The Club

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The Club Page 23

by Lauren Rowe


  His words have an instant effect on me. “I want to kiss every inch of you right now,” I whisper, emphasizing the phrase “every inch of you” with particular care.

  He moans. “I’d be with you right now if I could, you know that, right?” He exhales. “But this meeting’s gonna take for-fucking-ever. Josh and I still have a couple fires to put out to close the deal—and I really wanna close this deal.”

  I sigh. “I totally understand.” I better let him get back to whatever he’s doing. It sounds important. “Holy moly, when you finally pick me up on Thursday, we’re both gonna be rarin’ to go.”

  He sighs. “Seriously. This delicious anticipation thing is gonna be the death of me.” He groans. “You better make sure your sweet ass is ready for me on Thursday—because I’ll be bringing my A game, baby.”

  The balloons are making soft poofing noises all around me as they bump against the ceiling and each other. My apartment is bursting with bright colors and thick floral fragrances, thanks to the virtual garden of flowers surrounding me. The bear Jonas sent me before our dinner date is sitting at the table, smiling at me and shouting “Be Mine!” And to top it all off, I’ve still got the taste of Oreo cookies in my mouth. I’m so frickin’ happy right now, I could pass out. Poof ... poof . . .poof, the balloons say softly around me. Clearly, they’re happy, too.

  “Oh yeah, my sweet ass will be ready for you, you can count on it,” I say. “You just make damned sure your sweet ass is ready for me, Mr. Woman Wizard, because, come Thursday, it’s gonna be on like Donkey Kong. Oh, and I should warn you: As a paying member of the Jonas Faraday Club, I’m gonna be expecting a helluva lot more than your A game, big boy. You better be ready to bring nothing short of sexcellence.”

  Chapter 20

  Sarah

  Six hundred forty-three dollars and sixty-four cents. That’s what I just spent in a matter of two hours during a whirlwind shopping spree. It’s more money than I’ve spent in a single shopping session in my whole life, but I sure managed to spend it with ease. I got everything Jonas told me to get, and then some, and I still didn’t come close to his budget for me. Where did he expect me to shop—Hiking by Prada? True, the high-tech gear I got from REI was on the expensive side, but still, I was never in danger of spending anything close to three thousand dollars—even including the brightly colored tank tops, shorts, string bikini, cover-up, and two sundresses I bought. I didn’t bother buying lingerie, despite Jonas’ oh so helpful suggestion, because it seemed like a colossal waste of money to me. If there’s going to be a situation suitable for skimpy lingerie, I’d rather just wear nothing at all. And, to be perfectly honest, I had an ulterior motive in keeping my clothing expenditures as low as possible—a much better idea for any leftover funds than buying expensive lingerie that Jonas is just going to tear off me, anyway. I just hope Jonas isn’t mad when I tell him how I’ve already dispensed with all the leftover money on his card.

  It’s only two o’clock and it’s already been a long and exciting day—two classes in the morning followed by a giddy shopping spree in the early afternoon. Already, I want nothing more than to go home, pack for my trip (because if I wait for tomorrow to do it, I’m going to stress out), and then curl up for the rest of the night with my contracts textbook. But I’ve got one more important errand to run before heading back home to study—overnighting my little software engineer his welcome package, complete with a bright yellow bracelet and a pre-loaded iPhone. Normally, I’d go to the post office a half-mile from school to mail a welcome package. But today, I’ve gone way, way, way out of my way to the post office downtown to send it out.

  The minute I walk through the front door of the post office, clutching my outgoing package, I see her. Georgia. She’s one of four postal clerks standing behind the long counter, ministering to customers. I step into the line, holding my box, twitching with nervous energy. I steal a glance at her. She doesn’t see me. She’s laughing with a customer. Her eyes are dancing. She’s kind, this woman, genuinely kind.

  The line is slowly inching forward. When I get to the front of the line, Georgia is still detained with a customer. I let the person behind me go ahead to the available clerk. And the next person, too. Finally, Georgia looks up, her station available. “Next customer, please,” she says, and her eyes lock onto me. She smiles with instant recognition.

  “Hi, Georgia,” I say when I get to her station.

