The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  “I agree,” she types. “Hence, the reason I chose it.”

  I inhale and exhale deeply. I don’t like being out of control like this. I don’t like her holding all the cards. My knee is jiggling wildly.

  “I want to meet you more than I want to breathe,” I type. And it’s the truth. “Please,” I add. I’ve never begged a woman for anything in my entire life, but I’d get down on my hands and knees if I thought it would make her tell me where to find her.

  She doesn’t reply.

  Up ‘til now, her replies have been instantaneous. I wait.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. Why isn’t she replying?

  As long as there’s a break in the action with her, I reach for my phone to text Josh. “She’s 24.”

  He texts back right away. “Good. If we don’t get a name, we can narrow the field by age. But get a name if you can, obviously.”

  Why isn’t she answering me? Did she get up to pour herself a glass of wine? Did she get up to turn on “Pony” again? Or is she just sitting there, staring at the screen, second-guessing herself and freaking out?

  Still no reply.

  I click onto the picture of her breast again and stare at her hard nipple. Oh man. You’d think I’d never seen a nipple before the way my body’s reacting to the sight of hers.

  Why isn’t she responding?

  I place my hands over my keyboard again. I’ve got to reel her back in. She’s obviously starting to second-guess herself here.

  “I interpret your silence to mean you’re not ready to meet me. (As you can see, I’m super smart at interpreting a woman’s nonverbal cues—just one more stunning example of my woman wizardry.) That’s okay. We don’t have to meet. Just send me another picture, then, to tide me over. It’s only fair—you’ve got three of mine, after all. You owe me two, but I’ll settle for one. How about a headshot?” My breathing is shallow. I want to type the word “please” fifty times, but I restrain myself.

  “I’m thinking,” she says immediately.

  I exhale in relief. She’s still there. Thank God.

  “Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy. Just do it. Right now. One picture. I won’t breathe ‘til I get it. I’ve officially stopped breathing. Please, please, don’t let me suffocate over here. Hurry! I’m not breathing! Hurry! Aaaah!” I press send and sit and stare at the screen. Oh God, this woman is making me crazy.

  After a moment, there’s another email. Thank God.

  “Please don’t suffocate, for Pete’s sake. That’d be a dumb thing to do. Here you go.” It’s another photo file.

  I open the image. It’s her thigh? Her hip? It’s hard to make out. But there’s that skin again. Smooth and even. And olive-toned. Definitely olive. Oh man, I want to touch that gorgeous olive skin. I want to touch every square inch of it, inside and out.

  “Thank you,” I reply, but that doesn’t even come close to expressing what I’m feeling. “You’re so beautiful. I want to touch you.” I’m hard as a rock.

  An immediate reply. “I want to be touched by you, My Brutally Honest Mr. Faraday.”

  My heart leaps. And so does my cock.

  “Call me Jonas.”

  Again, an instant reply. “I want to be touched by you. Jonas.”

  I am losing my fucking mind. “Tell me where to find you.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “You should.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “How can I touch you if I can’t find you?”

  No reply again.

  “I just want to touch you,” I type again, not waiting for her reply. Thank God we’re conversing over email. If I were speaking these words to her, I’m sure I’d be shouting them, I’m so amped up. “I won’t tell anyone about our communications. I promise.”

  “I know you won’t tell. I trust you. That’s not why it’s a bad idea.”

  I grunt in frustration. If she’s not worried about her job, then why is it a bad idea? I don’t understand. As far as I’m concerned, this is a fucking fantastic idea. Okay, new tactic. “How about you touch yourself and pretend it’s me?”

  “I already did that. That’s what got me here in the first place.”

  “So do it again. Maybe second time’s the charm. You never know.”

  There’s a long pause. I’m just about to email her again, when her reply comes.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I inhale sharply. “Good. Do it now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right now.”

  “Jeez, I said okay. You’re so effing demanding.”

