The Revelation

by Lauren Rowe

  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.”

  “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.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “I told you—the dude could keep a severed head in his fridge and I’d totally reach behind it to get myself a Diet Coke while giggling at something he just said.”

  Dax laughs and looks at his phone again. “Yeah, both of ’em are just stupid-good-looking. It’s like God fell asleep at the ‘good looking’ switch and
didn’t move on to the next guy on the conveyor belt like he was supposed to.”

  “And I just spent a week with him in freaking Las Vegas of all places—and all expenses paid, too. No wonder I can’t distinguish fantasy from reality. The whole thing was like a fairytale.”

  “Snow White and the Seven Sybians.”

  “How the hell do you even know what a Sybian is, by the way?”

  He scoffs. “Dude, I’m twenty and I’m a guy,” he says, as if this answers my question.

  I shrug.

  “Every twenty-something-year-old male in America knows what a Sybian is—it’s a porn staple. Howard Stern even has one in his studio for female guests to ride. It’s, like, Porn 101.”

  “Really? I had no idea. I’d never even heard of one ’til last week.”

  “Well, are you a twenty-something-year-old male?”

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “And do you watch a shit-ton of porn?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, there you go. Now you know why you discovered the Sybian for the first time while watching porn with Sir J.W. Faraday.”

  I bite my lip. Dax has obviously misunderstood the circumstances under which Josh first acquainted me with my new toy—and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a very good thing. No one ever needs to know I rode that thing for Josh’s pleasure—least of all my brother. “So, hey, that concludes the ‘What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas’ portion of our program,” I say. “There’s something that happened in Vegas I actually want to tell you about.” I take a deep breath, a huge smile bursting across my face. “Guess who I partied with one crazy night while I was there?”

  “Who?”

  “All four members of Red Card Riot.” I can barely keep from squealing.

  “What?” he bellows, his face the picture of pure astonishment. “How the fuck did that happen?”

  I tell him about that night at Reed’s party, omitting certain key elements such as Jen’s attendance at the party and my near-naked tantrum in the hallway (because I’m a big believer that editing one’s life stories in the retelling is a girl’s prerogative).

  “Damn, I wish I could have been there,” Dax says wistfully, shaking his head. “I would have loved to hang with those guys. Can you imagine what it would feel like to play for an entire arena of people, all of them singing along to a song you wrote?”

  I shake my head, awed by the thought. “When I met them, they’d just performed on Saturday Night Live the prior week, and the lead-singer guy, Dean, started talking about it with this rapper guy and all I could think was, ‘God, I wish Dax could hear this.’”

  The look on Dax’s face is so cute right now, I wanna throw him into a papoose and wear him on my back.

  “You lucky bitch,” he mumbles.

  “It ain’t no luck, son. I make my luck.”

  He laughs. “Yes, you do. Always.”

  “If RCR comes to Seattle, I’ll totally ask Josh if his friend Reed might get us backstage—well, if Josh and I are still doing our ‘temporarily-exclusive’ thing by then, that is.”

  “Who’s Reed? And why would he be able to get us backstage at a Red Card Riot concert?”

  I smile. This is exactly the piece of the story I’ve been dying to tell Dax for days. “Reed’s the guy who threw the party in Vegas where I met Red Card Riot.”

  “How does he know them?”

  It’s as if we choreographed this conversation in advance. “Well, let me see if I remember how he knows them,” I say. “Hmm.” I look up at the ceiling like I’m deep in thought. “I think Reed knows Red Card Riot because... they’re signed to his record label!”

  Dax tilts his head like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.

  I giggle. “Reed owns a record label, Dax. Like, he literally owns it—and RCR is one of his bands.”

  Dax is looking at me like I’ve just proved time travel is real. “And you partied with him?” he asks, incredulous. “You partied with the owner of a record label?”

  I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Twice.” I hold up two fingers for emphasis.

  Dax’s thoughts are clearly racing. “So... oh my God. Does this Reed guy know your name or did you just sort of, you know, shake hands in a crowded bar?”

  “No, we totally hung out. Had real conversations. He called me Stubborn Kat.”

  Dax makes a face of total confusion.

  “They were all joking that Stubborn Kat is like some kind of Garfield rip-off. ‘Oh no, Stubborn Kat ate all the curly fries and now she won’t get off the couch!’” I say by way of explanation, but he still looks nonplussed. “Never mind. I just mean we totally hung out and became friends. I went to his party the first night and then out to dinner with him and his friends a second night.”

