The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  Of course, in my fantasy, I’m the woman who gives him an indefatigable hard-on like no other (which is probably saying a lot, considering how indefatigable his hard-on already seems to be), and he wants me like no man has ever wanted a woman, anywhere, anytime, ever in the history of the world. Mark Antony and Cleopatra? Pffft. They’d have nothing on Jonas and Sarah.

  But even if that were the case, what would be the point? He’s a one-night stand kind of guy and will never, ever change—he even says so himself—so, at best, even in this fantasy, I’m talking about having mind-blowing, orgasmic sex with the most gorgeous man in the world, just once, and that’s it, nothing more. Is my job worth that? Well, damn, when I say it like that, hellz yeah, it is! Hellz yeah!

  I feel like slapping myself. No, it’s not worth it.

  Maybe if the job weren’t part of the equation. But, no, I can’t risk it. If The Club ever found out, I’d be fired on the spot. And I need this job. I’m the one putting myself through law school, after all, and it was frickin’ hard to get here in the first place. I’m not going to risk everything to have one heart-stopping orgasm that can’t lead to anything else, ever. No matter how gorgeous he is. Or how cunning a linguist. Or how gorgeous. But I already said that.

  And, anyway, the odds of me being this godlike man’s cup of tea are slim. After all this build-up and dirty talk and masturbation and confession and “honesty,” if he were to finally see me, there’s a very real possibility he’d exhale and say, “oh.” And I don’t mean, “Oh!” with naughty raised eyebrows, I mean, like, “oh,” with a droopy frowny-face. And that would be kind of soul crushing, I have to admit.

  I look at my watch. Crap. I’ve got Constitutional Law in an hour. I bring my seat to an upright sitting position and start my engine.

  Yeah, I’ve made a decision—a mature, responsible decision.

  The minute I get back from class tonight, I’ll delete that intake-agent Gmail account I made for him and forget this ever happened. I’ll get approval to trigger the automated “congratulations!” email and overnight him his welcome package. And then I’ll just try to erase the allegedly Brutally Honest Jonas Faraday from my memory. I won’t even think of his mournful eyes and luscious lips and ridiculous abs and tattooed arms and round little nipples and intriguing interest in philosophy and “human anatomy” ever again.

  I sigh. Yep, I’ll just erase all of that from my memory. Boom.

  I turn on my windshield wipers and pull my car into traffic.

  But even so, there can’t be any harm in keeping his photos on my laptop for occasional future viewing, right? Or, perhaps making his face the background image on my desktop? I mean, for Pete’s sake, I might be mature and responsible, but I’m not freakin’ dead.

  Chapter 5

  Jonas

  I’ve read and re-read her email to me twenty times, jerked off and showered, and now I’m sitting at my computer, staring at a blank screen, trying to figure out how to reply to her.

  I’ve got to be honest with her—this woman can spot bullshit a mile away—but I have to be careful not to spook her, too. She’s already nervous about risking her job. Whatever I say to her better not make her wig out and delete her email account. That account is my only means of reaching her.

  “My Beautiful Intake Agent,” I write.

  I stare at the screen, my fingers resting on my keyboard.

  What do I want to say? Do I really want to say I want to fuck her, sight unseen? What if it turns out she’s not at all physically attractive to me? What if she’s a great-grandmother or something?

  Fuck it. I can’t think like that. She’s hot. I know she is. I’ve got a sixth sense about these things. And I can’t worry about scaring her off. I just have to tell her the truth. It worked the first time. I have to believe it’ll work again.

  I lay my fingers on my keyboard again.

  “The only thing bigger than my raging God complex right now is my raging hard-on for you,” I type, making myself smirk. “Your email made me hard from the minute it hit my inbox to the moment I stopped reading it for the twentieth time and jacking off to it fifteen minutes ago. Thank you for your brutal honesty. And, of course, for telling me your delicious secret, too. Yes, indeed, you’re Mount Everest, my dear—and you must know what kind of allure you therefore present to a passionate climber like me.

