by Lauren Rowe
“Wistful, hopeful, funny, romantic, and lonely all at the same time,” I say when he’s done. “I absolutely love it.”
“Yeah, but you love everything I write.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sincere.”
He grins. “So, hey, I got your mail for you.” He slides a stack of mail on the coffee table toward me.
“Oh, thanks. I never thought I’d be gone so long.” I start rifling through the stack. “Bills, bills, bills. Credit card offers. Coupons. Catalogs. Doesn’t look like I missed—” I look up. Oh. I’m talking to myself. Dax isn’t in the room. I look back down at the stack of mail and continue sorting it.
I hear a thudding noise in the center of the room and look up just in time to see Dax straightening up from putting down a heavy-looking box. “This bad boy got delivered a couple hours ago,” he says. “From someone named J.W. Faraday.”
My skin pricks with goose bumps. “Oh, okay, thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual—but, oh my God, the size of that box sure looks familiar. I pop up off the couch, intending to shoo Dax away, because, oh my God, if that box contains what I think it does, there’d better not be any markings on the outside to give it away.
“And, of course, I already opened the box for you, sis,” Dax continues, “just to be super-duper helpful.”
A weird screech of anxiety escapes my throat.
Dax chuckles. “Whoever this J.W. Faraday guy is, he’s awfully generous—and somewhat of a perv, too, it seems.”
“You opened it?” I blurt angrily.
“Of course, I did. I’d never make my sister open a big ol’ box all by herself with her own two fragile hands. I’m a gentleman.” He opens the already-cut flaps of the box with a wide smile and pulls out a humongous assortment of dildo-attachments, all packaged together in a clear plastic bag. “So many dicks to choose from, Jizz. I don’t know how you’ll decide.” He places the dildos on my coffee table with a wide smile.
“Oh my God,” I say, my cheeks burning. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. But Dax isn’t done with me. He reaches inside the box, pulls out the main event, and places it carefully on the floor.
At the sight of my brand new Sybian, my face explodes with instant heat, both from excitement and embarrassment, but I force myself to remain calm. Dax might have no idea what a Sybian is, I tell myself—I’d certainly never heard of one before last week when Josh rented one for me.
“This is the first time I’m seeing a Sybian in person,” Dax says, standing over it with his hands on his hips.
I throw my hands over my face, completely mortified. I can’t believe my baby brother’s here to witness this gift from Josh. Nightmare.
“It’s really quite the feat of modern engineering,” he says.
I don’t reply.
Dax laughs. “So who the fuck is this guy, Jizz?”
I still don’t reply.
“Aw, come on. It’s just me.”
As I often do, I decide my best defense is a good offense. “I can’t believe you opened my personal stuff, Dax!” I yell, throwing my hands up in outrage.
But Dax completely ignores my outburst—a tactic I’ve seen him employ too many times to count (and a tactic I’ve copied and used to great success myself). In fact, he’s smiling serenely at me. “I think Sybians cost like fifteen hundred bucks,” he says. “Gosh, you must have done something awfully nice to J.W. Faraday to make him wanna send you such an expensive gift.”
I open my mouth to yell at him, but nothing comes out. I’m so freaking embarrassed, I can’t speak.
Dax bursts out laughing. “Oh, looks like I hit the nail on the head, huh? Well, whatever you did to the guy, you apparently did it very, very well.” He buckles over laughing.
“You’re so gross, Dax. Stop it.”
But he won’t stop laughing.
“Stop it.”
Nope. He’s thoroughly amused.
“You had absolutely no business opening that box.” I march over to him in a huff and punch him in the shoulder. “Did the label on the package say ‘David Jackson Morgan’? No, it didn’t.”
He scoffs. “Close enough—it was stamped ‘Personal & Confidential.’ Hell, the damn thing might as well have said, ‘Open me, Dax.’”
I can’t help but smile broadly, even through my pissiness. That’s my line, of course. Dax and I have always shared a brain.
