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

by Lauren Rowe

  “Aw, come on, Gracie-cakes,” Kat says. “Don’t you want my other boob? You’re gonna leave me lopsided, baby.”

  Gracie breaks into a pterodactyl scream.

  “What the heck?” Kat says. “She gets riled up so freaking fast, I swear to God.”

  “Gee,” I say. “I wonder where she gets that?”

  “Definitely not from me,” Kat sniffs—and much to my surprise, she sounds completely serious. But before I can reply to her and tell her she’s a delusional loon, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Reed.

  “Oh, it’s Reed—I wanna take this.” I leap out of bed and sprint out of the bedroom, far away from Gracie’s loud shrieks, to take the call.

  “Tell him congrats from me!” Kat calls to my back.

  “Reed!” I shout into the phone. “Congrats, man! Your boy killed it!”

  “Oh my God. Didn’t he? He hit a fucking homerun, man.”

  “A grand slam in the bottom of the ninth,” I say. “We were screaming at the TV like we were right there in the audience. Was he loving it?”

  “Yeah, afterwards, for sure. But beforehand, he was so nervous, he puked into a trashcan. Oh my God—you should have seen him, worse than you were right before your wedding.” He laughs. “This is the first major performance Will’s given since the whole Carmen thing. She’s normally the one who calms him down when he gets really amped.”

  “What ‘whole Carmen thing’?”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t tell you? Oh. Yeah. They broke up.”

  “Oh, really? Aw, she seemed like a sweetheart.”

  “She is—a total sweetheart. You know how it goes. He’s twenty-four. He fucked it up. It’s to be expected under normal circumstances, but he’s also adjusting to the whole fame thing, you know—women throwing themselves at him wherever he goes. Pretty tall order not to fuck up at least once.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Believe me, he regrets it.”

  “So when are you gonna be on the West Coast, bro?” I ask. “You gotta swing by and see Little G. She’s gotten so big since you saw her.”

  “Not for a while, man. I’m hopping a flight to Thailand first thing in the morning with Will. We recorded a song with this Thai hip-hop group, and—”

  “A Thai hip-hop group?” I interject. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”

  “Yeah. Thaime’s Up. They’re huge in Thailand.”

  I laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, they’re massive and so is American hip-hop—this song’s gonna make me a fucking mint, mark my words. So, anyway, we’re shooting the music video with the Thai boys in Phuket for a week and then we’re doing a promotional appearance the following week at a nightclub in Bangkok.”

  “Ah, Bangkok,” I say, chuckling. “The scene of the original crime.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember it well. If you weren’t such an old man these days, I’d have invited you to join me for a little walk down memory lane.”

  “Oh, fuck. No thanks. I’m too old and too happy to do any of that shit now. Almost killed me at eighteen—God only knows what that shit would do to me at thirty-one.”

  “Oh, yeah. Happy almost-birthday, old man.”

  “Thanks. So what dates are you gonna be in Bangkok?”

  He tells me.

  “I think Jonas and Sarah are actually gonna be there during those dates,” I say.

  “Really? No way.”

  “Yeah. Jonas is taking the missus climbing in Mae Do for four days—poor, poor Sarah—and then I’m pretty sure he said they’re gonna hit Bangkok for a few days after that.”

  “Well, if the timing works out, tell ’em to come to the promotional thing at the nightclub. I’ll put ’em on the VIP list. Will and the Thai boys are gonna perform their new song, plus they’ll all do ‘Crash’ together. The crowd’s gonna go apeshit—’Crash’ is number one in Thailand right now.”

  “Where isn’t ‘Crash’ number one?”

  “In countries filled with stupid people.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, put Jonas and Sarah on your VIP list, for sure. Sarah loves hip-hop. She’ll freak out.”

  “Okay, cool. I’ll text you the details when I have ’em. You can forward the info to your brother.”

  “Awesome. Thanks. Just be warned, though, Jonas might try to break your pretty face for torturing him—as much as Sarah loves hip-hop, Jonas absolutely abhors it. Plus, Jonas hates nightclubs—so he’ll be extra grouchy for you.”

  “Eh, I’ll be okay. If Jonas tries to attack me, I’ll sic Barry on him.”

  “Oh, Barry will be there? Say hi to him for me. I love that guy.”