  “You’re driving me fucking crazy, you know. (Of course, you do—and you like it.) I’m a man who needs to be in control, a fact that probably hasn’t escaped your notice, and in this bizarre but delectable situation, you’re the one holding all the cards right now. This is an upside-down distribution of power for a man saddled with a raging God complex, as I’m sure you can appreciate. But for some reason, I’m enjoying the torture.

  “You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you—well, wait, that’s not completely true. I know what I need to know. You’re smart. And sexy as hell. And not afraid to kick my ass with some seriously brutal honesty of your own. And, of course, I know you’ve never experienced the most fundamental and ultimate pleasure known to human experience, a fact that pains me as much as it excites me. It’s a fucking travesty, My Beautiful Intake Agent, it really is.

  “I want to know everything about you. But let’s start with your name. And where I can find you. At the very least, you owe me three photos, my beautiful one. One in clothes, one full bodied, and one headshot, of course. It’s only fair. Take out your phone right now and send them to me. Show me your tit. (For my tat, of course. What did you think I meant? You have such a dirty mind.)

  “And, by the way, of course, I won’t tell a soul about your email, rest assured. I would never do anything to harm you in any way. I promise.

  “Undeniably, faithfully, and truthfully yours (and also going crazy and losing my mind and thoroughly not enjoying the imbalance of power, though I have a hunch you are), Jonas.”

  What is it about this woman that gets me off like this?

  I quickly press send, without even reading what I’ve written. I know if I don’t just send it, as is, I’ll start obsessing over whether the wording is exactly right, and whether I’m going to scare her off, and trying to make it perfect. Because I like perfect. But I’ve already left her hanging far too long without a reply, and I’m sure she’s starting to wonder. And worry. And regret. Oh shit, what if she’s already deleted her email account? That would be very, very bad for my mental health. I can’t lose my only means of contacting her.

  My cell phone rings and my heart instantly leaps in my throat.

  “Josh,” I say, my chest constricting. “Please tell me you’ve got good news.”

  “She’s in Seattle.”

  I can barely breathe.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just can’t believe it. You sure?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m positive. She’s on U Dub’s server.”

  “She’s a student at Washington?”

  “Or a professor, I guess. One or the other.”

  I’ve read her email so many times it’s part of my gray matter now. “Hellz yeah,” she said. “Helluva lot longer.” “Puh-lease.” She said this job is the “best paying job” she’s ever had.

  “She’s a student,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together. Yeah, I’m sure of it. She said she was drinking “two-buck chuck.” Yes, definitely a student. She said she’s got rent to pay—and that she’s got a laundry room downstairs. Okay, so she lives in an apartment. Student housing? My mind is clicking and whirring, gathering the pieces of the puzzle. Something is niggling at my brain. Something important. She used the word allegedly, didn’t she? Yes, more than once. I smirk. Who uses that pretentious word but lawyers ... and law students?

  “She’s a law student,” I whisper, smirking. And, suddenly, I’m sure of it—because, holy fuck, can that woman argue a point.

  Josh laughs. “You always did like ‘em smart. You’re so predictable, man. Okay, let me see if my guy can get onto the univers
ity’s server and take a peek around. There’s probably some sort of distinction in their records between law students versus the entire student population. That would at least narrow the field. Do you know anything else about her?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “All right. When you get more information, get it to me.”

  “I will. Keep your phone handy. Thanks, Josh.”

  “No problemo. You know how much I love the chase—even if it’s chasing a law student for you.”

  I’m about to hang up.

  “Jonas.”

  “What?”

  “Does this have something to do with The Club I was telling you about?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I knew it!”

  “No.”

  “You joined.”

  “No.”

  “Bro, you’re acting like a sexual deviant right now. That’s exactly what The Club does to a man. Oh man, you’re about to have the best month of your life.” He laughs again.

  Wait, what? Josh only signed up for a month? Wow, I really am a sexual deviant. “It’s none of your business,” I mutter.

