by Lauren Rowe
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.”
Chapter 19
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 the 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.
“Perhaps you’re thinking this price seems a tad high for one night of mind-blowing pleasure with the most sought-after call girl in the entire world (even for a mill-i-on-aire many times over such as yourself), but please rest assured PGWH is well worth this fee. In fact, we guarantee that by the end of your night with this woman, you’ll declare, without the slightest reservation, ‘You’re worth every fucking penny, baby.’
“Considering your very specific requirements stated in your application, we’ve attached a photo of PGWH for your approval. We hope you’ll find her to be
a genuine Gucci bag among counterfeits sold on the sidewalks of New York—the ‘divine original’ of your blonde-girl fantasies.
“Assuming PGWH meets your approval, she’s available to meet you in Los Angeles on Thursday the twenty-fifth for a long weekend. Please reply with details about your rendezvous, including the location of the hotel you’ve arranged, when and under what name she should pick up her room key, etc. (whatever types of details you supplied when arranging trysts during your month-long membership in the far inferior Mickey Mouse Roller Coaster Club).
“We cannot emphasize enough that PGWH wishes to experience what you’ve outlined in your application, exactly the way you’ve described it (because she’s a high-end call girl, you might recall, and not just a woman who works at a PR firm going on a date with the hottest guy ever).
“So let’s talk logistics. In your application, you requested fulfillment of two different fantasies. We are happy to inform you that, with just a few minor tweaks to your requests, PGWH is willing (and quite excited) to deliver both to you, on two separate nights of her stay in Los Angeles (which means, yes, this high-end call girl’s gonna cost you a grand total of two million bucks). So let’s talk about those minor tweaks:
“Regarding your first scenario, PGWH agrees to be part of the two-woman scenario you’ve requested, but she’s not game for both women to be naked when you first arrive to the hotel room. She might need a little coaxing to get the show on the road, so to speak, but she’s confident a little alcohol and the sight of your gorgeous, turned-on face will be all that’s necessary to give her a little nudge in the right direction. In the end, your fantasies are all that matter—she very much wants to deliver them to you.
“Also regarding your two-woman scenario, as previously agreed, you may touch yourself and PGWH, but you absolutely may not touch the ‘other’ woman. Breach of this rule will be deemed unforgivable by PGWH and will result in her leaving the rendezvous immediately. (If this amounts to ‘sexual extortion’ we’re very sorry-not-sorry. It’s just super-duper important to PGWH that you honor this request and never make PGWH feel like a third wheel. She wishes to be your window, not your window dressing. This is non-negotiable. Have we mentioned one of her code names is The Jealous Bitch?)
“If the foregoing revisions to the first scenario are agreeable to you, then our next step is to identify the ‘window dressing’ who’ll be joining you and PGWH. Since you’ve graciously offered that PGWH may select whomever she chooses, we’re happy to inform you of PGWH’s selection: supermodel Bridgette Schmidt.”
I take my hands off my keyboard and stare at the screen for a long moment.
Up ’til now, this email to Josh has poured out of me in a torrent of excitement—but now, my fingers have paused without my brain telling them to do it.
Am I really up for this? It’s pretty kinky. Am I really gonna like kinky as much as I think I will—or am I merely turned on by the idea of kinky? And, besides that, when Josh and I first started “negotiating” this particular adventure, I made a big ol’ stink that the woman we selected couldn’t be someone either of us knows. But now that I’ve had a chance to think this through, I think Bridgette the Supermodel is the ideal candidate for the job.
First off, she’s gorgeous. And since I’m the one who’s gonna be making out with her, that’s not a small point. Second, Bridgette is bisexual, at least according to Josh, which means the odds are good this won’t be her first time making out with a girl—and, hopefully, she’ll be more enthusiastic about fooling around with me than my straight friend in college (because that was kind of lame in retrospect). Third—and this is a biggie—Bridgette’s a huge celebrity, which means she’s not gonna take secret photos and sell them to TMZ.
All these reasons are pretty persuasive to me—and yet there’s an even bigger reason to select Bridgette as my co-star in this particular mini-porno: Josh said Bridgette’s got “battery acid in her heart.”
Well, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give that girl a salami. Because if I’m gonna voluntarily bring a beautiful, naked, blonde woman into the bedroom with a man I want for my very own—a man I’ve been fantasizing about taking home to meet my family—a man who makes my claws come out and jealousy rise up from my darkest bowels when I even think about him with another woman—then I’m sure as hell gonna make double-damn-sure that woman’s not gonna have a snowball’s chance in hell of stealing my man out from under me.
I take a long, deep breath and close my eyes.
Oh my, I seem to be feeling a tad bit psychotic right now.
I take a deep breath and shake it off.