Dax shrugs. “Seriously, a guy can’t see a big ol’ box sent to his sister, addressed to ‘Katherine Ulla Morgan,’ no less, and marked ‘Personal & Confidential’ and not open it, for crying out loud. Gimme a break, Jizz—I’m but a man, not a saint.”
My irritation is softening. Goddamn my baby brother, I can never stay mad at him for long. “Just don’t tell everybody about this, okay? It’s really personal.”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I’d never tell any of our brothers about any of this.”
I laugh. “You tell them everything, Dax, especially Keane.”
“I don’t tell Peen everything. I only tell him about my music and girls—”
“Like I said, ‘everything.’”
“But I never tell him your stuff. Seriously, Jizz, I never do.” His eyes are earnest. “I swear.” He flashes me an adorable puppy-dog smile. “You aren’t really pissed at me for opening your box, are you?”
I roll my eyes. “No,” I say begrudgingly. “But never do it again.”
He crosses his heart. “The next time a guy with a lord-of-the-manor name sends a big box marked ‘personal & confidential’ to Katherine Ulla Morgan at your apartment, and I’m here all alone when the delivery comes, I swear to God I will not open it before you get home. So who is this ‘J.W. Faraday’ chap?” he asks, saying Josh’s name with a Queen-Elizabeth-British accent. “Sounds like a guy with a butler.”
I plop down on the couch and Dax follows suit, settling himself right next to me. I grab his hand (something I’ve been doing ever since Mom brought him home from the hospital for the first time when I was four), and I lean my cheek against his strong shoulder.
“Joshua William Faraday,” I breathe, my heart skipping a beat as I say the words.
“So you know each other’s middle names, huh? Sounds serious, brah.”
I don’t reply. Dax is being flippant, I think—but his comment hits on the exact thing I can’t stop wondering: Is this thing with Josh something serious or are we having some sort of extended fling?
“Hey, by the way,” Dax says, “you’ll probably wanna read this.” He holds up a small sealed envelope. “It was inside the box.”
I snatch the envelope from him, hyperventilating. Oh, thank God, it’s still sealed.
“It pained me not to read it,” Dax says. “It really did. But I figure there are some lines even I shouldn’t cross, seeing as how you’re my sister and all.”
I tear open the envelope, pull out a typewritten note (taking great care to keep it out of Dax’s line of sight), and read as fast as my eyes can manage:
“My Dearest Party Girl with a Hyphen,” Josh’s note says. “I hope you get lots and lots of enjoyment from your new toy. Please make use of it every day when I can’t be there personally to make you scream. While you use it, I want you to imagine it’s me who’s fucking you, nice and slow, and whispering into your ear as I do about how amazing you feel, how dripping wet you are for me, and how much you turn me on.”
Holy shitballs.
My breathing has suddenly become labored.
“Until we meet again,” Josh continues in his note, “I want you to use your new toy every time you feel even the slightest bit horny or lonely. (Because even when I can’t be with you in person, I’m determined to keep my hot-wired Party Girl with a Hyphen completely satisfied—wouldn’t want her feeling even remotely tempted to fuck Cameron Schulz again, now would I?)
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again very soon and making each and every one of your (highly detailed) sexual fantasies come true.
Exclusively yours, Playboy.”
“Oh. My. God,” I say breathlessly. My crotch is exploding with arousal in my panties and I’m panting like a Pekingese running a hundred-yard dash.
“What does it say?” Dax asks.
I press the note against my chest. “It says, ‘It’s none of your frickin’ business, Dax Morgan.’”
“Aw, come on.”
“No way.”
He makes a wry face. “So what’s the status with you two—are you in a relationship or... ?”
“I have no freaking idea what our status is. Whatever we’re doing defies standard labeling.”
“The guy sends you a fifteen-hundred-dollar gift and you don’t know the status? That’s a lot of money to spend on a gift for some chick you’re just hanging out with.”
I shrug. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Are you at least dating?”
I sigh. “Yeah. I think so. I mean we’ve both made it clear we’re really into each other. But I don’t know where things are headed—he gets really skittish the minute he feels like he’s being penned in. But on the other hand we agreed to be exclusive.”