  I can’t hold back anymore. I’m losing control. I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say—it might scare her off. But I can’t stop myself. “Go lie on your bed and touch yourself.” My fingers are moving quickly on the keyboard. “Imagine my hands all over you, my lips on your neck, your nipples, your belly, inside your thighs and all around your pussy. Imagine my tongue caressing every inch of you ‘til you’re writhing and moaning and begging me to kiss your throbbing tip. Finally, imagine my warm tongue finding it, swirling it around and around, lapping at you, kissing you, licking you. Imagine yourself letting go in that moment, giving in completely to the pleasure—so completely your mind flashes into a blinding light and ceases to exist. And right then, right at the moment you imagine your mind disappearing into oblivion, I want you to say my name again, out loud. Go do that for me right now. I’ll wait.” I press send.

  “Yes, lord-god-master,” the answer comes back immediately. “Stay tuned. And keep breathing, for Pete’s sake. This may take a while.”

  I wait. I’m shaking. I put my laptop next to me on the bed and yank my towel off. I lie there, naked on my bed, my hard-on straining up toward my stomach. I raise my hands above my head and grab at my hair for a moment, the muscles on my naked body tensing. I feel like I’m losing my mind. If only she were sitting on top of me right now. I moan, imagining her there, riding me. Oh God, how I wish she were on top of me right now, throwing her head back and coming.

  I can’t believe she’s never had an orgasm, not even once.

  I need to find this woman.

  I need to fuck this woman.

  I need to make this woman surrender to me.

  I can almost feel her on top of me right now.

  I’m going out of my fucking mind.

  After what seems like forever, my computer finally beeps with a new email and I click on it.

  “Jonas,” the message says. “Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas, Jonas.”

  I stare at my screen, losing my shit. Moments ago, somewhere in this very city, not too far from where I’ve been lying here naked on my bed and imagining her, she put her beautiful olive-skinned hand between her legs and touched herself at my command, all the while imagining my warm tongue on her sweet spot—and she said my name over and over and over again when she did it.

  Fuck.

  I’m trembling with the physical need to touch her, to put my hands on her body, to whisper her name in her ear—if only I knew her goddamned name, that is.

  “Tell me your name.” I type quickly, pounding on the keyboard. If I were saying these words out loud, she’d be shocked at the forcefulness of my tone.

  “No,” she replies.

  I grunt. Why is she being so difficult? “Please,” I type. If she understood my desperation, she’d give in and do what I tell her to do.

  “Bad idea.”

  “Good idea. Please.”

  “Why?”

  I grunt again. Why? What does she mean why? Why does she think? Because she’s driving me out of my fucking mind, that’s why, and I’ve never even laid eyes on her. Because she’s somehow managed to hook me like a marlin on a line, that’s why. I sigh. My fingers hover over my keyboard. “I want to know what name I’ll be whispering into your ear as you experience pure ecstasy for the very first time.” I swallow hard and press send.

  I wait. No reply. Four minutes pass. Nothing.
<
br />   My heart is in my ears. Oh man. She’s not answering. Fuck. That wasn’t the right message. She’s scared to meet me, for whatever reason, and so what did I do? I told her I want to fuck her, sight unseen. Have I gone totally insane? If she’s at all sane, unlike me, then I’m sure she’s freaking out right now. Damn. I need to reel her back in, show her I’m not crazy, that I just sound that way.

  “Just tell me your first name,” I type quickly, even more frantically than before. “Have mercy on me. If you won’t meet me, then I’ll have no choice but to jack off again, thinking of you—and when I do, what name should I whisper into the dark, sad, lonely void of my bedroom? You’re not really going to make me moan ‘My Beautiful Intake Agent’ over and over, are you? That doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Come on, I’m begging you—and, believe me, I never beg.”

  I press send.

  Almost immediately, my inbox beeps with a reply. It’s a one-word message. But it’s all I need.

  “Sarah.”

  I exhale in relief and elation. I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to Josh. “Sarah.”

  “I’m on it,” he immediately texts back.

  Sarah.

  I can only hope a first name is enough to find her. Because a first name is all I’ve got. That, and hope. Infinite hope. My fingers find my keyboard again. “Thank you, my beautiful Sarah. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.” I grin. I feel like a little kid. I might even be blushing right now. “Please, Sarah, just let me meet you. Please, please, please, please, please. Tell me where you are.”

