The Consummation: Josh and Kat Part III (The Club Book 7)

by Lauren Rowe

  The Consummation Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Photography: Kelly Elaine Photo

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review

  Chapter 1

  Josh

  I stumble out of Walmart (the only place open at eleven-forty-five that sells electronics) and cross the parking lot toward my waiting town car. I open the door of the black Sedan and hurl myself into the backseat. “Thanks for waiting, man,” I mumble.

  “Did they have what you were looking for?” the driver asks.

  I hold up a plastic Walmart bag containing my new purchases.

  “Where to now?”

  I give the guy the address of Kat’s apartment and he starts the engine.

  As the car pulls out of the parking lot, I surreptitiously dig into my plastic bag and pull out one of my three Walmart-purchases: a bottle of Jack.

  The driver’s eyes flicker at me in the rearview mirror, but, thankfully, the guy doesn’t say jack about my Jack. I lean back in my seat, the bottle of booze perched against my lips.

  Man, I fucked up tonight. I had no idea not telling Kat about my upcoming move to Seattle would play out like fucking Armageddon. Watching Kat cry big ol’ soggy tears, especially on account of something I did (or, technically, didn’t do), ripped my heart the fuck out of my chest. Each tear that streamed down Kat’s beautiful face felt like a knife stabbing me in the heart.

  “I would have been bursting at the seams to tell you if the situation were reversed,” Kat said in front of the karaoke bar, her eyes glistening. “You would have been the first person I would have called.”

  Up until that moment, I’d been thinking my tempestuous little terrorist was simply overreacting—letting her emotions and temper run wild, as she’s been known to do a time or two. But the minute those daggers left Kat’s mouth, I knew they were cutting me so deep because they were the God’s truth—and that if Kat were to buy a house in L.A. and not bother to mention it to me, I’d be crushed.

  Which is exactly how Kat seems to be feeling right now: crushed. In fact, it seems like Kat might be thinking she’s done with me for good, though that’s not what she said when I dropped her off at her apartment. All she said before slipping inside her place was that she “needed a couple days to think and regroup” so she could “figure out if she was overreacting or not”—but the look on Kat’s face as she closed her door made it clear she wasn’t even close to deciding she’d overreacted.

  “Okay,” I said softly, even though all I wanted to do was plant a deep kiss on her mouth that would somehow erase her short-term memory from her brain. “Take your time,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few days.” And I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said that—I really wasn’t—I truly planned to leave her alone. I mean, shit, God knows groveling never has been my style. But, fuck me, after only an hour alone in my hotel room, drinking whiskey and staring at the Space Needle—not to mention getting my ass chewed by fucking Adele—I just couldn’t sit there like a flop-dick anymore. I had to do something to make her forgive me.

  So I texted Kat a couple times, asking her to call me—but she didn’t respond. So I bit the bullet and called her—let the groveling begin!—but my call went straight to voicemail. So, finally, I tucked my dick and balls firmly between my legs and left Kat a rambling voicemail that can only be described as “vaginal.” But, still, I didn’t hear a goddamned peep from her. Which is when a panic started descending upon me, a thumping need to make Kat understand I’m genuinely crazy about her, addicted, insatiable. And that’s when I got my brilliant idea.

  I pull my new portable CD player out of my Walmart bag and remove it from its packaging. It’s quite a bit smaller and way more modern looking than the old-school boom box I’d envisioned when I stumbled into the electronics aisle at Walmart, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, especially at just before midnight on a Friday night.

  The sedan pulls up to the front of Kat’s apartment complex.

  “Just park in the driveway,” I say to the driver. I hand him my phone. “Connect this to your stereo—I’ve got a song all cued up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Blast the song I’ve got cued up on my phone.”

  The driver looks incredulous, not to mention annoyed. “It’s past midnight, sir. We can’t be blasting music in a residential area.”

  I shove a couple hundred bucks at the guy. “Come on, man, I’ve got a girl to win back. I fucked up and now I gotta make her forgive me.”

