The Josh and Kat Trilogy: A Bundle of Books 1-3

by Lauren Rowe

  “I gotta go, Playboy,” I say. I exhale again and my tone shifts to complete sincerity. “Josh, seriously. It’d be too heartless, even for me, to blow off Cameron after how sweet he’s been to me. I can be a bitch, you should be warned, but not that big a bitch.”

  Josh is silent on the line for a long beat. “Shit,” he finally says. “Okay. Then. Fuck. I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He exhales with resignation.

  “Hey, make sure you get my email address from Sarah in the meantime.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can send me your Club application. It’s required reading before I’ll go out with you.”

  He audibly rolls his eyes. “Not gonna happen.”

  I laugh. “You’re used to getting whatever you want, when you want it, aren’t you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Well, guess what? So am I.”

  He laughs. “Mmm hmm. Well, sucks to be you, Party Girl. I guess you’ve finally met your match.”

  “Mmm hmm. We’ll see.”

  He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

  “Travel safe, Josh,” I say earnestly. “I gotta go have dinner with Cameron Schulz, the shortstop for the Mariners.” I wait a beat, but he doesn’t reply. “I hope to see you soon, Josh,” I add sincerely.

  “Tell Cameron his batting average sucks dick right now and that whiff at the plate last night against the Yankees was a fucking embarrassment.”

  “I’ll be sure not to tell him you said so.”

  “Bye, Kat.”

  “Bye, Josh. I’ll look forward to your email with your application attached.”

  “Not a fucking chance, Party Girl. Not a fucking chance in hell.”

  I laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  “I don’t need luck. I’ve got you right where I want you, Playboy.”

  “Mmm hmm. I think it’s the other way around.”

  “That’s what I want you to think.”

  He laughs. “Sure thing, PG. Keep telling yourself that. Bye, Kat.”

  “Bye, Josh.”

  I hang up and turn off my phone. For a long beat, I stand in the chilly night air, staring at the traffic whizzing by on the street, my crotch throbbing mercilessly and my heart leaping out of my chest. He’s right. He’s got me right where he wants me—not the other way around—just like every other woman he burns through, I’m sure. Clearly, the man has his pick of every bisexual supermodel and starlet in Hollywood, and I can see why. Well, maybe I’m the first woman who’s gonna teach this Playboy that not all women will say “how high” when a rich, handsome, charismatic studmuffin like Josh Faraday commands, “Jump.”

  After a moment, a wide smile spreads across my devious, bitchy, turned-on, intrigued, conniving little face. If Josh wants me, he’s gonna have to work for it—something he’s clearly not used to doing. I’m dying to read his frickin’ application, that’s true, but at this point, that stupid application is more than just an application to a sex club. It’s a brass ring. If this is gonna be a battle of wills, then I’m gonna be the one who wins it.

  My smile widens.

  Kat Morgan knows two things in this life: men and PR. And, by God, when it comes to Josh Faraday, victory will be mine. Along with his supremely bitable ass.

  Nine

  Kat

  “Hey!” I shout, knocking on the door of Jonas and Sarah’s hotel suite. “Vegas, baby!” I begin pounding maniacally on the door like I’m the Energizer Bunny on speed, which is actually a perfect analogy because I feel high with excitement—out of my mind with unbridled glee. I’m in the Promised Land, baby! My own personal Mecca! And on Jonas’ generous dime, no less. Ha! My hotel room is freaking spectacular—I could never in a million years afford to stay in a hotel like this on my own—plus, as Josh would say, I’m free at last, I’m free at last, thank God almighty, I’m finally free at last of my round-the-clock bodyguards (with Jonas’ permission). Who knew having two grumpy old guys trail your every move for a week and a half could become so freaking suffocating? No wonder Whitney finally fucked Kevin—she just needed to de-stress from having some grouchy guy following her around twenty-four-seven.

  And the most exciting thing of all? Sarah’s finally feeling back to her old self again, and then some. When Sarah called yesterday to say, “Pack your bags for Vegas, Kitty Kat—we’re going Ocean’s Eleven on The Club’s motherfucking ass!” I practically peed my pants.