  I press send and wait. My stomach is flip-flopping. My heart is racing. She’s close to giving in; I know she is. I can feel it—taste it. I stare at my screen. Come on, Sarah. Don’t think about it. Just take a leap of faith.

  Five minutes later, an email finally lands in my inbox. But it’s not from her. It’s an automated email from The Club. My breath catches and my heart sinks at the same time.

  “Congratulations!” the automated email says. “Your application for membership to The Club has been approved. Once your membership funds have successfully transferred to us from escrow in approximately two business days, you will receive a welcome package containing detailed instructions about how to use and maximize your membership. Welcome to The Club. Where your every fantasy becomes a reality.”

  I’m frantic. “Sarah,” I type out. “Did I scare you? I won’t tell anyone about you, I promise. I just want to meet you. I just want to touch you. We could even just talk. I just want to see you. Please. Please reply right away.” I’m typing like a maniac. I press send and wait.

  Two minutes later, I receive a bounce back notification that makes me scream out in frustration. “Delivery failed. Server unable to locate email address. Please check your records and, if you feel this message is in error, try sending your email again.”

  Chapter 6

  Jonas

  “Hold your horses, bro. He’s going as fast as he can,” Josh says.

  “It’s been three days.”

  “Jonas, hacking into a major university’s server is kind of a big deal. You have to be patient.”

  I grunt.

  “I know patience isn’t your strong suit. Just, please, try to relax.”

  “There’s no way in hell I can relax.”

  “Well, try. I’ll get back to you soon. He said he’s close.”

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m such an asshole. I appreciate your help.”

  “No worries. You can’t have the looks and the personality—you gotta leave me a little something.”

  “Call me the minute you hear—”

  “I will. Bye.”

  Relax? I’m supposed to relax? There are only two things in this world that ever help me relax, and for the past three days since Sarah cut me off, I’ve only been doing one of them—working out like a madman. But I’m still relentlessly amped up. I can’t get her off my mind. I don’t understand what I did to make her run scared—other than show her what an asshole I really am. Yeah, come to think of it, maybe that was it. But she knew the truth about me when she first answered my email. So what changed? What did I do? Just the thought of her freaking out and wanting nothing to do with me is killing me right now. One minute she was touching herself and saying my name, and the next minute she was cutting off all ties. I have to find her and make her feel safe again, make her understand I’d never harm her.

  I sit at my kitchen table in a pair of jeans and nothing else, my head in my hands. I should be working right now. We’re planning another big acquisition and there’s plenty to do. Josh has been picking up my slack, but there’s only so much he can do from L.A. on this particular deal. Really, I should be in the office right now, managing my team. But I can’t concentrate. I just keep staring at my phone, waiting for Josh to call me to say he’s found her.

  A couple times, I’ve tried her email address again, hoping maybe she’d calmed down and reactivated it. But no luck. Same bounce-back message both times.

  I open my laptop and click into my email again, just in case.

  There’s a message from The Club, dated yesterday afternoon.

  “Dear Mr. Faraday,

  “Welcome to The Club! This is to notify you that your membership funds have successfully cleared from the escrow account. You are now a full-fledged member of The Club. Tomorrow, you will receive a welcome package at the address provided on your application, which will give you everything you need to maximize your membership. If you have any questions or concerns or suggestions, you may contact us at Member_Support@TheClub.com. Of course, all communications will be held in the strictest confidence. Please do not reply to this email, as your reply will not direct to anyone. Welcome to The Club. Where your every fantasy becomes a reality.”

  I feel sick. I just spent two hundred fifty thousand dollars on something I don’t even want anymore. It kills me to waste money. Especially a quarter of a million dollars.

