The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  “We’re just stopping here so you can pack a bag. You’re spending all night with me.” He rubs his hands together like a villain in a James Bond movie. “I’m finally gonna get to see your beautiful skin on my crisp white sheets.”

  Chapter 15

  Jonas

  I’m sitting on my couch, waiting for her to come out of my bathroom, and, if my rambling thoughts are any indication, possibly spiraling into madness, too. I think I’m addicted to her. I can’t get enough. Everything she does, everything she says, everything she is—she’s perfect. She’s better than any fantasy. I can’t resist her. One command from her, and my plans are shot to hell. I never, ever planned to fuck her in the bathroom at the restaurant. Or in the limo. Jesus. But I’m not complaining, believe me. Missing out on either one of those delicious fucks would have been a goddamned travesty. And, anyway, it’s clear to me now she has to get the crazy out of her system before she’ll be anywhere near ready to start her long, slow, sweet surrender. She’s like breaking a wild horse. I’ve just got to let her jump and buck and jerk a little before I try to throw a saddle on her. And that’s fine with me—every second with her has been sheer perfection. Except for when she cried. Damn, I never want to see her cry again as long as I live. Just that one tear and I was wrecked.

  So it turns out she’s got daddy issues after all. I’ve always been drawn to the girls with daddy issues. I’m so predictable. She didn’t say that, of course, but I knew her whole story the minute she talked about helping battered women—could see it playing in my head like a movie. I guess her daddy did quite a number on her and her mom. Bastard.

  I sigh. I’ve really screwed things up so far. I had it all worked out in my head exactly how the night was going to go—she was going to be Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle or some other fairytale like that—but damn, I didn’t count on her being so damned bossy and taking control. Orgasm or no, that woman fucked my goddamned brains out. It turns out she’s got a little crazy inside of her—and, damn, I love me a little crazy. Damn. Damn. Damn. When she turned all bossy on me, when she turned into a fucking she-devil on me, it was so hot. Sure, I came into the night with my big strategy—and I’m gonna get back to it, I swear I am—but who could resist her? Who’d want to resist her? Her ass, oh my God—her ass. It’s the best ass I’ve ever laid hands on. And her eyes. When she looked at me like she was going to pounce on me ... “Fuck me,” she said, right in my ear, and my head just about exploded. When she said that, that’s when I knew for sure: she’s perfect.

  But I’ve got to take control now, as pleasant as it’s been having her boss me around. From now on, I have one purpose in life. I am on this earth to make this woman experience pure ecstasy, no matter what. And to do that, I’ve got to show some goddamned restraint around her for once. She needs a slow burn. She needs to feel safe. She needs to feel an emotional connection—because, of course, she was right, women are all about the emotional connection. But the weird part is, I honestly do feel an emotional connection with her. When I asked her about herself at dinner, I genuinely wanted to know the answers to my questions. If she’d had a fucking Maltese named Kiki, I actually would have listened to her talk about it all night long—and I would have cared. (Though, I was relieved as hell to find out she didn’t have a Maltese named Kiki.) If I’m being honest, I already feel more emotionally connected to Sarah than I ever felt toward any of my girlfriends, even Amanda—and I lived with Amanda for almost a year. I’ve never felt so open, so comfortable as I do with her. It’s like I can do no wrong with her. No matter how big an asshole I am, no matter how disgusting the truth is, no matter how honest I am, no matter how twisted I am, she’s turned on by it. She actually likes the real me. Go figure. It’s addicting.

  And, holy fuck, the real Sarah turns me on like nobody ever has. When she said she didn’t go to law school for the money, oh man, that was too much. I wanted to take her right there on top of the table. And when she got all pissy about me joining The Club for a full year, I liked feeling ashamed about it, because she was right. I liked feeling like I should be a better man for her. Hearing her talk about the one-month membership guys like they’re all John Cusack holding up a boom box in Say Anything was pretty adorable, even though the whole idea is ridiculously naïve. Of course, a guy joining for a month is a diehard romantic, looking for love, of course he is. He couldn’t possibly have signed up for a month simply because he didn’t have enough cash for a longer term. But, hey, if she wants to see romance in the one-month guys, so be it. I think her optimism is cute.