  “I’m in!” I shrieked (even though I had absolutely no idea how I could possibly contribute a damned thing to going Ocean’s Eleven on The Club’s motherfucking ass).

  “Woot!” Sarah replied.

  “Woot!” I shouted back.

  “Will it be just you, me, and Jonas?” I asked, trying to sound breezy and nonchalant.

  “Who else would be joining us?” Sarah asked coyly.

  “Oh, I dunno,” I answered. “No one in particular. Just wondering.”

  Sarah laughed. “Well, a certain hacker will be joining us, if that’s who you’re referring to,” Sarah said, teasing me.

  “Oh, that’s good,” I said. “Yeah, we’ll definitely need one of those.”

  “Mmm hmm,” Sarah said. “Fo shizzle pops.”

  There was a very, very long beat, during which I held my breath and bit the inside of my cheek with anticipation until Sarah burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Kitty Kat. Of course, the Playboy’s gonna be there, too. Wherever Jonas goes, Josh goes, too—that’s something as reliable as gravity.”

  I exhaled like I’d just surfaced from being held forcibly underwater.

  I hate to admit it, but I’ve been going out of my mind thinking about Josh this whole week while he’s been in New York—I can’t remember the last time my Rabbit’s gotten this much action in a single week.

  Thankfully, Josh has made it clear he’s been thinking about me, too, though he’s obviously playing his cards close to his vest, the smooth bastard. On the one hand, he’s sent multiple texts this past week, just enough to let me know he’s thinking about me, but, on the other hand, his texts say absolutely nothing. No teasing. No innuendo. No semi-inappropriate photos. Not even any questions about Cameron Fucking Schulz. And, notably, no reference whatsoever to his application, despite my explicit demands for it. Just the occasional, “Hey, Party Girl” and “Whatcha doing, hot stuff?” or “Did you have a nice dream about me last night, PG?”

  Of course, I know Josh’s game—I’ve played it a time or two (or three) myself: he’s forcing me to make the first move—breaking me down, making me question his interest. Bush league. He clearly doesn’t understand whom he’s dealing with here.

  Well, two can play the “I don’t give a shit” game. Hmmph. All week, I’ve answered each and every one of Josh’s texts with pleasant but brief and noncommittal bullshit. “Hey yourself,” I’ve replied. Or “Oh, nothing, just looking for something interesting to read—hint hint,” or, on occasion, “None of your freaking beeswax, PB.” If Josh thinks I’m gonna chase him like every other girl obviously does, he’s sadly mistaken. And so, to put it mildly, our recent communications have been textually unsatisfying—while subtextually dripping with heat—and the whole situation is making me want to jump his freaking bones.

  Bastard.

  I continue pounding on Jonas and Sarah’s door, my excitement about to boil over.

  “Hey!” I shout again. “Vegassssssss!”

  The door to Jonas and Sarah’s room opens abruptly and Sarah’s beaming face greets me.

  “Woohoo!” I shriek, throwing my arms around her.

  Sarah clutches me like her life depends on it and the two of us jump up and down, screaming, for a solid minute. When we finally unravel our bodies, I enter the spacious suite, instantly in awe.

  “Wow,” I say, marveling at the splendor of our surroundings. Wall-to-wall marble floors. Sleek leather and glass furniture.
Light fixtures that look like works of art. And, the coup de grace, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking The Strip.

  “Wow, Jonas,” I say. “You really knocked yourself out. I bet, like, rock stars and Prince Harry stay in this place, especially with that private elevator to get up here. It’s amazing.”

  Jonas is standing by the fully stocked bar, looking hella hot in his jeans and tight T-shirt, if I do say so. “I wanted to show my precious baby an extra good time,” Jonas says, “seeing as how this is her first trip to Sin City.”

  My precious baby? I glance at Sarah and she’s positively giddy. Is it possible the manwhore has changed his manwhoring ways at the magic touch of the right woman? I’ve read about that mythical phenomenon in fairytales, but I’ve never seen it happen in real life—or, at least, it’s never happened to me.

  “Oh, Jonas,” Sarah coos, blushing. “You’re so sweet.”

