by Lauren Rowe
“You better go, Josh—don’t miss your flight.”
“Yeah, I’m walking on board now. Talk to you later, Party Girl with a Hyphen. See you soon.”
My stomach bursts with butterflies and my heart squeezes. “Bye-bye, Playboy with a Heart of Gold. Can’t wait.”
He sighs cartoonishly, like he’s Lucy watching Schroeder playing piano. “Bye, Kat.”
I can feel his wide smile through the phone line. I hope he can feel mine in return.
“Bye, Josh.”
I hang up my phone, my mouth hanging open, my eyes as wide as freakin’ saucers. For a long moment, I look out the window of the cab in a daze, staring at the rain pounding insistently on the glass. Holy crappola, as Sarah always says, that entire conversation shocked the living hell out of me. Josh acted like... I can’t even finish the thought without possibly making my heart explode.
And I acted the exact same way toward him.
We both acted like...
Oh my God, both of us did, right? I wasn’t imagining it, was I?
I clutch my chest. Holy My Heart’s Gonna Burst Out of my Chest, Batman. I’m having trouble breathing. I take a deep, steadying breath. That conversation threw me for a loop. It was just so effing... affectionate. And comfortable. And sweet. (Well, except when he asked what crawled up my ass—that wasn’t so sweet.) There was none of our usual cat-and-mouse thing going on—it felt like the cat had already caught its coveted mouse, long ago, and was now pinning it down and licking it from nose to tail.
I stash my phone in my purse—the Gucci bag Josh bought me during our Oksana-inspired shopping spree—and stare at the rain out the taxicab window. Holy hell, Josh’s generosity knows no bounds. He’s already done so much for me, and now he’s gonna help me get my little company off the ground, too? I thought I’d be at least forty before I even attempted to make that particular dream come true.
The windshield wipers are going back and forth at full speed, lulling me into a kind of trance.
I don’t care what Josh says—we’re definitely not even when it comes to the two of us bestowing gifts and favors on each other. I joined our Ocean’s Eleven crew to protect Sarah and possibly myself, too—not to mention to get a free trip to Las Vegas with my best friend. Yes, everything wound up blowing up and becoming way, way bigger than any of us had ever imagined, but still... Josh keeps doing stuff for me, personally, and I most definitely didn’t save the world for him specifically. There’s no way around it: all I’ve done is take, take, take from Josh, letting him give, give, give to me ’til he’s blue in his ridiculously gorgeous face. And I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve his generosity or express my gratitude. In fact, I’m getting perilously close to becoming a total user-abuser, if I’m not already there. But what gift can I possibly give to Josh that would come even close to everything he’s already given to me?
My heart is throbbing in my ears. My chest is tight.
I already know the answer, of course. It’s not a big mystery: his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies served up on a silver platter.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to give him. Right down the line.
Of course, giving Josh complete sexual satisfaction, no matter what form that comes in, isn’t some sort of noble or charitable pursuit on my part—ha! It will be my sublime pleasure to give Josh exactly what he desires in the bedroom, a gift to myself as much as him. Hell yeah, it will.
And it’s not all the gifts and money Josh has given me that’s making me feel this way, either. Nate used to shower me with gifts, too (though on a much smaller scale), and I never once physically ached for him the way I’m aching for Josh right now. I never once daydreamed about feeling Nate pushing himself deep inside me, or closed my eyes and imagined his warm tongue on my clit, or fantasized about waking up in Nate’s arms and wordlessly taking his morning wood into my mouth.
I breathe deeply, arousal suddenly seeping into my panties.
I never once felt a near-desperate urge to fuck Nate any which way he likes it, literally, any which way, no matter how dirty or naughty it might be, or felt the urge to make his desires my own, or fantasized about sitting on his face or riding his cock ’til I’m screaming his name. And I certainly never once imagined Nate sitting at the dinner table with my family on Thanksgiving, or on the couch with my brothers, watching the Seahawks and eating my mom’s famous chili.
I gasp and jerk forward in my seat, clutching my throat like I’m choking on a chicken bone. Oh my fucking shit. What am I thinking? I want to take Josh home to meet my family? I haven’t taken anyone home since Garrett.
I stare at the rain battering the window of the taxicab, still clutching my throat, trying desperately to think of some logical reason why I’m feeling like a tortured, lovesick puppy that doesn’t involve falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor (who, in case I missed it, just told me in not-so-secret code he’s not at all interested in a long-term commitment). But I can’t come up with a damned thing.
I’m falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Oh God.
No. I need to stop feeling this way right now and get a handle on my emotions. I press both of my palms on my cheeks, willing myself to stop feeling this all-consuming ache. Infatuation is fine. Sexual attraction is fine. We’ll-see-where-this-goes is perfectly fine. Really liking someone a whole lot is perfectly fine. But risking inevitable, shattering heartbreak is emphatically not.
Dude, I need to think rationally, with my brain, and not my lady-parts.
I’m in lust, and nothing more. Well, that and very strong like. Very, very strong like. But once I get back to work and the routine of my real life, once the neon lights and excitement of our spy-caper-porno in Las Vegas have faded for both of us and reality sets in and we remember that Josh and I live not just in different states but in different worlds—because I’m not a supermodel and my mom isn’t a movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Aspen, for crying out loud—I’m sure my fairytale-delusions will crash down to reality without a parachute.
Indubitably.
Chapter 18
Kat
When I enter my apartment, my youngest brother, Dax, is on the couch, playing his guitar and singing a song I’ve never heard before. When he sees me, he sets down his guitar and lopes over to me, his lean muscles taut in his tight-fitting T-shirt.
“Jizz,” he says warmly, wrapping me in a big hug. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I kiss his cheek. “Hey, baby brother,” I say. “Thanks for keeping my apartment safe and sound.”
“It was hard work, but somebody had to do it. Was Vegas a blast?”
“Yeah, it was amazing.”
“How much money did you lose?”
“Oh, not too much,” I say coyly. “So, hey, was that a new song you were just playing?”
“Yeah, I was just fine-tuning it. It’s not done yet.”
“Play me what you’ve got.” I lead him to the couch and we sit.
“Naw, I’ll play it for you when I’ve got it finished.”
“I won’t criticize it. Just play me what you got.”
His face lights up. “Well, if you insist.”
I laugh. “I do.”
Dax picks up his guitar and plays an up-tempo song about looking for love in the anonymous faces he passes on a busy city street—and his expressive voice and vulnerable lyrics transport me with every word and note.
“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 i
s. 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.”