  And, hell, maybe she’s right. What do I know? Josh certainly has all the money in the world, and he only signed up for a month—and that guy’s as big a romantic as there ever was. At any rate, when she told me about that software engineer guy, when she defended his honor like he was a knight in Camelot, she was so sweet—so idealistic. So kind. Damn, that woman just gets me off.

  My mind is racing. I think I’m losing my mind. I exhale. I have to calm the hell down. I just have to show some restraint and slow things down and stop letting her bring me to my knees every two seconds. Because, right now, I want to make her come more than I want to breathe—and to do that, I’ve got to take control of this situation.

  The door to the bathroom finally opens and Sarah comes out.

  “Do you want to finish the tour?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “There’s not much to see.”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Ah, rich people. So funny.”

  I look around. By my standards, my house is modest. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s got all the important amenities—a home theatre, a gym, a killer view, a pool, a gourmet kitchen, a wine cellar. But, seriously, it’s not outrageous. It’s understated. Normal. No bowling alley or basketball court. Pretty modest square footage. Clean lines. Well, yes, the artwork on the walls is spectacular—but I like art. Always have. And, yes, all the floors and finishings are premium, some of the marble is even imported from Italy, but that’s only because a person should surround himself with beauty whenever he can. Beauty feeds the soul. I look around, seeing my place through her eyes.

  “You know what? Fuck the tour. Are you hungry?”

  “I am,” she says. “I’ve worked up an appetite tonight.” She blushes.

  “Yeah, and it doesn’t help that I deprived you of the last five courses at dinner.”

  “I deprived you,” she says. “I think that’s a more accurate summary of tonight’s events.” She smiles. “You’re not the only one with a God complex, remember?” She shoots me a smart-ass wink.

  Oh man, she’s delicious. “Let’s see what we’ve got in the kitchen,” I say.

  “Do you have an apple? Or maybe PB&J?” she asks. “I’m easy to please.”

  She catches my eye and suddenly we both start laughing. Oh yeah, she’s easy to please, all right—sure she is. The girl who’s never climaxed once in her entire life is as easy to please as falling off a log.

  “Well, with food, anyway.” She laughs again, reading my thoughts. For a minute, conversation is impossible because we’re both laughing so hard.

  When her laughter dies down, she wipes her eyes and throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you for the best night ever.” She lays an enthusiastic kiss on my cheek.

  I nuzzle into her ear. “I still can’t believe I found you.”

  “Pretty crazy, huh?” She disengages from me. “I never thought in a million years I’d be standing here with you—the woman wizard himself.”

  I pull out the peanut butter and jelly and bread and place them on the counter, and she immediately gets to work. “You want one?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “Gross.”

  “Then why do you have this stuff in the house?”

  “Josh. He could live on PB&J and be happy forever. He’s gross like you.”

  She smiles. “Does he come visit you a lot?”

  “About once or twice a month, usually. We hike and climb. He comes to Seattl
e on business, ostensibly, but then we always wind up playing hooky for a few days to climb. We’re planning to climb Kilimanjaro next year.”

  Her sandwich is made and she takes a big bite. She’s adorable.

  “You want milk with that? Oreos?”

  “Oh, yes, please, Oreos with milk. Mmm.”

  “I was kidding. You know, making fun of the whole little-kid-food thing?”

  Her face falls. “Oh.”

  “That crap will kill you, you know.”

  She shrugs. “I love Oreos.”

  I make a mental note to buy Oreos as soon as humanly possible. I don’t want to see that look of disappointment on her face ever again if I can help it.

  “Kilimanjaro, huh?” She looks wistful for a minute. “Africa.”

  “Yeah. Should be pretty epic. Water?”