  “Will do. So, hey, I gotta go—we’re at the after-party with the SNL cast—I just stepped outside for a smoke.”

  “You’re already partying? Will just performed a few minutes ago.”

  “Three-hour-tape-delay for the West Coast, numnuts.”

  “Oh, yeah. Duh. Well, have fun, man—enjoy every minute of your success. You deserve it. You’re totally winning at The Game of Life, man. It’s awesome to watch.”

  “Hey, that’s the idea, man—as you well know. Win, win, win, as much as humanly possible—and then die taking none of it with you. Speaking of winning at The Game of Life, say hi to Stubborn Kat for me and tell Little G her Über-Cool Uncle Reed loves her like crazy.”

  “I will. Text me the info about Bangkok when you have it.”

  “Sure thing. Bye, bro. Enjoy changing shitty diapers. Peace.”

  I hang up my phone and walk back into my bedroom—and I’m met with Arma-fucking-geddon currently in progress: Mademoiselle Terrorist is wailing her head off and Kat is leaping desperately around the room like a kangaroo, bouncing Gracie up and down frantically, obviously trying her mighty best (and failing miserably) to quiet our mini-beast. When Kat sees me, she flashes me a look of such desperation, I almost laugh out loud.

  “I don’t know what’s pissing her off so much,” Kat whimpers. “I’ve tried everything.”

  “Give her to me, babe.” I hold out my arms. “I’ll hit her with the Playboy Razzle-Dazzle.”

  “It won’t work,” Kat whines. “I fed her. I changed her. I burped her. I sang to her. She just cries and cries and cries. Oh my God.”

  “Give her to me, babe. She likes the smell of my skin.” I take Gracie’s writhing, shrieking body from Kat and hold her against my bare chest—and not four seconds later, Gracie’s head does three complete revolutions on her neck and she pukes breast milk all over me.

  “Gah!” I shout.

  “Whoa, that’s a lot of puke,” Kat says, laughing.

  I look down at my puked-covered chest, grimacing. “Fuck.”

  “Poor baby worked herself up into a puking frenzy,” Kat says.

  “Gee, I wonder where she gets that?” I ask.

  Kat laughs. “Give her to me so you can shower, babe.” She puts out her arms.

  “No, just grab me a towel. I’ll shower after I get her calmed down.”

  “Nothing will calm her down, like I said,” Kat says, throwing me a burping towel. “I’ve tried everything, trust me.”

  “Not everything—you haven’t playboyed her.” I gently wipe the puke off Gracie’s chin, right off the little cleft I love so much, and then off the “G-R-A” in my “GRACE” tattoo, and bring Gracie to the makeshift diaper-changing table on top of our dresser. I gently lay Gracie down on her back, stroking her screaming face with my fingertip. “I’m sure my baby just needs a fresh diaper, that’s all,” I say soothingly.

  “No, I just changed it,” Kat says. “It’s something else.”

  “Is your diaper bothering you, little one?” I coo to Gracie, ignoring Kat’s skepticism. I lean over Gracie’s face, shooting her my most serene and soothing smile—and, instantly, Gracie stops crying on a dime, even before I’ve opened her diaper, and stares at my face, completely transfixed.

  “That’s right, my little Scorpio,” I soothe. “Look into my eyes. That’s it, baby girl
.”

  Gracie reaches up and touches my nose and I kiss her little fingertips, eliciting dove-like coos from her.

  “No freaking way,” Kat says. “I tried everything—and one smile from her handsome daddy and she’s blissfully happy?”

  I touch the teeny-tiny indentation on Gracie’s chin and stroke the soft, blonde peach fuzz on top of her head. “She’s just a daddy’s girl, that’s all,” I say softly, my voice low and calm. “Isn’t that right, Little G?” Gracie gurgles at me and pulls on the scruff on my chin and I rub my nose against hers. “My baby girl just needed a little Playboy Razzle-Dazzle, that’s all,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that right, angel?” I shoot a snarky look at Kat. “It’s the same tactic I use to soothe another Scorpio I know when she goes off the rails and starts acting like a demon spawn.”

  I smile, expecting Kat to shoot me a snarky expression to match my own, but she doesn’t. To the contrary, she’s looking at me the same way she did when she walked down the aisle toward me on our wedding day—like I’m the answer to her most fervent prayer.