  “Really? You’ve got me hacking the server of the fucking University of Washington, just to get you laid by some mystery law student with a fake email address—and it’s none of my business?”

  I exhale. “I submitted my application a few days ago. I’m not a member yet. And now, it doesn’t even matter. I’ve gotten myself distracted. Hopelessly distracted.” I grunt. “I don’t give a shit about The Club. All I care about is finding her.”

  Josh laughs again. “Wow. Distracted from The Club? That’s pretty intense. Sounds like this girl is a real stand-out.” He exhales. “Okay, bro. Sit tight. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks again, Josh.”

  “Aw, you know I’m a sucker for true love.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I’ve been pacing around my house for the past hour.

  She hasn’t replied to my email.

  And Josh hasn’t called back, either.

  I’m going crazy.

  Why hasn’t she replied? What’s going on in her beautiful head? And, shit, what if her head’s not quite as beautiful as I imagine it to be? No, that’s impossible. I’ve got a sixth sense for hotness. I’m never wrong.

  I change into my workout clothes and head into my home gym, music from Kid Ink blaring in my ears. Maybe lifting some weights will burn off some of my manic energy. I don’t like feeling out of control.

  I let the hot water beat down my back. How old is she? If she’s in law school, she’s probably anywhere from twenty-two to maybe twenty-five? Twenty-six at most? Right? Unless law school for her is a later-in-life, change-of-direction type thing. But that’s probably not the case. God, I hope it’s not.

  Just as I’m wrapping a towel around my waist, I hear my computer beep with an incoming message. I sprint out of my bathroom to my laptop on my bed. I click open my private email account. I’m panting.

  It’s from her.

  “Here you go,” her message says. There’s a photo attachment. I inhale sharply as I click on the photo and open it. Oh my God. It’s a picture of a breast. One breast, singular. The smart-ass showed me her “tit”—for my tat, of course, just like I requested. I don’t know why I’m even surprised.

  I sit down on the bed, my erection poking up from beneath my towel. I can’t stop staring at the picture. Her skin is smooth with an olive undertone, or is that barely-there mocha? I can’t tell. Is she Italian? Greek? Latina? Light-skinned black? I can’t tell from this tiny swatch of skin. All I know for sure is she’s definitely not a platinum blonde Swede or a redheaded Irish Catholic. No, that skin is definitely tinged with some flavor. And the breast itself is round and plump, the perfect size for my hand plus a little extra. Definitely real. Her nipple is dark and round and standing fiercely at attention for me. Oh God, this woman. I wonder what she did to herself to make her nipple stand up like that? I wish I could have been there to see her do it, whatever it was. No, I wish I could have been there to do it to her myself.

  “Thank you,” I type. “You’re beautiful. I can’t stop looking at the photo. I’m totally obsessed.”

  “I know the feeling,” her reply comes back immediately.

  I practically growl with excitement upon getting her reply. “Tell me your name,” I quickly write.

  “No,” she replies—again, immediately.

  I can barely contain myself. This woman is somewhere in this city right now, staring at me through her computer screen. My heart is racing. “Not fair. You know my name,” I type.

  “Life isn’t fair.”

  I half-smile at my screen. “Ain’t that the truth,” I type. Truer words were never spoken. I sigh. “If not your name, tell me something else. How about your age?”

  “I just turned 24.”

  I’m thrilled. She finally threw me a bone. And I’m relieved, too—twenty-four is good. Very good. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Happy Birthday,” I type, smiling.

  “Thank you.”

  “Pisces, then?”

  “Oh my God. You did not just ask me, ‘What’s your sign?’”

  I laugh out loud. “Yeah, I guess I did. I’m dumb like that sometimes.”

  “With cheesy pickup lines like that, it’s clearly thanks to your supernatural good looks and not your sparkling personality that you’ve managed to be worshipped as a supreme sex-god by so many. Gosh, I expected a little more panache from you, Mr. Faraday. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of woman wizard? Oh, wait, that’s only inside the four walls of your bedroom—never on the outside.”