  She nods. “Thank you.”

  I grab two glasses from the cabinet and fill them with ice water. She’s already sitting at my kitchen table and I join her. When I place the water in front of her, she thanks me politely and smiles.

  “Have you been to Africa before?” she asks.

  “Several times,” I say. “You?”

  “I’ve never been out of the country.”

  “No?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No passport?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Well, jeez, you’ve got to have a passport. I’ll have my assistant send you the paperwork. We’ll get it expedited.”

  “Why on earth do I need a passport—and expedited no less?” Her cheeks are suddenly flushed.

  “So you can take off on a moment’s notice. You never know.”

  “Well, shoot. That’s what’s been keeping me from jetting off to Africa on a moment’s notice?” She laughs. “Damn.” She’s playing it cool, but the sudden rosiness in her cheeks is unmistakable.

  I laugh.

  “I like it when you laugh,” she says.

  I tilt my head and look at her. I don’t normally laugh this much.

  She sighs and leans forward onto her elbow. “I bet being so damned good looking can be hard on you sometimes.” She takes a big bite of her sandwich.

  I raise my eyebrows at her. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or not.

  “Nobody around you can ever concentrate. Everyone around you turns into a swooning zombie, lost in a daze of idolatry.” She pauses. Her voice shifts to something unmistakably serious. “Nobody tells you anything but what you want to hear.”

  Yeah, she’s definitely serious—at least about that last part.

  “I’m totally serious,” she says, reading my mind. “Attractive people have it easiest—the ones smack in the middle on the good-looks spectrum. People are drawn to them and like them because they’re not threatening. On the other hand, people who are supernaturally gorgeous like you, the ones on the very edge of the looks spectrum, they’re on the wrong side of the tipping point.”

  “What tipping point?”

  “That point when people start resenting and projecting and feeling threatened. They start thinking you’re a jerk when you’re not. Or that you’re self-absorbed when you’re not. Just because you’re so ridiculously gorgeous. They judge you differently.”

  “Yeah, but what if I am a jerk and self-absorbed?”

  “Oh, well, then, in that case, you’re just plain screwed.”

  We smile at each other.

  “But seriously, you probably have to bend over backwards to make people think you’re not a total and complete jerk. It’s got to be exhausting.”

  “So you feel sorry for me for being attractive?”

  “No, I told you—you’re not attractive. I’m attractive. You’re jaw-droppingly gorgeous.” She purses her lips.

  I lean forward. “You’re jaw-droppingly gorgeous, Sarah.” Is it possible she really doesn’t know that?

  “Gah, I’m not fishing for a compliment here.” She sighs and squints her eyes at me. “I’m just trying to figure you out.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and shrugs. “You’re perfect—except for the fact that you’re out screwing a different woman every night, that’s a little bit imperfect. But, yeah, other than that, I can’t find a fault.”

  I don’t know what to say. She’s complimented me and punched me in the gut at the same time. I’m sure my face conveys my confusion.

  “I’m not trying to beat you up. It’s just ... I’m having a hard time reconciling the Jonas who wanted a lifetime supply of coochie with the Jonas sitting here watching me eat a PB&J after renting out an entire restaurant for me.”

  Goddamn that fucking application. “Well, I think the answer is that the Jonas who wanted a lifetime supply of coochie didn’t actually want a lifetime supply of coochie—he was just too stupid to realize it.”

  She stops chewing her sandwich mid-bite.

  I sigh. “Do you think it would be possible for you to forget about my application and take me as I am, right here, right now, sitting here with you? Because right here, with you, is where I want to be. So whatever phantoms of fuckery you see floating all around me, do you think you could, maybe, possibly, just willfully ignore them, and choose to believe the man you see before you is the real Jonas? It would save us a whole lot of time.”

  She swallows and nods. She places her hand on her heart, as if to steady it.

  “Excellent.” My heart is leaping, too. “That’d be really great.” I clear my throat. “Really great.”

  She leans back in her chair.