  “I love you,” Kat says softly, her eyes wide and sparkling.

  “And I love you,” I say. I begin changing my serene daughter’s diaper. “I love you forever and ever and ever, Mrs. Faraday.”

  Kat’s face melts.

  “I tell you what, Party Girl,” I say. “How about you get yourself into a nice, hot tub in the bathroom while I rock our little terrorist to sleep, and then I’ll join you in the bath and let you wash the baby-puke off me?”

  “Oh,” Kat says. “That sounds lovely.” Without hesitation, she pulls her nightgown over her head and throws it onto the bed, revealing her new, sexy curves and dark, erect nipples. “Maybe while we’re in the tub together, I’ll imagine I’m a mermaid who’s recently sprouted legs—and maybe if you’re really sweet to me, I’ll let you teach me what my newfangled vagina is for.”

  I laugh. “So, we’re gonna do a porno version of The Little Mermaid?”

  Kat giggles and winks. “See you soon, Prince Eric. Don’t keep me waiting too long.” She honks her delectable boobs and sashays into our bathroom, singing “Part of Your World” at the top of her lungs, her ass cheeks swishing to and fro as she moves.

  I look down at Gracie. “Damn, you’re mommy’s sexy,” I say. “And very, very silly, too.”

  I scoop Gracie off the dresser, change her into her Hello Kitty footy-pajamas, and bring her over to the rocking chair that’s now a permanent fixture in the far corner of our large bedroom. After settling into the chair with Gracie in my arms, I rock her slowly, looking deeply into her big, blue eyes—the beautiful blue eyes that make me want to be a better man—and I begin to sing my favorite lullaby to her: “You Are My Sunshine.”

  “You are my sunshine,” I sing softly, rocking rhythmically in my chair, staring into my daughter’s ocean-blue eyes—and, as always happens in moments like this, I begin thinking about Gracie’s namesake, the supernaturally beautiful woman who long ago sang this same, simple song of love to me.

  When I reach the end of the song, Gracie’s still staring at me with wide eyes, so I sing it again from the top, rocking my sweet little baby slowly, calmly, breathing deeply as I do—until, finally, Gracie’s lovely eyelids flutter and shut.

  “Gracie Louise Faraday,” I whisper softly when my song is over and her breathing has turned deep and rhythmic. “I love you, Little G.” I close my eyes, sending a little prayer to heaven to the other Grace Faraday, the one surely watching over us at this very moment. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper.

  Gracie’s rosebud lips part and hang open in complete relaxation. Her body’s a tiny sack of potatoes in my arms. I get up from the glider and carefully lay her down on the center of our large bed, and then I head toward my bathroom, my cock tingling with anticipation.

  I enter the bathroom and there she is—my beautiful mermaid, soaking in a hot tub, her skin pink, her eyes closed.

  “Hey, Ariel,” I say softly. “Our little fishy’s out like a light.”

  Kat opens her eyes and smiles. “Thank you, Baby Whisperer. Now take off those briefs and get your YOLO’d ass in here.”

  I do as I’m told, of course—and, as I’m lowering myself into the warm water, Kat points at my crotch with cartoon-like, wide eyes.

  “What’s that?” Kat asks.

  I look down at my naked body. “What?”

  “That.” She points right at my hard dick. “That ding-a-ling thing.”

  “Oh that?” I smile from ear to ear. “It’s my thingamabob.”

  Kat giggles. “You’ve seen The Little Mermaid?”

  “I told you I was a very nice boy.” I stroke her smooth thighs under the warm water.

  “You were a very nice boy?”

  “That’s right. Past tense. I’m a very bad boy now—a beast with a raging boner.”

  “Ooh, that gives me a faboosh idea,” Kat says. “How about you and me do a porno version of Beauty and the Beast tomorrow night?”

  I chuckle. “So we’re gonna do the entire Disney catalog, huh?”

  Kat giggles. “Why not? I’d love to see how you’d pull off Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  “Pfft. Child’s play,” I say, running my palms over her curves under the warm water. “Six dildos and an apple. Easy peasy.”

  Kat laughs.

  “Okay, Little Mermaid,” I say. “We’ve got probably three hours ’til our little fishy wakes up, screaming and demanding to be fed—so let’s use our free time wisely, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kat grabs my dick and strokes it with authority. “Let The Little Mermaid mini-porno begin.”