  Jonas’ face bursts with immediate color. Aw, he’s absolutely adorable right now. I just wanna pinch his cheeks. I can plainly see why Sarah’s so smitten with him—this boy’s a puppy!—I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.

  “Thank you for paying for my flight, Jonas,” I say, smiling. “And my room.”

  “You’re welcome. You got checked in okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Sarah flashes an adorable smile at Jonas and he returns it.

  Oh good lord, these two are smitten. “Did you see this view?” I say, grabbing Sarah’s hand and pulling her to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the room. “Just wait ’til you see The Strip at night. The lights are gonna blow you away.” I sigh. “God, I love Vegas.”

  “I’ve seen The Strip in movies,” Sarah says, “but I bet it’s really cool in person.”

  I glance at the bar and spy a bottle of my favorite champagne chilling on ice. “Oh, champagne!” I squeal. This day just keeps getting better and better.

  “I’ll get you a glass,” Jonas says, moving gracefully toward the bar.

  There’s a loud knock at the door to the suite. “Open up, you beast!”

  Oh my God. Every hair on my body stands on end. He’s here. Shit. I wish I’d checked my makeup before heading up to Jonas and Sarah’s room. Gah. “Do I look okay?” I whisper to Sarah. I bare my teeth. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

  Sarah grins broadly. “You look perfect,” she says. “He’ll be putty in your hands.”

  Jonas opens the door and there he is, the Playboy himself, dressed in a designer suit perfectly tailored to his muscled frame, standing next to a much smaller, kind of nerdy-looking guy in a V-neck T-shirt and goatee.

  Holy shitballs. My chest constricts at the sight of Josh’s utter deliciousness.

  Was he always this hot?

  I’ve ogled countless photos of Josh on the Internet since I first met him at Jonas’ house two weeks ago, but absolutely no two-dimensional simulation of the man comes even close to capturing his magnetism. He’s oozing raw masculinity, even in that expensive suit. In fact, the sophistication of his clothes somehow emphasizes the brute swagger hiding underneath the fabric. Oh my fucking God. This man is sex on a designer stick.

  “You ready?” Sarah whispers.

  I nod. “Let’s do it.”

  She grabs my hand and we bounce happily over to the guys.

  Oh shit, I’m trembling. What the hell’s gotten into me? I never act this way. I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.

  “Hey, Party Girl with a Hyphen,” Josh says, his eyes sparkling wickedly.

  “Well, hey yourself, Playboy,” I say, sounding remarkably collected, I must say. “It’s a crazy, fucked up world when a Playboy and a Party Girl cross paths in Vegas, huh?” He bursts out laughing and I join him. “It’s good to see you again,” I say. Wow, I sound like I hardly give a shit. Sometimes I amaze even myself.

  Josh wraps me in a huge hug and kisses me on both cheeks and I practically melt into his strong arms. Oh my God, his cologne is divine. Was he wearing that cologne the first night I met him? It’s deadly.

  I kiss him softly on the cheek and the sensation of his skin under my lips makes my skin sizzle and pop.

  He puts his hand on my cheek and brings his lips to my ear. “You look gorgeous, Party Girl,” he whispers.

  “Uh,” I say. Oh my God. I can’t even think. Is it possible he’s gotten even better-looking than he was two weeks ago?

  Josh grins. “You ready to find out how this story ends, Party Girl?” He rubs his thumb along my cheek.

  Before I can reply, the hipster guy standing next to Josh makes a weird noise, like a horse rejecting a saddle, and I suddenly realize I haven’t introduced myself. I train my full attention on the hipster-nerd-guy and extend my hand, ignoring the fact that my cheek is still tingling where Josh just touched me. “Hi, I’m Katherine Morgan,” I say. “But everyone calls me Kat.”

  “Oh. Huh. Hi. See. I’m ... Nice... fleb beet you.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  “Hennessey. But... calls... Henn. Me. Calls. Henn. Everyone. Me.”

  Jonas bursts out laughing from behind me and the hipster guy’s face turns beet red. Oh my gosh, this hacker dude’s the most adorable human I’ve ever met. I’m already in deep, irreversible like with him. Without even thinking about it, I wrap him in a huge hug and kiss his cheek. He looks like he could break into beat poetry at any given moment. Adorbs! I want to take him home and put him in a rhinestone jacket and feed him treats. “I’m so excited to meet you, Henn,” I say. I kiss him on the cheek again and his face turns the color of a vine-ripened tomato.

