The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

  We’d been lying in bed in our tree house after making love for the umpteenth time that day, laughing, sharing secrets, divulging our most awkward and cringe-worthy moments. No topic was off limits. We’d told each other about our respective de-virginizations. We’d talked about our past relationships. I’d told him about my two one-night stands, and how ill prepared I’d been for the inevitable brush-offs afterwards, and he’d said he wanted to beat those assholes up for me. And then Jonas had told me a few selected anecdotes from his illustrious career as a shameless man-whore.

  “But how did you find all those willing women?” I asked, incredulous. “Did you just snap your fingers or what?”

  “Well, yeah, most often, they approached me. Other times, I just walked to The Pine Box,” he said, “and it was like shooting ducks in a barrel. The bar being walking distance from my house made saying goodbye afterwards super easy—no second car to juggle.”

  “Wow, you were such a pig,” I said.

  “I prefer asshole-motherfucker,” he said.

  “You’ll hear no argument from me.”

  I laughed and kissed him and we made love yet again, the howler monkeys in the trees serenading us all the while.

  I keep walking toward The Pine Box, picking up my pace yet again. I’m shivering in the cool night air. I wish I’d grabbed my North Face jacket from my apartment when Jonas and I were there this morning. Damn.

  He’s not going to be in the bar, I tell myself. You’re wasting your time acting like a clingy, insecure lunatic when you should be studying.

  I know.

  He probably just went to the rock climbing gym to blow off some steam.

  Then why wasn’t he wearing workout clothes when he left the house?

  Maybe he had a gym bag in his car.

  His car is sitting in his garage.

  He probably just needed a drink.

  There’s a six-pack of beer in his fridge.

  Stop being paranoid. You love him, Sarah. And he loves you. Madness, remember?

  Of course, I remember. It’s all I think about, day and night. Yes, I love him—so much it hurts. And he loves me—I’m sure of it.

  Then why the hell are you walking to The Pine Box right now?

  Why the hell did he keep that fucking iPhone?

  I don’t know.

  And if he kept the iPhone, then isn’t it logical to think he kept the purple bracelet, too?

  Logical, yes. Probable, no.

  Regardless, why did he keep the iPhone in the first place?

  Pick up the pace.

  It’s official. I’m schizophrenic.

  Fifty feet away from the bar, I stop dead in my tracks. Stacy the Faker stands in front of the bar in a short black dress, feeding quarters into a parking meter. It’s definitely her. I’d know her anywhere.

  I can’t breathe.

  When Stacy finishes with the meter, she turns around and marches into The Pine Box, her impossibly long legs leading the way on her impossibly high stiletto heels.

  I sprint to the back window of the bar and peek inside, clutching my chest. I scan the crowded bar through the window.

  Maybe he’s not in there. Maybe this is just a crazy coincidence. Maybe Stacy’s here to meet some other guy from The Club. Maybe—

  In an instant, all the “maybes” bouncing around in my head vanish. There he is, standing at the bar, drinking a beer. Jonas. My sweet Jonas. Or so I thought.

  Stacy approaches him. Jonas hugs her, albeit awkwardly.

  My stomach lurches.

  I can’t breathe.

  My head spins.

  This makes no sense. Jonas loves me. I can’t wrap my brain around what I’m seeing. Tears well up in my eyes. A lump rises in my throat.

  Jonas motions to the bartender. The bartender nods.

  I can’t understand what I’m seeing. This makes no sense. Jonas said he fucked Stacy and the whole time imagined she was me—and this was even before he knew what I looked like. That’s what he told me, anyway. He said she faked it with him—that she repulsed him—that he literally gagged—that the whole experience disgusted him. And now he wants to fuck her again? Even though she faked it with him?

  My eyes widen with my horrifying epiphany.

  Stacy faked it with him.

  Oh my God.

  What did Jonas write in his application about that woman who faked it with him before—the one who unwittingly inspired his lingual quest for alleged truth and honesty in the first place? “I wanted to teach her a lesson about truth and honesty,” he wrote, “but even more than that, I wanted redemption.”