  “Why, hello, Miss Cruz, what a pleasant surprise.” She looks around and lowers her voice. “Your passport will be hand-delivered to your place tomorrow evening—we won’t have it back ‘til then, probably by the skin of our teeth.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” I place the box on the counter. “I didn’t expect to get it today. I came to overnight this.”

  “Oh yeah? What brings you downtown?”

  “A little shopping for my trip with Jonas.”

  She eyes me skeptically.

  “Well, and visiting you.”

  She smiles. She knew it.

  Georgia asks me all the necessary questions about whether I want tracking and insurance on my package, and we complete my postal transaction.

  “Georgia,” I begin, tentatively, looking behind me at the growing line, “I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat.”

  She purses her lips. Is that amusement? “Actually, yes, right now would be a great time to take my break.”

  Georgia blows the steam off her hot cup of tea and takes a careful sip.

  For some reason, I’m holding my breath. I know she’s got something important to tell me, I just don’t know what it is.

  “A few years ago, my son Trey’s little league team had an incredible season, like a once in a lifetime season. They wound up getting a lot of local press because they had this incredible pitcher, you know, a true natural—already blowing everyone away at age twelve with his fast ball.”

  “And what about your son? Is he really good, too?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” She laughs. “Every team he’s ever been on, he’s always the bottom of the order, by far.” She laughs again, and I join her. Nothing like a mother’s honest assessment of her kid. “But every coach he’s ever had has kept him around because that boy’s got so much heart. Oh Lord, does that boy shine with pure love of the game. He inspires everyone around him.”

  Her face glows with pride for a moment. “There’s just no quit in him. But he’s really small for his age—and not particularly fast, either. Not a great combination.” She sighs. “And painfully shy. I’ve always encouraged him to be on a team because it helps him with his shyness.”

  I smile. Her face is awash in motherly love.

  “So, anyway, when Trey’s team had their golden season, the whole city really took notice of them—there was a little parade in the neighborhood when they got back from a big tournament in Vancouver, and the team was interviewed on the local news several times. Jonas’ company apparently took notice and was kind enough to invite the boys and their families to watch a Mariners game in their fancy box seats. I’d taken Trey to a few Mariners games before—but always in the nosebleed seats. He was pretty impressed with those box seats, I tell ya. We felt like royalty.”

  I wonder if that invitation was Jonas’ idea? Or was it Josh’s? Or maybe a PR firm’s?

  “And that’s when you met Jonas?” I ask.

  “Yes. And right away, I knew he was special. All season long, everyone always crowded around that spectacular pitcher on Trey’s team—and deservedly so, the kid is just amazing and also bursting with personality—and Trey always hung back, feeling shy and sort of insecure. Well, at that Mariners game, it was more of the same. Everyone was chatting up that pitcher boy—he was cracking everyone up, in fact—and Trey just sat quietly, watching the game, sitting by himself.” During much of this story, Georgia has been glancing away, lost in her own thoughts, but now she looks right at me. “Do you like baseball?”

  “I’ve never followed it. My dad wasn’t around when
I was growing up, and my mom isn’t a baseball fan. I’ve never even been to a game.”

  Georgia nods knowingly. “Any siblings?” she asks.

  “Nope. It’s just my mom and me. The two musketeers.”

  “Yeah, it’s just Trey and me, too. It’s special that way, huh?”

  I nod.

  “I can’t afford to take Trey to baseball games very often, believe me. But Trey loves it, so I do my best.”

  We share a smile.

  “So, anyway, for the first half of the game, I noticed Jonas in the corner of the box, not talking to anybody, but he kept glancing over at Trey. Trey was totally absorbed in the game, keeping score on his clipboard, just totally fixated. Finally, midway through, Jonas came right over and sat down next to him.” She sighs, remembering. “Trey lit up like a Christmas tree, and they wound up watching the whole rest of the game together, jabbering away the whole time.” Georgia beams and leans into me. “Trey never jabbers away, with anyone.”

  I bite my lip. I can’t imagine Jonas jabbers away with too many people, either.

  “By the end of the game, Trey and Jonas were best friends, talking about everything—not just baseball. Jonas asked Trey what he wanted to do when he grew up, and Trey told him he wanted to do something with computers, maybe. Jonas asked, ‘No baseball, huh?’ and Trey said, ‘Naw, I’m too small, too slow.’”