  I stare at her, my jaw muscles pulsing.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I shrug.

  “You’ve been nothing but incredible to me. And I keep testing you, waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s not fair.”

  “It’s an understandable reaction, given who I am and what you know about me—and, of course, all you’ve been through.”

  She bristles.

  Oh shit.

  “All I’ve been through?”

  “I mean, no, I don’t know what you’ve been through. I’m just saying, it’s understandable, considering . . .” I trail off. I’m about to come up with some bullshit backpedal to get me out of this mess, but then I remember I promised never to lie to her. “I’m just making some assumptions about you. I probably shouldn’t do that.”

  “What assumptions?”

  I clear my throat. Oh shit. Here we go. “I assume you had a real motherfucker for a father. You probably saw him hurt your mom, which had to be pretty traumatizing. I don’t know if he hurt you too, physically, but, at the very least, he most certainly abandoned you—emotionally or physically or both. And if I’m right, that’s scarred you and fucked you up—maybe more than you even realize—and, in particular, made it really hard for you to trust men. Probably a big reason for your ... sexual ... issues.” Oh shit. I’m screwed.

  She blinks her eyes several times quickly, like I just gave her mental whiplash. She’s quiet for a long time.

  My stomach drops. I’m an idiot. Why did I say all that? To show off? I’m such an asshole. It’s too sensitive a topic. She doesn’t trust me enough yet for me to play armchair psychologist with her. If the girl’s got trust issues—raging daddy issues—what better way to push her away than to call her on them? Fuck.

  “It’s spot on,” she finally says. “All of it.”

  My shoulders relax.

  She looks down at the half-eaten sandwich on her plate. “He never laid a finger on me—but, otherwise, yeah.” Her eyes lock onto mine.

  I nod. My heart is racing.

  She sighs. “I’m that transparent?”

  “No, not at all.” I shrug. She’s not. For some reason, I just get her.

  She bites on the tip of her finger, lost in thought for a minute. “Yeah, I definitely have trust issues,” she says.

  I exhale. I’m so glad she’s not pissed at me. “I know. It’s okay.”

  “I can trust, really I can. Just not quickly. It takes me a while. Longer th
an it should.”

  “Okay.”

  “And maybe you’re on to something about how this all ties into my ... sexual ... issues.” She tilts her head to the side. “I never put two and two together like that. But you’re probably right.”

  I inhale deeply, trying to regulate my breathing.

  “So, Jonas.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “If, occasionally, I wig out, or kind of ... push you away, could you just not hold it against me?”

  “Only as long as you keep your promise not to hold the endless parade of coochie against me.”

  She half-smiles. “Deal.”

  “And, anyway, you’ve already wigged out and pushed me away. Repeatedly. And I didn’t hold it against you.”

  “That’s true.” Her eyes search mine for a moment. “Thank you for finding me.”

  “Thank you for being findable.”

  She laughs that gravelly laugh of hers. “That’s not a word.”

  “It is now. I’m God, remember? It shall be.”

  She laughs again.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I ask. She hasn’t touched her sandwich in a while.

  “Yeah. Maybe can I see a picture of your family?” she asks.

  That’s not what I meant. I was talking about an apple or a cracker. I pause, considering. “Sure,” I finally say. I look around. “Um, yeah.” I go into the living room, and she follows me. “Um. Here. This is Josh and me.” I hand her a business magazine from a couple years ago with Josh and me on the cover. They did a big list of the top thirty business executives in the U.S. under age thirty. Josh and I cohabitated number twenty-five on the list.

  “Oh yeah, I saw this picture on your website.”

  “Yeah. That’s Josh. We’re twins. Fraternal.”

  “He’s awfully good looking too,” she says. “But you’re the one who knocks my socks off, by a mile.” She makes a sound like she’s licking barbeque sauce off her fingers. “You’ve got that ... darkness. A kind of melancholy in your eyes. I can’t resist that.”

  I’m floored. “You see that in me?”