  The driver takes my cash. “The song’s cued up?”

  “Yep. Just press play at my signal—and then blast the motherfucker at full volume, as high as your speakers will go.”

  “Full volume? Sir, I really can’t—”

  I throw a bunch more bills at the guy. “Just do it,” I bark. “I’ll handle any complaints.”

  Without waiting for the driver’s reply, I stagger out of the car with my CD player in one hand and my brand new Walmart-issued trench coat in the other.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. Was there an exact moment when I handed Kat my dick and balls, or did I give her my manhood in bite-sized pieces, the same way I fed her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the sex dungeon? Well, either way, the woman’s definitely got my crown jewels in a Ziploc baggie now.

  I place the CD player on the ground so I can put on my spiffy new trench coat, and when I’m positive I’m sufficiently John-Cusack-ified, I take a deep breath, lift my makeshift boom box over my head, and signal to the driver to start the music.

  Peter Gabriel’s song “In Your Eyes” begins blaring loudly from the car.

  I stand stock still, holding the boom box over my head. And I wait.

  But no Kat. What the hell? Surely, she can hear the loud music—her apartment is one of the units closest to the street.

  I continue waiting, holding the CD player over my head.

  But, still, no Kat.

  Shit.

  A feeling of pure desperation floods me. Is she really gonna ignore me out here? I’m putting my fucking heart on the line for her. But wait. What if Kat hears the song but doesn’t put two and two together? What if she thinks it’s just some drunken asshole, passed out in his car, playing the oldies station much too loud? I quickly stride back to the sedan and bend down to the driver.

  “Hand me my phone,” I say. “I’m gonna send my girl a text.”

  “You want me to disconnect it from the stereo?”

  “No,” I reply. “Keep the song going. I’ll just reach over you real quick.” The driver pulls my phone toward me, as far as it will go with the connection cord attached, and I lean over him and tap out a text to Kat: “Come out to the street, Kitty Kat. There’s a hound dog out here with his tail between his legs.” I press send on my message and quickly reposition myself with the boom box again.

  A few seconds later, a shirtless guy with a beer belly marches out of the apartment building, a lit cigarette in one hand, a beer can in the other.

  “What the fuck, man?” the guy shouts. “I’ve got a baby trying to sleep in there.”

  “I’m doing Say Anything for my girl, man,” I say. “I’m in the doghouse.”

  The guy makes a face like I’ve just blurted I have no penis.

  “Dude, I got no choice,” I continue. “My girl’s a fucking uni
corn.”

  The guy nods and takes a long drag off his cigarette. “She likes that movie, huh? The one with the boom box?”

  I roll my eyes. “She thinks it’s ‘romantic.’”

  The dude laughs heartily and takes a few steps back, apparently ceding center-stage to me. “This I gotta see,” he mumbles.

  A brunette woman comes out of one of the apartments, a look of complete annoyance etched onto her face—but when she catches sight of me, her face melts. She quickly disappears into the apartment building and returns with another woman in tow, and when the second woman sees me, her face melts, too. Well, shit. I’m glad these two women think I’m so fucking adorable, but they’re not my intended audience. Where the fuck is Kat? Could she be asleep already? Or maybe in the shower? Did she not see my text?

  My arms are getting tired. I didn’t expect to have to do this for so long.

  I shift my weight. Shit. In the movie, the girl looked out her window right away, didn’t she? What the fuck is taking Kat so goddamned long to come out here and put me out of my misery?

  A guy’s face appears in the window of the front apartment. He turns to say something to someone behind him and an instant later, a second face appears in the window, laughing at me.

  Well, let them laugh. As long as Kat comes out here and sees me and forgives me for crushing her, I don’t care if the whole world laughs at me tonight. All I care about is setting things right with Kat—making her understand my failure to tell her about Seattle had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

  “Hey, sir,” the driver says to me above the music. “You just got a text. I don’t think she’s coming out.”

  I lower my boom box and turn around to face him, my heart beating like a steel drum.