  “Well, that really got Jonas going. ‘If there’s something you want, whatever it is, then you have to go after it relentlessly,’ Jonas told him.” Georgia looks wistful. “And before we knew it, Jonas was telling Trey how to run wind sprints to increase his speed and eat all the right proteins to increase his muscle mass and giving him a list of books he wanted Trey to read.” She chuckles. “He was just really, really sweet. By the end of the game, Trey worshipped the ground Jonas walked on. I don’t think Jonas realized what he was getting himself into. As we were leaving, Trey got up the nerve to ask him to come to career day at his school.” Georgia rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “The kids could either do a written report on what they might want to do when they grew up, or they could bring in an interview subject with a fascinating career—sort of like a human show and tell—and conduct an interview in front of the whole school.”

  I blush vicariously for Jonas. I can only imagine how little he wanted to do that.

  “Honestly, I was shocked Trey wanted to interview Jonas in front of the whole school—he’s usually so shy.” Georgia’s eyes flicker at the memory. “It’s like Jonas worked some kind of spell on him.”

  Based on personal experience, yes, I’m quite sure that’s exactly what Jonas did.

  “I could tell Jonas was about to refuse, but then Trey explained that a lot of the kids were inviting their dads to be interviewed, and that was that. Jonas said he’d do it. So, anyway,” Georgia sighs, but trails off. “I’m sorry—this story is probably so much longer than you bargained for.” She takes a sip of her tea.

  “No, it’s not. It’s exactly what I was hoping to find out. So what happened next?”

  “Well, Jonas went down to Trey’s school and did the interview, and he seemed to enjoy it, too; and after that, he and Trey kept in touch. Jonas sent him a bunch of sports equipment for his birthday, he invited him to a couple more Mariners games, and he even gave him a jersey signed by the entire team. Jonas just spoiled him rotten. Trey was over the moon.”

  “And you?” I ask. “How did you feel about all this?”

  She let’s out a huge sigh. “I was thrilled. Grateful. Trey is just the sweetest, most wonderful kid. Just a giant, beating heart. And, you know, growing up without a father has been hard on him, so having a man like Jonas pick him out of the crowd and make him feel special meant a lot.”

  I nod. I’m swooning. I can relate.

  “And then I got sick,” Georgia says, her face darkening.

  My swoon instantly vanishes. “Oh no, what happened?”

  “Cancer.”

  I reach across the table and touch her hand. “Oh no, Georgia. Oh my God.”

  “No, I’m fine now. Perfectly fine. This was well over a year ago. And we caught it early, thank God. I had surgery and radiation—no chemo, thank goodness—and I was as good as new, knock on wood.” She knocks her knuckles against the wooden table. “But Trey called Jonas and told him, and ... ” In a flash, she’s totally choked up. She shakes her head. Words won’t form in her throat. She looks up at the ceiling, trying to compose herself.

  I squeeze her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she squeaks out.

  She holds my hand silently for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why it still makes me so emotional.” She takes a deep breath. “When you’re sick, and scared, and all alone, and you’ve got a child to worry about ... To have someone swoop right in and just take care of you, and especially someone who has no reason whatsoever to do it . . .” She tears up again. She grabs a napkin and wipes her eyes. “It was just so unexpected. And so wonderful. He was just a godsend.”

  My heart is racing. “What did he do?”

  “What didn’t he do? He sent flowers after my surgery, arranged a car to take me to and from radiation treatments for a whole month. Meals were delivered to our house. My sister’s here in town, thank goodness, so I wasn’t alone—but she has work and her own kids.” She wipes at her eyes. “Everything was so overwhelming. I had to take time off work, get help with Trey. And Jonas just swooped right in and made everything better.”

  I’m tearing up right along with her. If I didn’t already want to tackle Jonas and make violent, savage, primal love to him, I sure as hell do now.

  “When treatment was all finished, I got what looked like a bill from the hospital. I thought I was gonna throw up when I got that envelope in the mail; I was so scared to look inside. I knew, whatever the amount, it was going to ruin me.”

