by Lauren Rowe
I purse my lips, considering. “My personal assistant?”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Then no one.”
“Well, don’t you worry, honey. I’m here to save the day. So let’s try this again.” She motions to the computer screen. “Say what you really mean. Say it kindly, but say it clearly.”
I grumble, but I put my hands on my keyboard. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression when we spoke the other day,” I type. “I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship of any kind with you.” I stop, waiting for Kat’s reaction, but she’s stone-faced. I continue typing again. “In New York, I truly thought we were both up for the same thing: a meaningless one-night stand. That was probably a stupid assumption by me, given our history. In fact, I was probably being insensitive by making that assumption. I should have known your feelings might be involved. But mine weren’t.” I pause and look at Kat. “Okay?”
She touches my cheek and assesses me with earnest eyes. “You’re doing great.”
I’m floored by her sudden show of tenderness. I swallow hard and turn back to my screen. But I can’t think. My heart is suddenly pounding wildly.
“Go on,” she says. “Just tell the truth, whatever it is.”
I take a deep breath. “The truth is,” I type, “I’m interested in someone else.” Oh shit, my heart is racing. “Really, really interested. I don’t know where things might lead with her, or if she’s interested in me in return, but I’d like to find out. And that means I can’t fuck it up by being a total douche and continuing to pursue something with you.”
I look at Kat. Her mouth is hanging open.
She puts her hand on her heart.
“And, yeah,” I continue typing, “if you think I’m talking about The Jealous Bitch, you’re right. She might be a grenade that unpredictably explodes all over me, but that’s what I like about her.”
I’m practically panting. Holy motherfucking shit.
Before I’ve even turned my head to get a read on Kat’s reaction, her lips are on mine and her tongue is in my mouth and my hands are on her cheeks and her arms are around my neck and we’re kissing the hell out of each other. She presses herself into me and I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, grasping at her for dear life, whispering her name into her lips.
After several minutes, my phone pings on the table and we begrudgingly pull away from each other, our faces on fire. I look at my phone. It’s a text from Henn:
“Hey, dipshit. I can understand you wanting an especially thorough eye exam, considering who your optometrist is,” Henn writes. “But you and Kat need to get your asses down here ASAP. Meet me on the casino floor near the elevator bank in five.”
Chapter 9
Kat
I crawl into bed with my laptop and sigh with happiness. Yeehaw, I’m finally gonna read Josh’s application, without even the possibility of an interruption.
After Henn took my photo downstairs (after we’d finally located a simple white wall to use as a backdrop), the three of us briefly talked to Jonas, who told us the meeting with the feds is going down later today at one o’clock Washington time.
“You three need to be ready to transfer the money as early as one thirty Washington time,” Jonas warned during our call. “I doubt we’ll be asked to do it that quickly—I’m guessing the meeting with the feds will take hours—but you have to be at the ready, just in case.”
“Sure thing, bro,” Josh said. “No problemo.”
After we hung up from our call with Jonas, I suddenly felt like I was gonna melt onto the floor with exhaustion. “I’m gonna get into my jammies, get nice and cozy in my bed, and do some reading before I drift off to sleep,” I told Josh and Henn. “Nighty-night, boys.”
“Okay, Kitty Kat,” Henn said. “I’ve got everything I need now. See you in the morning.” And off he went.
“How ’bout I come to your room with you?” Josh offered, pulling me into him.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m going in alone. It’s finally time for me to find out what kind of perverted-sick-fuck-goat-fucker you really are, Joshua William Faraday. No distractions.”
Josh pressed himself into me. “Aw, come on, PG. I’ll lie next to you in bed while you read. That way I can answer any questions you might have.”
“No way, Playboy,” I replied.
“I’ll massage your feet while you read.”
I paused, considering. I really love a good foot massage. “No,” I finally said. “No more distractions. Nighty-night.”
