he says, as if this answers my question.
I shrug.
“Every twenty-something-year-old male in America knows what a Sybian is—it’s a porn staple. Howard Stern even has one in his studio for female guests to ride. It’s, like, Porn 101.”
“Really? I had no idea. I’d never even heard of one ’til last week.”
“Well, are you a twenty-something-year-old male?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“And do you watch a shit-ton of porn?”
“Never.”
“Well, there you go. Now you know why you discovered the Sybian for the first time while watching porn with Sir J.W. Faraday.”
I bite my lip. Dax has obviously misunderstood the circumstances under which Josh first acquainted me with my new toy—and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a very good thing. No one ever needs to know I rode that thing for Josh’s pleasure—least of all my brother. “So, hey, that concludes the ‘What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas’ portion of our program,” I say. “There’s something that happened in Vegas I actually want to tell you about.” I take a deep breath, a huge smile bursting across my face. “Guess who I partied with one crazy night while I was there?”
“Who?”
“All four members of Red Card Riot.” I can barely keep from squealing.
“What?” he bellows, his face the picture of pure astonishment. “How the fuck did that happen?”
I tell him about that night at Reed’s party, omitting certain key elements such as Jen’s attendance at the party and my near-naked tantrum in the hallway (because I’m a big believer that editing one’s life stories in the retelling is a girl’s prerogative).
“Damn, I wish I could have been there,” Dax says wistfully, shaking his head. “I would have loved to hang with those guys. Can you imagine what it would feel like to play for an entire arena of people, all of them singing along to a song you wrote?”
I shake my head, awed by the thought. “When I met them, they’d just performed on Saturday Night Live the prior week, and the lead-singer guy, Dean, started talking about it with this rapper guy and all I could think was, ‘God, I wish Dax could hear this.’”
The look on Dax’s face is so cute right now, I wanna throw him into a papoose and wear him on my back.
“You lucky bitch,” he mumbles.
“It ain’t no luck, son. I make my luck.”
He laughs. “Yes, you do. Always.”
“If RCR comes to Seattle, I’ll totally ask Josh if his friend Reed might get us backstage—well, if Josh and I are still doing our ‘temporarily-exclusive’ thing by then, that is.”
“Who’s Reed? And why would he be able to get us backstage at a Red Card Riot concert?”
I smile. This is exactly the piece of the story I’ve been dying to tell Dax for days. “Reed’s the guy who threw the party in Vegas where I met Red Card Riot.”
“How does he know them?”
It’s as if we choreographed this conversation in advance. “Well, let me see if I remember how he knows them,” I say. “Hmm.” I look up at the ceiling like I’m deep in thought. “I think Reed knows Red Card Riot because... they’re signed to his record label!”
Dax tilts his head like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.
I giggle. “Reed owns a record label, Dax. Like, he literally owns it—and RCR is one of his bands.”
Dax is looking at me like I’ve just proved time travel is real. “And you partied with him?” he asks, incredulous. “You partied with the owner of a record label?”
I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Twice.” I hold up two fingers for emphasis.
Dax’s thoughts are clearly racing. “So... oh my God. Does this Reed guy know your name or did you just sort of, you know, shake hands in a crowded bar?”
“No, we totally hung out. Had real conversations. He called me Stubborn Kat.”
Dax makes a face of total confusion.
“They were all joking that Stubborn Kat is like some kind of Garfield rip-off. ‘Oh no, Stubborn Kat ate all the curly fries and now she won’t get off the couch!’” I say by way of explanation, but he still looks nonplussed. “Never mind. I just mean we totally hung out and became friends. I went to his party the first night and then out to dinner with him and his friends a second night.”
Dax runs his hands through his hair, totally freaking out. “Listen to me, Jizz.” His eyes are blazing. “This could be a really lucky break for me. Fuck. Oh my God.” He bites his lip. “Do you think you could send this Reed guy my demo? Or would that make Sir J.W. Faraday feel like you’re just using him to get to Reed?”
I laugh. “Um, there’s no way in hell Josh would ever think I’m using him to get to Reed.”
Dax’s face lights up. “So you’ll send him my demo?”
I sigh and shake my head solemnly. “Sorry, Dax. No. I don’t feel comfortable sending Reed your demo. I’m sorry.”
Dax is obviously crestfallen but trying to hide it. “It’s okay,” he says evenly. “Yeah, no problem. I totally understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“But only because that demo doesn’t show how totally awesome you are!” I add brightly. “Only because we’ve got this one amazing chance to make an awesome first impression with the guy who owns Red Card Riot’s record label and we’re totally gonna blow him outta the water!”
He looks like I’ve punched him and kissed him all at once. “Yeah, but that demo’s all I’ve got—at least for now. I’m working on it, but it’s gonna be a while.”
“How much do you still need?” I ask.
For as long as I can remember, Dax and his band (but mostly Dax) have been saving their pennies to record a full-length studio album of his songs with full instrumentation. But saving that kind of money—fifteen thousand bucks, he estimates, to record and produce the album exactly the way he wants it—is an awfully tall order for a group of twenty-something musicians living hand-to-mouth by playing bars and festivals.