  Oh my God. I think I’m going to barf.

  I can barely see Jonas and Stacy through my tears. I wipe my eyes.

  They turn away from the bar, looking for an open table. Stacy motions in the direction of “my” table—the one where Kat and I spied on Jonas and Stacy the first time—oh Lord have mercy, I can’t believe there’s now a first time—but after brief discussion they move in the opposite direction to another table.

  I scoot around the corner of the bar to gain a better vantage point of them through another window.

  Stacy faked it with him, and now he can’t resist her. He’s an addict and she’s his smack, loaded into a syringe and positioned right into his vein. He can’t resist shooting her up, regardless of whether he loves me or not. Would loving me change a goddamned thing if he were a heroin addict? No, it wouldn’t. An addict needs his fix—loved ones be damned. And this is Jonas Faraday’s fix. I knew it from day one, but I wanted to believe I could change him. I thought I was his rehab, his savior, but I was deluding myself. He held off as long as he could. He tried.

  Tears squirt out of my eyes.

  I grab at my hair and pull on it. I’m out of my head right now. My heart physically aches inside my chest cavity. I’ve never felt so lost, so alone, so betrayed in all my life. So heartbroken.

  When Jonas fucked Stacy the Faker and wished she were me, sight unseen, before he’d ever laid a magical finger on me, well, that was hot, hot, hot—but Jonas fucking Stacy after all that’s happened between us, after all we’ve said and done and felt, after everything we’ve told each other, after that kiss outside the cave in Belize, after all the times we’ve made love, after all the times I’ve “surrendered” to him, and jumped off a frickin’ waterfall for him, and the bracelets he put on our wrists—oh my God, holy fuckballs, the bracelets!—well, after all that, Jonas fucking Stacy the Faker is a different kind of hot—the kind of hot you get when you burn down your boyfriend’s fucking house.

  My chest heaves.

  My mind feels like it’s detaching from my body, and not in the way Jonas always refers to—I feel my sanity slipping away. I imagine myself walking in there and slapping Jonas across his gorgeous fucking face and telling him to go to fucking hell. But the thought makes my heart seize and twist and burn. I thought he loved me the way I love him. I thought we’d discovered a mutual madness.

  I’ve got a serious mental disease, he told me.

  No shit, you do, Jonas Fucking Faraday. Even after everything we’ve been through together, you kept that damned iPhone so you could fuck a prostitute who—

  I stand completely upright, suddenly having a lightning bolt of a thought. I cock my head like a cockatiel. Hang on a second. This doesn’t make any sense.

  Hang on a cotton pickin’ second.

  This doesn’t add up.

  Jonas would never fuck a prostitute.

  I squint through the window and peer at him. He’s talking, smiling, looking as gorgeous as ever. He swigs his beer.

  He’s not wearing his purple bracelet.

  I’m frozen on the sidewalk in the cold night air.

  Jonas would never fuck a prostitute.

  I saw the way Jonas reacted on the airplane when I told him about my encounter with Stacy in the sports bar—how it tortured him to realize he’d unknowingly brought a hooker into his bed. He became physically ill. Mortified. Humiliated. Ang
ry. He wasn’t faking that reaction—it was real. And in Belize, on that first magical, sexless night, he sobbed into my arms as he told me about his father’s self-destructive obsession with prostitutes during the year before his suicide. Jonas called his father’s behavior “disgusting.”

  I’m shaking, adrenaline coursing through me.

  Jonas would never knowingly sleep with a prostitute. Sex is the ultimate expression of honesty to him. Ergo, paying a woman to pretend to “surrender” to him would be antithetical to everything he stands for. It would repel him, not turn him on.

  Inside the bar, two big guys stand up from their table, blocking my view of Jonas and Stacy. I move to the next window, just in time to see Stacy bat her eyelashes at something Jonas has said to her. Obviously, he just paid her a compliment.

  What the fuck is going on here? He’s up to something, yes. But cheating on me with Stacy the Prostitute? No. What the hell is he doing?

  Think, Sarah, think. Think like Jonas.