  I can’t help but smile from ear to ear. She’s kicking my ass again. I love it. “You’re right. I’m not very good at this.” And it’s true. I mean, I can talk to women, of course. I can even flirt. Sort of. But I’ve never been great at doing it. And especially not in a situation like this—when I can’t look into her eyes and get a read on her. “I’m hopeless at small talk,” I type.

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “No such thing as small talk?”

  “No such thing as hopelessness. There’s always hope. ‘We must accept infinite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.’”

  Oh God. My cock has been leaping and lurching throughout our entire exchange, but my brain just joined the fray, too. “Who said that?”

  “Martin Luther King Jr.,” she types.

  She’s a whole new breed of woman I’ve never encountered before. I exhale loudly. “Here’s one,” I type. “’Hope is the dream of a waking man.’”

  “Oh, I like that. Who’s that?”

  “Aristotle.”

  “That’d be an awesome episode of Epic Rap Battles of History—Martin Luther King Jr. vs. Aristotle. Hard to say who’d win.”

  I grunt. How did we get from her erect nipple to Martin Luther King Jr. and Aristotle waging an epic rap battle? “Stop trying to distract me, My Beautiful Intake Agent. I know exactly what you’re trying to do, but I demand to know more about you. Come on.”

  “Okay, okay. You’ve worn me down, especially when you ‘demand’ like that. You’re so manly when you do that, by the way—I like it. Okay, here’s everything: I am a woman. I am 24. I have a Maltese named Kiki. I buy her little outfits with rhinestones on them. She is my world. The End.”

  She’s killing me right now, even as I’m laughing out loud. “Come on. Please. Tell me something real,” I type.

  “Why?”

  I sigh. Jesus, she’s frustrating. “Because you know everything and I know nothing. It’s not fair. Where’s your sense of fair play and justice?”

  “Just so you know, I’m sighing right now. Oh, and rolling my eyes, too.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, okay. You wore me down again. You’re so persuasive, Mr. Faraday. Irresistible! Okay, here you go: Blah, blah, blah. Prelude, prelude, prelude.”

  I burst out laughing. That’s fucked up. I never
under any other circumstance would have disclosed my thoughts about “prelude” to a woman—especially a woman I’m trying to get into bed. “Come on. Anything. How about this: What was the song you listened to when you touched yourself and thought about me?”

  “How do you know I listened to music when I touched myself and thought about you?”

  “You told me so.”

  “Did I?”

  I’ve read her email so many times I can recite it word for word. “Yes, you did. You said you were spread out on your bed next to an almost empty bottle of wine, music blaring, and that you touched yourself and wished my warm, wet tongue were doing the touching instead of your fingers. Best line ever in the history of the world. Gave me a gigantic woody.”

  “Gee, thanks. But I’m sure you get a gigantic woody reading a grocery list.”

  “Only if it’s yours.”

  “Oh, smooth, you woman wizard, you. See? You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject. What was the song? Did you turn on Pandora and roll the dice, or did you choose a specific song?”

  “I chose the song. The perfect song. Of course.”

  My kind of woman. “What was it?” My heart’s pounding in my ears.

  “‘Pony.’ The cover by Far, not the original.”

  Okay, this girl officially just blew my mind. That cover’s not a mainstream tune—I’m shocked she knows it. The original song by Ginuwine is an old R&B cheesefest from the nineties about a guy looking for a horny pony to ride his saddle. The original was unintentionally hilarious, but Far’s rendition of the song rocks—heavy guitars, crashing drums, crunchy bass. And the vocals are tongue in cheek and sardonic, while still managing to be raw and gritty and dirty. If she picked that song for a session of self-love, that tells me I’m not dealing with the usual kind of girl—a fact I already knew.

  “Excellent choice,” I type. My entire body’s coursing with electricity. I’ve got to find this woman.