“You’re exclusive? Well, then it’s way beyond dating.”
I sigh. “One would think. But we’re exclusive only temporarily. It’s hard to explain.”
“Temporarily exclusive? That’s a new one. I gotta steal that.”
“It was me who suggested it.”
He flashes me a look that says, “You’re an idiot.”
I rub my face. “This week was just a unique set of circumstances. We were together day and night, doing this crazy thing to help Sarah, and it was this incredible, fairytale existence. It’s like we were in the fantasy suite on The Bachelor for an entire week—and my feelings for him were so freaking intense and surreal—and now it’s like the show is over and the cameras are off and it’s back-to-reality time.”
Dax nods.
I shake my head. “I just don’t know if what we felt in Vegas will translate to real life. Plus, he lives in L.A. and travels a ton and I’m here, obviously. So, I dunno, it might be kinda tough to keep the fantasy alive.”
Dax motions to the Sybian. “Looks like he’s giving it the ol’ college try.”
I bite my lip to suppress a huge smile.
“I must say, giving you a Sybian as a gift is an interesting choice—he could have gone with shoes or a purse.”
“Oh, he did. Both.”
“And you still don’t know if he’s serious about you? I think you might be overanalyzing things here. The guy’s making his feelings pretty clear.”
I sigh. “I don’t wanna get my hopes up.”
“This is so unlike you. Why are you being so...?”
“Analytical?”
“Annoying.”
I make a face. “I don’t know. Josh and I are just so incredibly...” I was about to say sexual, but then I remember I’m talking to my little brother, not to Sarah. “Physical,” I say, opting for a tamer word to finish my sentence. “The physical chemistry is so off the charts, it makes me wonder if I’m just in some sort of hormone-induced coma and not seeing things clearly.”
“Just because you have incredible physical chemistry with the guy doesn’t mean it’s not serious, too,” he says.
“So I’ve heard. But from what I’ve seen personally, at least as an adult, it’s one or the other.”
He pulls back and looks at me, stupefied. “Are you serious?” he asks.
I nod.
“Jizz, that’s fucked up. How’d you get so fucked up?”
I shrug.
“You can have off-the-charts physical chemistry without it being ‘serious,’ for sure—and thank God for that.” He snickers. “But it doesn’t work the other way around: you absolutely cannot have something serious if you don’t have physical chemistry. The fact that you think it’s one or the other is so fucked up, it’s pathetic. It’s like you’ve got a... what’s the word I’m looking for... that complex thing?”
I make a face. “A Madonna-whore complex?”
“Exactly. Only in reverse. What’s it called when a woman thinks that about a guy?”
“A Jesus-manwhore complex?”
We both laugh.
“Yeah, I don’t think society has a cute little phrase for when it’s a guy.”
“What about that Nate guy?” Dax asks. “You guys were pretty serious, right?”
“Serious, yes, but we were sort of blah in the physical department,” I say. “At least it was blah for me.”
“Ooph. I think maybe you do have a Madonna-whore complex when it comes to guys, sis, whatever it’s called—like you somehow think the guys who turn you on the most can’t possibly be boyfriend material.”
I make a face. He might have a point there. Hmm.
“But that’s the whole point of this grand experiment we call life—finding the serious stuff and the physical stuff all rolled up together into one fucking awesome person.
“How’d you get so deep at such a tender age?” I ask.
Dax grabs my hand and kisses it, a move that instantly makes me think of Josh.
“That’s not even a remotely deep thing to say, sis,” Dax says. “It’s pretty fucking basic. I think maybe you’re just particularly stupid when it comes to relationships.”
I know Dax is kidding, sort of, but I think he might be on to something here—I think I might very well be particularly stupid when it comes to relationships involving me. “I think when the sex is crazy-good-off-the-charts with a guy, it makes me kinda skittish in a twisted way,” I say. “Like I think things are too good to be true—and then I start shutting down emotionally to protect myself and the whole thing becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Dax squeezes my hand but doesn’t reply.