  “She replied to your text,” the driver continues. He motions to my phone.

  I lurch over to the car and grab my phone, my eyes bugging out of my head.

  “I’m not playing hard to get or being a terrorist,” Kat’s text says. “I can’t see or talk to you tonight. Please just give me a couple days to think and regroup and figure a few things out.”

  Chapter 2

  Kat

  “Happy birthday to youuu!” everyone at the table sings and Colby blows out the thirty candles on his carrot cake.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Colby says. “The cake looks great, Dax.”

  Mom begins taking the candles off Colby’s cake and cutting slices for everyone while Dax assumes ice-cream-scooping duties.

  “None for me,” I say when Mom offers me a thick slice.

  “Are you feeling okay, honey?” Mom asks. “You look a bit peaked.” She hands Ryan the piece of cake she’d offered to me.

  “I’m fine. I just went a little crazy at the karaoke bar with friends last night,” I say. “Shouldn’t have had that last martini.”

  Mom shoots me a scolding look. “You weren’t driving, I hope?” she asks. She hands a huge slice of cake to Keane.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “And whoever was driving wasn’t drinking?”

  “Correct,” I say.

  “Never drink and drive,” Mom says firmly. She slides a noticeably slim piece of cake to Dad. “Just get that Uber-thingy on your phone and they’ll pick you right up.”

  “You mean the Uber app, Mom?” Dax asks, shooting me an amused look.

  “Yep. It’s called Uber. They’ll pick you right up.”

  “Wow. Sounds neat-o, Mom,” I say, returning Dax’s smile. She’s so cute.

  “Did you hit ’em with your karaoke-specialty last night?” Keane asks. He puts his hand on his heart and breaks into a full-throated chorus of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

  “Of course,” I say. I toss my hair over my shoulder. “And I nailed it, too.”

  “Aw, you cheated on me, Baby-Gravy?” Ryan asks. “I’m devastated.”

  “Sorry, Ry,” I say. “The opportunity presented itself and I had to take it. I thought you’d understand.”

  “Well, I don’t understand,” Ryan says. “That’s our thing, Kum Shot.”

  “Stop with the semen-nicknames,” Mom says. “You know I hate that.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Ryan says. “But I think your disciplinary efforts would be better spent telling Ebenezer Splooge over there not to stab me in the heart with a rusty blade.”

  “Aw, come on,” I say. “I couldn’t let the moment pass me by. YOLO, brah. That’s how I dooz it.”

  Ryan scoffs, utterly miffed.

  “YOLO,” Dax mutters with disdain. “I wanna strangle the genius who came up with that.”

  “What’s ‘YOLO’?” Dad asks, happily chomping on his little morsel of cake.

  “‘You only live once,’” Dax answers, practically holding his nose.

  “Oh, carpe diem isn’t cool enough for the kids these days, huh?” Dad says.

  “That’s too long to text,” Mom says, taking a bite of ice cream. “They shorten everything these days, honey. ‘LOL! OMG!’” She throws up her hands, apparently imitating a spazzoid-teenager at a mall.

  Derby Field! Namibia!, I think to myself, my heart panging.

  “So who sang my part for you last night?” Ryan asks. “Whoever the bastard was, I guarantee he didn’t even come close to doing this.” He breaks into singing the ‘Turn around, Bright Eyes’ part of the song with hilarious gusto.

  I laugh despite myself. Ryan can always make me laugh, no matter how dark my mood. “You’re right. The guy who sang it didn’t even come close to doing that.”

  “So who was this douchebag who deigned to poach on my sacred karaoke-territory?” Ryan asks, stuffing a huge forkful of cake into his mouth.

  “Language, Ry,” Mom says. “Please, honey.”

  “Just this guy I’ve been seeing,” I say. “Sarah’s boyfriend’s twin brother.”

  “Whoa. That’s a lot of possessive nouns,” Keane says.

  “The twin brother of Sarah’s new boyfriend,” I clarify.