And now, here I am. Finally. Sitting in bed in my tank top and undies with my computer on my lap, a huge smile on my face and an Avicii song blaring through my speakers (“Addicted to You,” featuring vocals by my new obsession, Audra Mae).
I quickly check my phone. I’ve been horrible about replying to texts and emails since coming to Sin City. This whole trip has been like entering some sort of Twilight-Zone-alternate-dimension. I scroll through my texts. I’ve got a text from my mom, asking me to call her so she can “hear my voice.” No rush there. And a text from my oldest brother, Colby, (addressing me as Kumquat), asking me if I’ve gambled away next month’s rent yet and telling me to call Mom so she can “hear my voice.”
There’s a text from my baby brother, Dax, (addressing me as Jizz), informing me he used the extra key to my apartment to “hang out” in my place for a few days and, oh yeah, by the way, oops, he ate all my food.
I’ve got a text from Hannah at work, telling me she misses her lunch buddy and asking me to call her whenever. I wince. Hannah’s really picked up my slack at work while I’ve been gone. I owe her big-time.
I’ve got a text from Sarah from an hour ago, telling me she and Jonas landed in Washington D.C. and are set to meet at FBI headquarters later this afternoon. “Oh muh guh,” Sarah wrote. “I’m crapping my pants. But Jonas is cool as a cucumber about the whole thing so he’s keeping me sane.”
I smile at that last sentence. Jonas is keeping Sarah sane? Gotta love those two.
“Go get ’em, girl,” I reply to Sarah’s text. “You’re gonna blow all those fancy G-men away. The Vegas branch of our crew is standing by.”
And, finally, there’s a text from Josh from five minutes ago: “Hey, PG. Do me a favor and text me the minute you’re done reading my application,” he writes. “You don’t have to tell me what you think about it. Just tell me when you’ve read it or else I won’t be able to fall asleep.”
“Will do,” I reply. “I’m about to start reading now.”
His reply is instantaneous. “Just keep an open mind,” he writes. “Just remember when I wrote that thing, I was really upset.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t sweat it, PB. How bad can it be?”
“Um... ” he writes.
I’ve got a pit in my stomach. “I’ll text you when I’m done,” I write.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I grab my laptop, find the email with Josh’s application attached, snuggle into my soft, white pillows, happily listening to Avicii and Audra Mae serenade me, and begin reading:
Name?
“Joshua William Faraday,” he writes. And, yet again, the sight of his full name sends a shiver down my spine. “Sexy man,” I say out loud in my empty hotel room.
With this application, you will be required to submit three separate forms of identification. The Club maintains a strict “No Aliases Policy” for admission. You may, however, use aliases during interactions with other Club members, at your discretion.
“OK,” he writes.
Age?
“29,” he writes.
Provide a brief physical description of yourself.
I scan his full response to this question again. But this time reading Josh’s words, my heart races and leaps: “I prefer not to talk about the meanings of my tattoos at length, so please tell whoever gets assigned to me not to ask about them.”
A wave of excitement washes through me. If that’s
how Josh felt when he wrote those words, he certainly doesn’t seem to feel that way now—or, at least, not when it comes to me.
With this application, you will be required to submit three recent photographs of yourself to your intake agent. Please include the following: one headshot, one full-body shot revealing your physique, and one shot wearing something you’d typically wear out in a public location. These photographs shall be maintained under the strictest confidentiality.
Just for the heck of it, I click onto Josh’s naked-bad-boy-photo and stare at it for a moment. This man sends my pulse racing and my blood boiling in a way I’ve never felt before. Damn, boy—just like Audra Mae is singing in my ear right now—I’m absolutely addicted to him.
Please sign the enclosed waiver describing the requisite background check, medical physical, and blood test, which you must complete as a condition of membership.
“Done,” he writes.
Sexual orientation? Please choose from the following options: Straight, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, other?
“Straight,” he writes.
Do any of your sexual fantasies include violence of any nature?
“Yes,” he writes.