  Two nights ago, I lay in bed all night, trying to figure out how I could withdraw my membership application and not cause a problem for Sarah. I went over it and over it in my head, lying in the dark, but I couldn’t imagine a scenario where canceling that payment wouldn’t end with Sarah losing her job—which, in turn, would mean breaking my promise to her. For a while, I considered withdrawing my membership application and agreeing to pay her a year’s salary instead (which most certainly is a mere fraction of two hundred fifty thousand dollars). But it always came back to me breaking a promise to her and losing her trust forever—something I’m not willing to do. And, anyway, what if the big wigs at The Club are vindictive fuckers? They could sue her ass for intentional interference with contract and demand payment of my entire membership fee from her. The more I turned it over and over in my head, the more I knew I had to let that damned payment go through—even though joining The Club is the last thing I care about right now. I promised her I wouldn’t harm her in any way. And I’d rather pay money—any amount of money—than harm her. Or break a promise to her. I’m a lot of things, but a liar I am not. Hopefully, when she finds out I didn’t stop the wire transfer she’ll realize she can trust me completely. She’ll understand I’m a man of my word. Maybe then she’ll contact me again. I can only hope. Because right now, I’m out of my head.

  The doorbell rings. After a minute, I drag myself up from the table and shuffle to the door like a dead man walking. It’s a guy from FedEx with a box.

  “Jonas Faraday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sign here, please.”

  Getting this box should feel like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. I should be chomping at the bit to open it. So why do I feel like throwing it, unopened, against the wall? I leave it on my kitchen table and head into my gym. I need to clear my head—and that means listening to music and working out ‘til I’m dripping with sweat.

  Two hours later, after a long workout powered by The Sound of Animals Fighting, a hot shower, and answering some work emails, I sit at my
kitchen table and stare at the box. Fuck it. I can’t resist.

  When I open the box, there’s a handwritten note sitting along with whatever else. My heart races as I pull out the note.

  “My Dearest Jonas,

  “You want brutal honesty? Well, here it is. When it comes to you, there’s just too much downside and not enough upside. I lost my mind momentarily, but I’ve regained control of myself. If I were willing to lie to you, like everyone else apparently does—like you want everyone to do, despite what you delude yourself into thinking you want—things might have been different. Enjoy your membership. I’m sure you’ll get exactly what you want out of it. My wish for you, however, is that, someday, you’ll realize what you want and what you need are two very different things.

  “Truthfully yours, Sarah.”

  I sit and stare at the note in my hand for a good long time.

  Her swirling handwriting is distinctive and smooth and beautiful, just like her skin. And it’s confident. Feminine. Bold. I run my finger over the indentions made by her ballpoint pen and an unexpected tidal wave of melancholy slams into me. Shit, I feel like crying for the first time since I was a kid. I feel alone. No, that’s not it. I feel abandoned.

  The scent of her dresses hanging against my face fills my nostrils for a fleeting moment—the image of her vacant face on the pillow. I shake my head, but her eyes—her beautiful blue eyes—are still staring lifelessly at me. I push it all back down. I wipe at my eyes and shake my head.

  Why do I feel like she just ripped my heart out of my chest? My heart was never involved here. My attraction to her is purely sexual—out of this world, off the charts, insane, inexplicable, unconventional, maybe even bordering on obsessive, yes—but still, purely sexual. Well, no, maybe not purely sexual. Because I know she’s smart as hell. And funny. And witty. When she cuts me down to size, I actually enjoy it. But all of that is just prelude, right? Just the lead-in to the main event, the sexy little things that make me want to fuck her, right? And that’s all. Right?

  I wipe my eyes again.

  I’ve never even seen her and I was willing to take a giant leap of faith—to meet her and taste her and fuck her and make her come. And on the flipside, she knows everything about me—she’s seen my photos, heard my secrets—and won’t even agree to sit in the same room with me. What did she mean there was no upside to me? That I’m not the IKEA-shopping-on-weekends kind of guy? That I tell the truth about what I want, and what I don’t? Is she saying she’s not interested in what I’m willing to offer her? No, she’s interested—or else she wouldn’t have emailed me in the first place. Is she saying she would have wanted more than what I can give her, so why even bother with me? Yes, I think that’s exactly what she’s saying. But she knew that up front, so why’d she even reply to my note in the first place? I guess she realized she wouldn’t give up all the Valentine’s Day bullshit to howl like a monkey for the first time in her life, after all. Well, good to know, then. She saved us both a lot of hassle. Good to fucking know.