  Stacy reaches across the table and puts her hand on Jonas’. He jerks his hand away like her hand burned his skin. He tries to make it seem like he’s grabbing his beer, but oh my God, it’s plain as day he can’t stand to be touched by her.

  I smile. Oh, Jonas. Sweet Jonas. Stupid-Lying-Idiotic Jonas. You’re-In-Such-Big-Trouble Jonas. But, yes, undoubtedly, Faithful Jonas.

  What could he possibly be saying to her?

  Think, Sarah, think.

  He had the iPhone out this morning during his conversation with Josh. When I asked about it, he said he wanted to handle The Club on his own, with Josh, and leave me out of it.

  I roll my eyes. Oh good God. He’s here to get information out of Stacy—and he’s charming her to do it. He’s complimenting her, telling her what she wants to hear—all so he can gather information for his highfalutin strategy, whatever the hell it is. I wipe my eyes. He’s just trying to protect me, the big dummy.

  Relief ripples through every muscle of my body.

  I’m still pissed, though. He may not be a cheater, but he’s still an idiot. A big, fat idiot. And a liar through omission. He should have included me in his plans from minute one. What does he think—I’m too fragile and innocent, or maybe not smart enough, to handle his stupid strategy? That I’m going to come undone? I’ve been doing research and investigations professionally for the last three months, buddy! I figure shit out, man! Who tracked you down tonight like a hungry crack whore looking for her baby daddy on payday? Me! And, anyway, I’m the one who was employed by The Club, for the love of all things holy—doesn’t he think I might have an idea or two to contribute to his stupid strategy, whatever it is? God, I hate Strategic Jonas! Strategic Jonas makes me want to punch him in his beautiful face.

  I take a deep breath and watch them, my nostrils flaring.

  Whatever he’s saying, she’s buying it hook-line-and-sinker. She’s nodding vigorously. She stands, smiling at him like she expects him to get up with her.

  But he doesn’t move.

  She sits back down, perplexed.

  Oh, Jonas.

  I smile.

  I’m one hundred percent sure he’s not here to fuck Stacy. If he were, they’d already be fucking up a storm somewhere. My sweet Jonas is a lot of things, including a dumbass, apparently, and a liar, and an idiot, but a man who sits around drinking a beer and chatting with a prostitute when all he wants to do is fuck, he is not. I can’t help but laugh out loud. For a smart man, my sweet Jonas is such a big dummy sometimes, I swear to God.

  Chapter 14

  Jonas

  “Jonas?”

  Oh God, no.

  Panic floods me like a tidal wave.

  This is my worst nightmare.

  And my own damned fault.

  It’s Sarah.

  Her eyes are red and wet. Tear tracks stain her cheeks.

  “Sarah.” That’s all I can eek out. This can’t be happening right now. This is my worst nightmare. My heart explodes in my chest.

  Stacy lifts her wineglass to her lips, a smug smile spreading across her face.

  “Sarah,” I say again. “Please—”

  “There’s nothing to say. I know exactly why you’re here.”

  “No, you don’t. Please listen.” I glance at Stacy. She’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “You had ‘something you needed to do,’ huh?”

  My stomach leaps into my mouth. My tongue isn’t working.

  “Sarah, is it?” Stacy interjects. “Jonas was just telling me about your problem with emotional attachment—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Stacy,” Sarah hisses. Her eyes are laser beams.

  Stacy smirks, apparently unfazed.

  “Stacy, will you excuse us for just a minute, please?” I say, my voice sounding much calmer than I feel.

  “No, Stacy, stay here, please,” Sarah says. “I want you to hear this.”

  I stand and grab Sarah’s arm. “Sarah, listen to me.”

  She jerks away from me. “Sit down. I have something to say to you both.”

  My mouth hangs open. I’m going to have a fucking heart attack. I can’t lose her. Not like this. Please, God, no. I’m officially in hell. “No, listen, I’m—” I reach for her again.

  Sarah jerks away again. “If you don’t take your hands off me right now and sit the fuck down, I’m walking out that door, Jonas.”

  Shit. Oh God. This is a catastrophe. I’m light-headed. I sit.