Whoa. Holy shitballs. Not what I expected. I move quickly to the next section.
If so, please describe in detail. Please note that your inclination toward or fantasies about sexual violence, if any, will not, standing alone, preclude membership. Indeed, we provide highly particularized services for members with a wide variety of proclivities. In the interest of serving your needs to the fullest extent possible, please describe any and all sexual fantasies involving violence of any nature whatsoever.
“I have a sexual fantasy in which I come to the rescue of a woman who’s been bound and raped.”
Whoa again.
Are you a current practitioner of BDSM and/or does BDSM interest you? If so, describe in explicit detail.
“BDSM interests me insofar as it relates to fulfilling the fantasy described above.”
Payment and Membership Terms. Please choose from the following options: One Year Membership, $250,000 USD; Monthly Membership, $30,000 USD. All payments are non-refundable. No exceptions. Once you’ve made your selection regarding your membership plan, information for wiring the funds into an escrow account will be immediately forthcoming under separate cover. Membership fees shall be transferred automatically out of escrow to The Club upon approval of your membership.
“I’m interested in a one-month membership, administered according to my exact specifications, described below. If additional payment beyond your usual monthly fee is required for you to deliver exactly what I’ve asked for (below), I’m open to further negotiation of your fee. Please advise.”
Oh my effing God. My heart is pounding forcefully in my ears. I can’t read Josh’s words fast enough.
Please provide a detailed explanation about what compelled you to seek membership in The Club.
“It’s pretty simple, actually: I’m joining The Club because I’m a sick fuck. Or so I’ve been recently told by someone I loved and trusted with all my fucking heart. Well, I might be a sick fuck, but at least I’m not a heartless liar. I’m not the one who begged me to open up, pleaded with me to tell her the truth about my deepest desires and told me it was safe and she wouldn’t judge me, and then when I finally broke down and told her everything, called me a ‘sick fuck’ and said there’s something ‘deeply wrong with me’ and then cheated on me with a douchebag who wears a fucking ascot and says ‘bloody hell’ and rides polo ponies for fuck’s sake. Motherfucking bastard asshole. After three years she couldn’t give me the courtesy of breaking up with me? I had to hear she’d run off with that douche from a friend? Ha! And this was all because of shit I merely fantasized about doing—I hadn’t even done any of it yet—and she ran away screaming (and right into that fucktard’s arms)?
“For three years, I tried my damnedest to fix her and love her and protect her as best I could. But it turns out she was too broken to be fixed and loved and protected—or at least too broken to be fixed by a ‘sick fuck’ like me. Well, if I’m gonna lose the only girl I’ve ever loved for simply fantasizing about doing some crazy shit, then I might as well fucking do all of it, huh? Especially now that she’s gone for good, riding off into the sunset on a fucking polo pony. Why should I suffer all the consequences of being a sick fuck without reaping all the rewards, too? So let’s do this shit, motherfuckers. I’m ready, baby—as ready as a sick fuck can possibly be.”
I look up from my screen, overwhelmed. Holy effing shit. My heart is beating so hard, I feel like it’s going to crack me wide open from the inside-out. I take a deep breath, look back down at the screen, and continue reading.
Please provide a detailed statement regarding your sexual preferences. To maximize your experience in The Club, please be as explicit, detailed, and honest as possible. Please do not self-censor, in any fashion.
“If you were a woman telling me to be as explicit, detailed, and honest as possible and not self-censor myself in any fashion, I’d laugh in your face. But since you’re some mysterious ‘intake agent’ at an underground sex club, and since I’ve got literally nothing to lose at this point, I’ll do it. But here’s the deal: I want absolute assurance you’re gonna give me precisely what I ask for, to the letter. If after reading this you determine you can’t give me exactly what I want, every fucking time, then don’t approve my membership. Because, just to be clear, I don’t need this club to get laid—I can do that just fine on my own with some of the world’s most beautiful women. The only reason I’m applying to this club is to fulfill my ‘sick fuck’ fantasies, exactly as described. Because I don’t want this shit to taint my real life.