“The thing is, with this guy Josh, the physical part is so freaking good, he could be Jeffrey Dahmer and I’d be like, ‘Oh, em, gee, Jeff, you’re such a sweetheart!’”
Dax laughs.
“And that scares me. I feel like I might have a huge blind spot. But on top of that, horror of horrors, he’s funny and sweet and generous, too, and he makes me feel really special.” I shake my head. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out if he’s really as perfect as he seems? Or if this is just too good to be true.”
“Well, have you seen any chopped up body parts in his freezer?”
“No, but I haven’t been to his house yet. Stay tuned.”
“He lives in L.A.?”
I nod.
“What does he do?”
“He runs some sort of investment company with his brother and uncle. Other than that, he climbs rocks with his brother and parties with rock stars and supermodels. Get this: he used to date Gabrielle LeMonde’s daughter.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, and that model that’s on all the Victoria’s Secret commercials—Bridgette something—the blonde with the perfect body? Her, too.”
“Bridgette Schmidt,” Dax says reverently. “Oh my God. She’s my top desert-island pick. Your guy dated her? Wow.”
“Well, actually, come to think of it, I don’t know if he dated her, but he certainly did her.”
“Damn, who the fuck is this guy? Jesus. I guess he’s a major playah-playah, huh? Maybe that’s the ‘not-so-perfect’ thing you’re afraid is lurking in the shadows of his tormented soul.”
I sigh. “He’s not as big a playah-playah as he sounds. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he definitely likes having sex with gorgeous women—when Josh Faraday is single, he’s apparently very single—but I don’t think he’s as much of a playboy as I initially thought. He had this long-term girlfriend he was really devoted to... ” I shrug. “But, then again, he had a heart attack on the phone just now when he thought I was trying to pin him down to something beyond next week.” I roll my eyes and lean my head back onto the back of the couch. “Aw, shit, I dunno, Dax. I need to just chill the fuck out and stop overanalyzing things. I’m acting like a chick.�
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“You totally are. I’ve never seen you act like this. You know what you need to do?” Dax says. “Tap into your inner Peen. That’ll cure your chickiness right up.”
“Nobody should ever tap into their inner Peen,” I say. “Even Peen should stop tapping into his inner Peen.”
We both have a good laugh about that.
“So why did this Faraday guy send you a fucking Sybian?” Dax asks. “Did you lose a bunch of money to him in a high-stakes poker game and now you’ve gotta do porn to pay off your debt?”
“He’s not a porn king, Dax. Gimme some credit. He’s this—I don’t even know what he does, actually. Google him. His company is called Faraday & Sons—Joshua Faraday.”
Dax pulls out his phone and Googles while I talk.
“It’s some sort of investment thing. He travels all the time, looking at potential companies to buy—I don’t even know what he does. He never talks about it.”
“Oh, wow,” Dax says. He’s found the homepage of Faraday & Sons. “Were these guys genetically engineered by Monsanto or what? Which one is your guy?”
“The one with the dark hair. The other guy’s his fraternal twin brother, Jonas—Sarah’s new boyfriend, actually.”
“Whoa, Sarah’s dating Thor?”
“Yeah. And he adores her. I’ve never seen two people more into each other in all my life.”
“Aw, good for her.” He scrutinizes the photo for a long beat. “Well, now I can see why you’re feeling a tad bit confused. I’m completely straight and I’d do him, especially if he bought me a dress and shoes and a Sybian.”
I laugh.
Dax continues scrutinizing the photo. “He’s exactly your type, only the best-looking version of it I’ve ever seen. He looks a lot like that football-player dude you dated in high school.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’ve got a type.”
“What was his name again?”
“Kade.”
“That’s right. He looks like he could be Kade’s older, better-looking brother.” Dax looks up from the phone and appraises me with sympathetic eyes. “Poor, Jizz. I don’t know how any woman could figure out if she had actual feelings around this guy. He must leave a wake of exploded ovaries wherever he goes.”