“I had almost three thousand saved, but then my bike totally crapped out on me so I’m basically back to square one.”
“So you still need about fifteen grand or so?”
“Well, we could certainly record an album for less if we cut some corners on production value. Or I guess we could just do a few songs instead of a full album—or maybe another basic demo.” He puffs out his cheeks like a puffer fish, thinking. “But I really didn’t wanna do another demo—been there done that—I wanted to put together a full album that showcases who we are and what we can do.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. Maybe I should just record a quick demo with my acoustic guitar on my iPad, just so you have something current to send to the guy before he forgets who you are—”
“Nope. We’re not gonna send Reed a demo, Dax.” I pull a thick envelope out of my purse and plop it onto the coffee table with a thud. “Because you’re recording a full album.”
“What’s that?”
“Open it.”
Dax opens the envelope and peeks inside. “Oh my... What the fuck is this? Did you rob a bank?”
I smirk. Oh, if only Dax knew how spot-on that comment is. I’d originally planned to use this
wad of cash to pay off my credit cards and car, of course, but that was before I found out I’m gonna be a mill-i-on-aire.
“Where the fuck did you get this kind of cash?” Dax asks, his eyes wide.
“Playing craps,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s almost twenty grand there, baby. Enough for whatever album you’ve been dreaming of making plus a bit extra for bells and whistles: strings, horns, a freaking choir—whatever. Or maybe PR for the album when you release it or a down payment on a new bike. Whatever. It’s yours. Go forth and prosper.”
“How the fuck did you win twenty grand playing craps?” Dax asks. “How is that even possible? You must have been betting, like, hundreds of bucks per roll—maybe even thousands.”
“Yeah, well, Josh spotted me some gambling money and then his brother walked away from the table and gave me all his chips. So, actually, I didn’t win any of this money fair and square. But Josh insisted I keep it, so whaddayagonnado?” I shrug. “And now it’s yours.”
“Wait a minute. The dude gave you twenty grand and you’re not sure if he’s serious about you? Are you mentally deficient?”
I wave him off. “No, trust me. You don’t know Josh. Just because he’s crazy-generous and he gave me an insane amount of money doesn’t necessarily mean he wants a serious relationship with me. He has a warped sense of reality when it comes to money. The guy wears two-thousand-dollar shoes (which, true story, I barfed on one night). He drives a frickin’ Lamborghini, Dax. The guy’s not normal.”
“Dude, I don’t care how rich he is or what shoes he wears or what car he drives. If a guy gives a woman, especially a woman he’s sleeping with, twenty grand, then he thinks she’s one of two things: a very high-priced hooker or the woman of his dreams.”
My heart skips a beat. Damn, my brother has a knack for hitting the nail right on the head sometimes.
Dax picks up the envelope and begins counting the hundred-dollar bills inside, shaking his head with awe as he does. When he’s finally done counting, he looks up at me, his eyes glistening. “Thank you so much, Kat,” he says. “I’ll repay you one day, I swear to God, every last penny.” His voice breaks adorably. “I’m gonna do everything in my power to make you proud of me, Kat.”
I grin from ear-to-ear. It’s so rare that Dax calls me Kat. With him, I’m always Jizz or sis (or Splooge or Protein Shake if he’s feeling particularly silly). He must feel uniquely overcome right now to be addressing me by my real name.
“You never need to pay me back,” I say. “It was never my money in the first place. And I’m already proud of you. All I want is for you to make the exact album you wanna make—no holding back.”
He lurches at me and wraps me in a fervent hug. “I love you, Kat. You’re my all-time favorite sister.”
I laugh and kiss his cheek, my eyes stinging. “I love you, too. You’re my all-time favorite baby brother.”
We hold each other for a long beat.
“Now get the fuck out of my house, you mooch,” I say, pulling away from our embrace and wiping my eyes. “I’ve got a thank-you email to write to our mutual benefactor, and then I’ve got a hot date with a certain piece of motorized machinery.”
Dax laughs. “No shit, you do.” He rubs his eyes. “Thanks so much, Kat. I’ll never forget this as long as I live.”
“I didn’t do it so you’d owe me something. I did it because watching you make your dreams come true will be the same thing as making my own dream come true.”
He wipes his eyes again. “I’ll make you proud, sis.”
“You already have.”
There’s a beat. We’re smiling at each other like simpletons. I think this is one of the best moments of my life. Way better than if I’d received something amazing for myself.
“Now get the fuck out,” I say. “You’re cramping my style.”
He kisses me on the cheek again, shoves his guitar into its case, scoops up his envelope full of cash, and strides toward my front door. But a few feet from the door, he stops short and looks down for a very long beat, his back still to me.
When Dax finally whirls around to face me, I’m expecting him to thank me again, or maybe say something deep and poignant—but that’s not what happens.
“You slept with Cameron Schulz?” he blurts. “The baseball player?”
My eyes dart to the coffee table, searching frantically for Josh’s note—but it’s not where I left it. Goddammit!
Dax holds up Josh’s card between his two fingers like he’s holding a cigarette, a wicked smirk on his face.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I say evenly, pointing to the door.