  “Kat, stop treating Henn like a Chihuahua,” Sarah says. “Henn, tell her to stop assaulting you.”

  I laugh and release the poor guy. “Sorry, Henn,” I say. “I’m impulsive. I should have warned you. Sometimes, I just can’t control myself.” I glance at Josh on that last comment and his eyebrows drift up, every so slightly.

  Henn nods and mumbles something adorably incoherent.

  “Time for alcohol!!” Josh booms. “I always say, ‘If a guy doesn’t drink, he must be a total fucking tool.’ Or, at the very least, he’s just fucking boring.” He shoots me a smart-ass grin and strides to the bar. “Don’t you agree, Kat?”

  I twist my mouth, trying desperately not to smile. “Not necessarily,” I say. “Sometimes, it just means a guy is disciplined.”

  Josh scoffs. He refills my champagne glass and then Sarah’s and grabs three beers from the fridge. “Oh yeah,” he says, snapping his fingers like he’s just remembered something important. He opens the first of the bottles and hands it to Jonas. “I’ve also heard from several extremely reliable sources that guys who don’t drink also make limp-dick-shitty-ass lovers.”

  “Really?” Henn asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, jeez,” Henn says. “Hand me a beer, then. Pronto. And a couple shots.”

  Josh hands Henn a beer, his eyes still trained on me, his expression clearly saying, “Don’t fuck with me, little girl—you’re out of your depths.”

  I look away. Holy shitballs, Josh Faraday is sexy as hell.

  The five of us move to the black leather couches in the sitting area and make ourselves comfortable—and I gotta say when Josh Faraday makes himself comfortable, it’s a sight to behold: he leans back, spreads his strong legs, and unapologetically adjusts his dick in his pants.

  “I’m shocked you splurged on this place, bro,” Josh says, glancing around the room. “So un-Jonas-like of you.”

  “Would you stop telling me what’s Jonas- or un-Jonas-like of me already? Apparently, you have no idea what I’m like.”

  Josh laughs. “Apparently not.”

  I bite my lip. Sexy man. Sexy man. Sexy man. I can’t think straight.

  Henn opens the browser on his computer and logs into some application-program-thing.

  “Okay, folks. I’ve got an update on the Oksana sitch you had me working on.”

  “Fantastic,” Jonas says, rubbing his hands toget
her.

  We all crowd around Henn’s laptop—and when I bend over to get a good look at Henn’s screen, Josh rests his hand on the small of my back. Oh my God, his touch is drawing every ounce of blood from my brain into the three square inches of flesh under his palm. Holy Hotness, Batman, I can barely process what Henn’s saying right now. It seems to be something about someone named Oksana Belenko.

  “Sounds like an Olympic ice skater, doesn’t she?” Henn says, but I’m barely listening. Josh’s hand has moved from the small of my back to the curve of my hip. Holy shitballs. Nuclear energy is wafting off Josh’s body just a few inches from mine.

  “Boom shakalaka,” Henn says, showing us something on his screen.

  “See? Fucking genius,” Josh says. His hand returns to the small of my back, where it begins making little swirling motions.

  “You sure that’s our girl?” Sarah asks.

  Henn explains why he’s sure he’s got the right Oksana.

  “So that means we’ve got a confirmed physical address?” Sarah asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Wow,” Sarah says. She pauses, the gears apparently turning inside her head. “So it sounds like Oksana supplies the girls for The Club—” She looks at Josh. “Or, if you’d prefer, the Mickey Mouse roller coasters.”

  Sarah and I simultaneously burst out laughing and Josh straightens up, abruptly removing his swirling hand from my back.

  “It was an analogy,” he says, looking genuinely annoyed.

  “We know, Joshie, we know,” Sarah says, winking at him. “But it’s still funny.” She looks at me and makes a ridiculously cute cartoon-face and I burst out laughing again. God, I love Sarah. Relief floods me yet again to have her safe and sound.