  She unclasps my hand so she can take a sip of her tea with a shaky hand. I follow her lead and take a swig of my cappuccino.

  I’m on the edge of my seat, even though I know what she’s about to say. There’s only one possible ending to her story, after all—but I can hardly wait to see her face when she tells it.

  “And when I opened the envelope, it was an invoice, all right—for even more than I’d feared. Trying to pay that bill would have been impossible. I would have had to file bankruptcy. But guess what?”

  I shake my head, even though I know what. I’d never deprive her of telling me the fairytale ending to her wonderful story.

  “The invoice was stamped ‘paid in full,’” she says, her eyes wide. “Can you believe it? The balance owed on the invoice was zero. I just couldn’t believe it. I cried like a baby.” And with that, she’s crying like a baby now, too.

  I hand her a napkin and pick one up for myself. I’m a puddle right alongside her.

  “A godsend,” she says in a muffled voice. “He’s just been a godsend.”

  I grab Georgia’s hand again, and she grabs mine. Her hand is soft and warm. I have the sudden impulse to bring her hand to my mouth and kiss it—and so that’s exactly what I do.

  A smile bursts across her face at my sudden show of affection.

  She pats my cheek with the palm of the hand. “He’s a good one, honey,” she says, composing herself. “Hang onto him.”

  I can’t speak, so I just nod and smile.

  I want nothing more than to “hang onto” Jonas, believe me. But can a girl, even a very, very determined girl, even a very sincerely smitten girl, hang onto a boy if that boy doesn’t want to be hung onto? The answer, of course, is no. It’s out of my hands. I’ll just have to wait and see if Jonas wants to be hung onto.

  I sigh and look up at the ceiling of the coffeehouse. Jonas has my beating heart in his hands. It’s his to do with, or not do with, as he pleases. And for the life of me, I don’t know where that’s going to leave me at the end of all this.

  Chapter 21

  Sarah

  Kat and I shouldn’t be here
right now. But when it came time to meet Kat for drinks, I couldn’t resist killing two birds with one stone and spying on my little software engineer, too. I overnighted him his welcome package yesterday, complete with a bright yellow bracelet, and lo and behold, when I checked his account at lunchtime today, he’d already posted a check-in at a downtown sports bar for seven o’clock tonight. Talk about an eager beaver. And now, here we are at the sports bar, even though we shouldn’t be, even though I’m breaking The Club’s rules (yet again). But I have to see what kind of yellow-coded woman has been deemed a perfect match for a sweet, hopeful, lonely, normal, yellow-coded man like my sweet software engineer. I hope he finds true love tonight. I really do. I check my watch. 6:45.

  Kat and I arrived plenty early. For the past hour, we’ve been drinking beer and talking nonstop about my night (and morning) with Jonas. Of course, I didn’t tell her any graphic sexual details and I certainly didn’t mention the whole “yippee, I almost had an orgasm” thing. Kat doesn’t know I’ve never had an orgasm in the first place—I’ve never told anyone that, other than Jonas—so, obviously, I’m not going to brag to Kat about getting closer than ever with Jonas. Plus, I would never tell Kat, or anyone, about Jonas’ particular fixation on getting women off—so that entire topic of conversation was off limits. And yet, even without revealing any sexual details or Jonas’ private information, it appears The Story of Jonas and Sarah is still a damned good one, because, throughout the entire conversation, Kat has been “oohing” and “aahing” and gushing and swooning.

  “He sounds amazing,” Kat says, “which he’d better be to deserve you.”

  I smile at her.

  “So, where do you think he’s taking you tomorrow? Jamaica? Tahiti? Borneo?”

  “Borneo?” I say, laughing. “Where is Borneo?”

  I turn to glance around the bar. Is the software engineer here yet? I look at my watch. We’re still a few minutes early yet, but he could come at any time. I look around again. I can’t wait to see his Miss Yellow. I hope she’s looking for love every bit as much as he is. You never know—maybe their happily ever after will begin tonight, right here, in this sports bar. Why not? I mean, jeez, he’s off to a fantastic start—he’s not a fucked-up Purple, after all. I smirk to myself. I’m quite fond of my sweet, fucked-up Purple.

 

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