Dax tosses the card onto my kitchen counter. “Wow, Jizz,” he says smoothly. “You’re my fucking hero, dude.”
Sixty
Kat
The minute the door closes behind Dax’s back, I pull out my laptop from my carry-on bag, log in remotely to my firm’s network, and check the shared calendar, trying to figure out when I can realistically commit to a trip to L.A. to see Josh.
Based on the workload I’m seeing on the firm’s calendar, I seriously shouldn’t go for at least a month. I was in Las Vegas way longer than I ever expected to be, and, based on what I’m seeing on my firm’s calendar, my absence has quite obviously been felt. Dang it. If I’m gonna stay at this job, I really should take a chill pill on skipping town for a while. But am I gonna stay at this job or open my own firm in the near future? That’s the million-dollar question. And if I am gonna start my own thing, then I suppose in good conscience I really shouldn’t sit for too much longer on my company’s payroll while I’m getting my own ducks in a row. Shoot. I’ve got some big-girl decisions to make.
I flip into my personal calendar, just to see if there’s something requiring my attention here at home next week. Whoa. Today’s the eighteenth? All this time, I’ve been thinking it was the seventeenth. I look up sharply from my screen. Wait. Did I miss taking a birth control pill somewhere along the line this past week?
I quickly rummage into my bag and pull out my pills. Oh crap. Yeah, I missed a day. Well, it’s no wonder with the crazy hours Josh and I kept in Vegas. Who could keep track of day and night the way we were going?
Quickly, I pop one of my pills to make up for my lapse. It really shouldn’t make that big a difference, right? It’s just one day. In fact, I’m pretty sure the pill I missed was yesterday.
Okay, back to the calendar. It looks like I can head down to L.A. on Thursday of next week. But should I give notice at my job before I leave? Gah. I just don’t know. It’d be a huge leap of faith. I’m conflicted.
I take a deep breath and click into my email account, poised to send Josh a quick email giving him my proposed dates and thanking him for his latest gift, when I think, “Hey, I should attach a photo of the Sybian to my thank-you email so Josh can see that it arrived.”
I pull out my phone to snap a quick photo of the machine sitting in the middle of the room, but then I get an even better idea: “Hey, I should take a photo of me sitting on the Sybian, smiling happily for the camera.”
One side of my mouth hitches up with an even better idea: “I should pose on the machine buck naked.”
My smile widens. I’ll send Josh a naked photo of myself as if I were one of the hookers in The Club.
Yes.
Surprisingly, I’ve never sent a man a naked-selfie before (mainly because my mom always put the fear of God into me that any naked photo I’d send, no matter how much I might trust the guy at the time, would eventually wind up on hotgirls.com after things went south in the relationship). But when it comes to Josh, I don’t think for one minute he’d betray me, ever, come what may. Hey, if one of the world’s top models trusts Josh with a photo of herself sticking her hand up her cooch, then surely, a non-celebrity like me can trust him, too.
I peel off my clothes, situate myself suggestively on the saddle of my new machine, raise my phone above my head, and snap a photo, giggling to myself as I do—and when I survey th
e resulting photo, I laugh out loud. Well, if I’m going for “treat me like one of the whores in The Club,” then I’ve definitely succeeded with this shot.
I grab my laptop and sit on my couch, still completely nude, and begin writing an email with the photo attached:
“Dear Mr. Faraday,” I write. “Thank you for your application to The Katherine Ulla Morgan Club, also known as the KUM Club, also known as the Fantasy Fulfillment Club. We have reviewed the sexual preferences you described in your application and have determined that you are, indeed, one helluva sick fuck, Mr. Faraday. But do not fret because, as it turns out, we absolutely adore sick fucks here at The KUM Club. In fact, lucky for you, our most sought-after girl at The KUM Club strongly prefers sick fucks above all other freaks and perverts—and guess what, you lucky bastard? She’s a blonde!
“The fantasy-provider to whom I refer goes by many code names, including The Jealous Bitch and Madame Terrorist to name a few, but the code name she strongly prefers the most is Party Girl with a Hyphen (abbreviated herein as ‘PGWH’).
“As mentioned, PGWH is by far our most popular and coveted fantasy-provider. Wise and powerful men the world over, including sheiks, kings, politicians, and professional athletes (including Cameron Schulz, the shortstop for the Seattle Mariners!!!) clamor for this woman’s valuable services. And it’s no wonder: it is said PGWH can give a man a blowjob that will make him weep with joy like a newborn lamb.
“PGWH is very selective of her clients, but she has viewed your photos and determined she would be willing to bestow her remarkable talents upon you. If you desire this talented and coveted blonde woman’s services (as every other wise and powerful man from around the globe does), then PGWH would be very excited to make your every fantasy come true. In fact, she’d like nothing better (as long as you pay her eminently reasonable fee, addressed below).
“Mr. Faraday, PGWH is the top fantasy-provider in the world. As I’m sure you can understand, a woman like that doesn’t come cheap. Indeed, you’ll have to pay handsomely to experience PGWH’s charms: one million dollars per night.