  “You know what?” I say, licking my hungry lips. “I’ve suddenly got an inexplicable craving for sushi.”

  I begin lowering my face into the water, but Kat grips my hair, stopping my movement.

  “Ariel is mute when she’s human remember?” she says. “Her voice is trapped in that necklace thing. So let me say this now: I had a really great time tonight, my love. I love you so much—and, oh, you fucked me brilliantly.”

  “I love you, too,” I say. “Now quit your yapping, Ariel. It’s time for me to show you what that whatzit between your legs can do.”

  Epilogue

  Josh

  I pull my brand new, cherry-red Ferrari FF into my driveway and sit for a moment, singing along to the song blaring through my speakers. It’s my current theme song: “All I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled. When the fucking awesome song finishes, I kill the engine of my fucking awesome car and lovingly caress my steering wheel.

  “I love you, baby,” I say softly to my beautiful car—my thirty-first birthday present to myself. It’s just a little something to celebrate how fucking hard I’m winning at The Game of Fucking Life. God-damn, I’m a fucking beast. All I do is win, win, win, baby. Fuck yeah, I do. No matter what. Because I’m a winner. Truth.

  I run my hands tenderly over my steering wheel again, exhaling with near-sexual pleasure as I do. God-damn, this is a beautiful fucking car. I get a hard-on every time I get behind the wheel. Fuck yeah, I do. I’ve got a beautiful fucking Ferrari to match my beautiful fucking Ferrari of a wife and my sweet little baby girl and fucking awesome house ten minutes away from my fucking awesome brother.

  And not only that, Climb and Conquer is absolutely slaying it these days—we’ve already shattered our mid-year revenue projections and we’re planning major expansion in seven more markets later this year—plus, our designated charities are all flourishing, too. As it turns out, Jonas’ entire business model was pure fucking genius. Surprise, surprise.

  And, on top of all that, when I got home from work last night, I’d no sooner taken two steps through my front door than my beautiful sick fuck of a wife silently greeted me at the door by unzipping my pants, kneeling before me, and sucking my big ol’ dick ’til I exploded into her waiting mouth. God-damn, I’m crushing life. Winner, winner, chicken fucking dinner, baby. Boo-fucking-yah.

  I pull my p
hone out of my glove box and quickly scan my texts, and, as expected, there’s a message from good ol’ fucking awesome and reliable T-Rod, confirming everything’s set for my romantic-stay-at-home birthday dinner with my two favorite blondes. “Everyone’s already at your house, setting up,” Theresa writes. “Chef, waiter, violin, cello. Oh, and I added a viola just for yucks. Have fun, Birthday Boy!”

  I shoot off a quick reply. “Thanks a million, T. Just got home. Gonna be a great night.”

  I tilt my rearview mirror toward my face and survey my reflection. Handsome motherfucker. Lucky bastard. Winner. I run my hand through my hair, carefully smoothing a stray, and straighten the knot on my Roberto Cavalli necktie.

  I pick up the bouquet of gardenias and the velvet jewelry box sitting on the passenger seat of my fucking awesome car—what better way to celebrate my birthday than giving my wife more ice for her ever-growing collection?—and then I bound happily toward the front door of my fucking awesome house, clicking the heels of my Stefano Bemer shoes, singing the DJ Khaled song under my breath as I go.

  But when I get inside my house, it’s perfectly quiet. No hustle-bustle; no signs of preparations for a birthday dinner; no wife dropping to her knees as she greets me in the doorway.

  I peek into the kitchen. No chef. I check the dining area. No violinist, cellist or viola-ist. (What the fuck do you call someone who plays a viola?)

  “Kat?” I call.

  But my smokin’ hot wife is nowhere to be found.

  I head into the nursery and, lo and behold, there’s my mother-in-law, sitting in a glider with Gracie, quietly reading her a book about farm animals.

  Louise looks up from the book in her hands and her face lights up. “Happy birthday!” she says. “Look, Gracie. Daddy-the-birthday-boy is here!” Louise gets up from the glider, toting Gracie in her arms.

  “Hi, Gramma Lou,” I say, kissing Louise on her cheek. “Where’s my wife?”

  “Oh, she went out,” Louise says.

  “What? We were supposed to have a romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half here at the house. I had everything all set up.”