“Before I describe what I want you to give me, let’s first talk logistics—because I don’t have the time or attention span to do things your usual way. The way this club was described to me by a buddy, it’s my understanding you typically assign each new member a color-coded bracelet so he can hook up with like-minded women with similarly coded bracelets at bars or wherever. Well, that’s not gonna work for me. I’m too busy and what I want is too specific. So what I want is for you to read this application, go through your database, and then curate compatible women for me, no color-coded bracelets or check-ins required.
“I’ve recently learned I’ll be traveling around the country for about a month in the near future, appraising certain investment opportunities for my company. (I anticipate visiting about twelve cities over the course of one month—my exact itinerary to be finalized.) In each city of my month-long ‘tour,’ on each designated date (by four o’ clock in the afternoon), I’ll leave a room key under the name ‘Emma’ at the front desk of a designated five-star hotel. At precisely eight o’clock, I’ll enter the reserved room to find one of two scenarios awaiting me, exactly as described below:
“Scenario One. Two willing women curated by you will be in the room, awaiting my arrival, preferably already naked. The women should expect to have sex with me and/or each other, depending on my mood and the level of my attraction to each woman. At the very least, they’ll definitely perform sexual acts with each other while I watch.
“Scenario Two. When I enter the room, a blindfolded and naked woman, tied to the bed, will already be there. I will not be the one who tied the woman up—she’ll already be in the required state when I arrive—which means someone besides the woman will initially need to accompany her to the room to help her get into position. By the time I arrive, that third party participant absolutely must be gone. Please note I will arrive at the room promptly at eight o’clock sharp, no earlier or later, to allow the woman and whoever’s assisting her to plan the set-up accordingly.
“After I’ve entered the room, the woman should expect to engage in some form of sexual activity with me while she remains bound and blindfolded. The sex will be pleasurable and nonviolent. But please note we will be enacting a role-play in which the sex is nonconsensual.
/> “At the end of the blindfolded portion of our activities (which shall last no more than one hour at the outside), I will remove the woman’s blindfold. When I do so, this will signal for purposes of our mutual role-play that I am someone entirely new, specifically someone who has newly entered the room to rescue her from the “attack” she’s just endured (which, I repeat, will be pleasurable and nonviolent). I’ll proceed to untie the woman and further sexual contact will likely occur at that time, at my discretion.
“A few important caveats and requirements: First, condoms will be used at all times, no exceptions. Second, there will be absolutely no violence of any nature, no exceptions. Any suggestion of violence during the rape-bondage role-play scenario will be purely theatrical and intended to enhance the role-play. Please note that words like “no” and “stop,” etc. during the bondage scenario will not be heeded. If the woman feels uncomfortable or scared in any way, she must use the safe word “Sick Fuck.” If she uses that phrase, I will immediately stop whatever I’m doing and take explicit instruction from her, whatever that is, including stopping, slowing down, and/or untying and releasing her.
“Third, all participating women must be extremely fit and natural blondes. This is non-negotiable.
“Fourth, at least three hours in advance of each date, each woman will leave a signed nondisclosure agreement and consent form for me at the hotel front desk (templates of both forms will be forwarded to you under separate cover once my membership is approved). The consent form shall detail the woman’s understanding of and agreement to participate in all activities detailed above, especially the nonconsensual role-play, plus her understanding of the safe word and its function, and her consent to participate in all activities, without limitation. In addition, I’ll also require a copy of each woman’s medical testing, dated no earlier than two days before our meeting, establishing she’s tested negative for pregnancy and all sexually transmitted diseases. Again, if these requirements necessitate payment beyond your usual monthly membership fee, please contact me to negotiate the increased fee. I do realize I’m asking you for services above and beyond your typical matching services, and I’m amenable to paying a premium for your individualized attention.