And there’s another reason to select Bridgette too—a very, very good reason that might be a tad bit self-sabotaging (but, oh well, that simply can’t be helped): I want to see if Josh is full of shit or not. He says I’m more beautiful than Bridgette Effing Schmidt, one of the world’s most beautiful women? Well, let’s see if Josh is able to walk the walk of that particular smooth-talk. Will he be able to keep his hands off Bridgette when push comes to shove? Or will he find her jaw-dropping physical beauty too powerful to resist, no matter how much he feels for me?
Obviously, I might be making a huge mistake by doing this—setting myself up for epic heartbreak. Actually, come to think of it, this might be the stupidest idea I’ve ever had in my entire life, possibly even dumber than the idea of surprising Garrett at his apartment wearing nothing but a trench coat. But, hey, I’ve got to look at the big picture here: if Josh is ultimately gonna shatter my heart, I’d rather know it now than when my heart is totally on the line.
I place my hands on my keyboard again and continue typing:
“After explaining the firm no-touch rule to Bridgette, please invite her to join us during one of the nights of PGWH’s stay in Los Angeles (whichever night she can make it—we’ll work around her schedule).
“And now regarding the second scenario detailed in your application, which we’ll call ‘Saving the Girl.’ Do you think it’d be possible to combine this fantasy of yours with one of PGWH’s biggest fantasies, already detailed at length for you, in which she’s held captive by a dangerous man? Just let us know. During this trip, fulfillment of your fantasies is paramount, so if simultaneously fulfilling PGWH’s fantasy would somehow lessen your pleasure, we’ll be very happy to fulfill PGWH’s fantasy a different time.
“Well, that’s about it. We look forward to serving you, Mr. Faraday. Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do love a good sick fuck!”
My heart stops. Oh my God, I absolutely cannot phrase that last sentence that way. Jesus God, am I mad? Quickly, I delete the last sentence and rephrase it:
“Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do enjoy ourselves a good sick fuck!”
Damn. That was a close call. I’m careening out of control here. Jeez. I can’t drop the ‘L’ word like that, even as a snarky figure of speech.
“Exclusively yours,” I continue writing, “The KUM Club.
“P.S. PGWH wishes to thank you profusely for your latest extremely generous gift (in a long line of generous gifts)—even though it will surely prevent PGWH from ever leaving her house again (unless it’s to see you, of course). Whenever PGWH uses your gift, rest assured she’ll imagine she’s getting splendidly fucked by you. Certainly, with every orgasm (and there will surely be many), she’ll moan your name.”
My fingers leave my keyboard. I stare at the screen, my skin electrified, my crotch burning, my heart aching. Try as I might, I simply can’t keep myself from falling head-over-heels for this man. The only question now is whether he wants me the way I want him. I know Josh wants me sexually, but does he want the rest of me, too? I’m simultaneously excited and nervous to find out.
I read my email once through, take a deep breath, and press send.
Chapter 20
Josh
I slam my laptop shut.
Holy fuck.
Madame Terrorist strikes again.
I glance furtively at the
guy seated next to me on the plane. He’s working on his laptop, completely oblivious to the naked photo of Kat that just melted my motherfucking screen. For a long moment, I look around at the other passengers in my immediate vicinity, my heart raging, my cheeks burning, my cock twitching in my pants.
I’ve seen my share of naked-blonde-woman-photos before now, of course, but my body’s never reacted quite like this to any of them. Holy fuck, I feel like I just mainlined a cocktail of Ecstasy and Viagra. You’d think I was thirteen and sneaking my dad’s stash of porno-mags the way my body’s reacting to this photo of Kat.
But it’s not just Kat’s tits and ass making my dick so hard—it’s how much of Kat’s personality comes through in the shot. There’s a devilish smile on her lips that tells me she was as turned on snapping this photo as I am looking at it, and, shit, there’s a glint in her eye that says, “I got you right where I want you, chump,” too. The woman slays me.
I can’t believe Kat gave this photo to me, no coaxing required. I had to beg Emma to let me snap one measly naked shot of her for my birthday last year, and now Kat’s sending me this for no other reason than she likes getting me hard? She’s incredible.
What did Kat say after Sarah sent that naked photo of herself to Max and Oksana? “No matter how smart or powerful a guy might be, he’s got the same Kryptonite as every other man throughout history—naked boobs.” I close my eyes for a long beat, shaking my head. God, I hate proving Kat right, I really do, just on principle—but there’s no way around it: Kat’s naked boobs just flat-out stripped me of whatever superpowers I might have had.
And yet her naked boobs didn’t come close to slaying me the way her naked words did. I already knew she was a terrorist, but now I know she’s a fucking ninja with words, too.
I made fun of Jonas pretty relentlessly for the way he went ballistic over Sarah’s anonymous email, sight unseen, but now I get it. Shit, I might even owe Jonas an apology for the way I gave him shit about that. If Sarah’s note was even half as clever and sexy and hot as Kat’s, then it’s no wonder Jonas fell so hard for—