  “Yeah, I got it, Protein Shake. I was kidding,” Keane says. He rolls his eyes. “I’m dumb but I’m not that dumb.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Keane winks at me, apparently not genuinely offended.

  “You’ve been seeing someone?” Ryan asks.

  I nod.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Josh Faraday,” I say.

  “Also known as the one and only porn king ‘Sir J.W. Faraday,’” Dax says reverently, and I swiftly glare at him, nonverbally telling him to shut the fuck up.

  “What?” Mom asks. “You’re dating a porn king?”

  “No.” I shoot bullets at Dax, the little fucker. “Dax is just being a little shit.”

  “Kat,” Mom says, rolling her eyes. “Language. Come on, guys. Not at the table. Please. Can we just pretend to be civilized through one birthday meal?”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I bat my eyelashes. “Dax is just being a little pill.”

  “Thank you,” Mom says. “That’s my little lady. Keep it clean, people.”

  “Always, Mommy,” I say sweetly.

  “Always,” my brothers chime in with mock solemnity.

  “Hey, no porn kings, Kitty,” Dad says. “You know that.”

  “Yes, dearest patriarch,” I say. “I know the rules. We all do. No dating porn kings, porn stars, pimps, hoes, felons, junkies, or strippers.” On that last word, I shoot Keane a snarky look and he smiles broadly. We kids all know Keane’s recently been raking in the cash (one dollar bill at a time) as the Morgan Family’s answer to Magic Mike, but our parents certainly don’t know that. “Don’t worry, Pops,” I continue. “This Josh guy isn’t a porn king or a pimp. He runs an investment-something-or-other with his brother and uncle. He’s a respected member of society, I assure you.”

  “Oh, is this the boy from Las Vegas you were telling me about?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But he’s not from Las Vegas, Mom—he’s actually from Seattle, though he lives in L.A. now.”

>   “Wasn’t that guy supposed to come to dinner tonight?” Colby asks.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Mom says. “I forgot about that. Why didn’t he come?”

  “Something unexpectedly came up at work and he had to fly home to L.A.” Heat flashes into my cheeks at my lie. “He told me to tell Colby ‘Happy Birthday’ and that he’s sorry to miss the party. He was especially sorry to miss out on your spaghetti, Mom—I told him it’s legendary.”

  Mom smiles.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll meet Josh one of these days soon,” I say breezily, smiling at Mom, even though my stomach is turning over. Considering he’s gonna be the father of your grandchild.

  “Damn,” Dax says. “I was looking forward to seeing if J.W. Faraday is as pretty as his picture.” Dax addresses the group. “I saw a photo of this guy the other day and he’s even prettier than Ry, if you can believe it.”

  Keane scoffs. “Pfft. Nobody out-pretties our Pretty Boy.”

  “Fuck you, Peen,” Ryan says. “I keep telling you: I’m not pretty, I’m ‘ruggedly handsome.’”

  “Language,” Mom says. “Good lord, guys. You’re a bunch of sailors. Where did I go wrong? And don’t call Keane that name. It’s disgusting.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Ryan says. He addresses Keane again. “Eff you, Peenelope Cruz. How’s that, Mom?”

  Dad belly laughs and Mom shoots him a scolding look.

  “It’s funny,” Dad says sheepishly, still laughing.

  “Well, I’m sorry Josh couldn’t make it this time,” Mom says, peeling her scolding eyes off Dad. “Please tell him he’s always welcome here. I’ll make my ‘legendary’ spaghetti for him whenever he’s able to come.”

  “Thanks, I’ll tell him.” Right after I tell him I’m pregnant with your grandchild.

  My eyes drift aimlessly around the table and finally land squarely on Colby’s ruggedly handsome face. He’s staring right at me with flickering eyes, looking at me like he can see right through me—and the moment our eyes connect, my cheeks burst into flames.

  “Sorry Josh couldn’t make it tonight,” Colby says evenly. “I know you were excited to introduce him.”