  “All I’ve ever heard from you since day one was Stacy this and Stacy that,” Sarah begins, seething.

  What? What the fuck is she saying? Yeah, during our very first phone call, I told her about my horrible fuck with Stacy, but—

  “And what a ‘smokin’ hot body’ she has . . .”

  Oh my God, no. This is crazy. Last night I said Stacy has a smokin’ hot body, yes, but only so Josh and I could compare notes about his Seattle girl—

  “All I ever hear is Stacy, Stacy, Stacy—how great Stacy is in bed.”

  Wait, what? Have I had a psychotic break and I don’t know it?

  Sarah glares at Stacy. “Do you know how many times he’s said to me, ‘Why can’t you fuck me the way Stacy did’?”

  The universe warps and buckles and slows to a screeching halt.

  Sarah flashes me her patented I’m-smarter-than-you smirk.

  Holy shit. She knows. She understands. Oh my God. How the fuck did she figure this out? How did she know I’d be here tonight? And why does she know exactly what line of bullshit I’ve been slinging to Stacy? A smile threatens my lips, but I suppress it. She’s the most amazing woman in the world. Holy shit, she’s the woman of my dreams.

  Sarah whips her head and glares at Stacy again. “Well, guess what, Stacy—or Cassandra, or whatever your name is—you’ve fucked with the wrong woman. Jonas Faraday is mine—my territory, my score—and I don’t need anybody making a play for my sloppy seconds.” She leans right into Stacy’s face, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t fuck with me, bitch.”

  I can’t speak. She’s magnificent.

  Stacy rises to her feet, ready to rumble.

  I get up, too, ready to intercede.

  But Sarah doesn’t back down. She grits her teeth. “I’ve written a detailed report about The Club and I’ve addressed it to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and, given The Club’s roster of members, the U.S. Secret Service, too.”

  Stacy’s eyes widen. Sarah just called her bluff.

  There’s a long beat.

  “Take a seat, asshole,” Sarah says firmly. “Please.”

  Stacy sits.

  And so do I. I’m not sure which one of us she just called an asshole.

  Sarah takes the seat next to me and leans forward across the table.

  “I’ve got a message for whoever’s running The Club, and I want you to deliver it for me.”

  Stacy clenches her jaw.

  “Tell them I’m not currently planning to send my report to anyone. Frank
ly, I don’t care what The Club does and I’d take no pleasure in publicly humiliating members or their families. But if anything happens to me, or to my friend Kat, or to this man here, or to anyone I care about, if The Club fucks with me or my people in any way, then each of those law enforcement agencies will immediately receive that report. I’ve already made detailed arrangements through multiple resources. It’s all set.”

  Stacy leans back, her face flushed.

  “My report is some damned good reading, too, lemme tell you. We’re talking hundreds of counts of prostitution and sex trafficking and money laundering under both state and federal laws, plus Internet fraud, wire fraud, racketeering—jeez, I’m guessing a good federal prosecutor could come up with at least a hundred counts under RICO alone—and then there’s good old fashioned theft and fraud under state laws, too.”

  Stacy’s nostrils flare.

  “I realize it’s gonna be hard for you to convey the specifics of my message to the powers that be, Stacy, so just give them the gist and tell them to give me a call. I’d be happy to explain everything in explicit detail.”

  I’m transfixed. I’ve never witnessed such an erotic blend of power and beauty and brains in all my life. She’s stunning—a goddess—a fucking superhero. Orgasma the All-Powerful, indeed.

  “And I’ve also got a personal message for you, too, Stacy—woman to woman. Fuck you.” Sarah smiles. “Whatever you and Jonas talked about isn’t gonna happen. He’s mine.” She looks at me. “Tell her you’re mine.”

  “I’m hers.”

  “I’m not gunning to take you down, Stacy. A girl’s got to make a living. You can have anybody but Jonas, any lonely moneybags-wack-job in the greater Seattle area—in the whole world, for all I care. I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is this man right here. You got that?”

  Stacy swallows but doesn’t speak. Her eyes are chips of blue granite.