  Dax runs his hands through his hair, totally freaking out. “Listen to me, Jizz.” His eyes are blazing. “This could be a really lucky break for me. Fuck. Oh my God.” He bites his lip. “Do you think you could send this Reed guy my demo? Or would that make Sir J.W. Faraday feel like you’re just using him to get to Reed?”

  I laugh. “Um, there’s no way in hell Josh would ever think I’m using him to get to Reed.”

  Dax’s face lights up. “So you’ll send him my demo?”

  I sigh and shake my head solemnly. “Sorry, Dax. No. I don’t feel comfortable sending Reed your demo. I’m sorry.”

  Dax is obviously crestfallen but trying to hide it. “It’s okay,” he says evenly. “Yeah, no problem. I totally understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “But only because that demo doesn’t show how totally awesome you are!” I add brightly. “Only because we’ve got this one amazing chance to make an awesome first impression with the guy who owns Red Card Riot’s record label and we’re totally gonna blow him outta the water!”

  He looks like I’ve punched him and kissed him all at once. “Yeah, but that demo’s all I’ve got—at least for now. I’m working on it, but it’s gonna be a while.”

  “How much do you still need?” I ask.

  For as long as I can remember, Dax and his band (but mostly Dax) have been saving their pennies to record a full-length studio album of his songs with full instrumentation. But saving that kind of money—fifteen thousand bucks, he estimates, to record and produce the album exactly the way he wants it—is an awfully tall order for a group of twenty-something musicians living hand-to-mouth by playing bars and festivals.

  “I had almost three thousand saved, but then my bike totally crapped out on me so I’m basically back to square one.”

  “So you still need about fifteen grand or so?”

  “Well, we could certainly record an album for less if we cut some corners on production value. Or I guess we could just do a few songs instead of a full album—or maybe another basic demo.” He puffs out his cheeks like a puffer fish, thinking. “But I really didn’t wanna do another demo—been there done that—I wanted to put together a full album that showcases who we are and what we can do.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. Maybe I should just record a quick demo with my acoustic guitar on my iPad, just so you have something current to send to the guy before he forgets who you are—”

  “Nope. We’re not gonna send Reed a demo, Dax.” I pull a thick envelope out of my purse and plop it onto the coffee table with a thud. “Because you’re recording a full album.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Open it.”

  Dax opens the envelope and peeks inside. “Oh my... What the fuck is this? Did you rob a bank?”

  I smirk. Oh, if only Dax knew how spot-on that comment is. I’d originally planned to use this wad of cash to pay off my credit cards and car, of course, but that was before I found out I’m gonna be a mill-i-on-aire.

  “Where the fuck did you get this kind of cash?” Dax asks, his eyes wide.

  “Playing craps,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s almost twenty grand there, baby. Enough for whatever album you’ve been dreaming of making p
lus a bit extra for bells and whistles: strings, horns, a freaking choir—whatever. Or maybe PR for the album when you release it or a down payment on a new bike. Whatever. It’s yours. Go forth and prosper.”

  “How the fuck did you win twenty grand playing craps?” Dax asks. “How is that even possible? You must have been betting, like, hundreds of bucks per roll—maybe even thousands.”

  “Yeah, well, Josh spotted me some gambling money and then his brother walked away from the table and gave me all his chips. So, actually, I didn’t win any of this money fair and square. But Josh insisted I keep it, so whaddayagonnado?” I shrug. “And now it’s yours.”

  “Wait a minute. The dude gave you twenty grand and you’re not sure if he’s serious about you? Are you mentally deficient?”

  I wave him off. “No, trust me. You don’t know Josh. Just because he’s crazy-generous and he gave me an insane amount of money doesn’t necessarily mean he wants a serious relationship with me. He has a warped sense of reality when it comes to money. The guy wears two-thousand-dollar shoes (which, true story, I barfed on one night). He drives a frickin’ Lamborghini, Dax. The guy’s not normal.”

  “Dude, I don’t care how rich he is or what shoes he wears or what car he drives. If a guy gives a woman, especially a woman he’s sleeping with, twenty grand, then he thinks she’s one of two things: a very high-priced hooker or the woman of his dreams.”

  My heart skips a beat. Damn, my brother has a knack for hitting the nail right on the head sometimes.

  Dax picks up the envelope and begins counting the hundred-dollar bills inside, shaking his head with awe as he does. When he’s finally done counting, he looks up at me, his eyes glistening. “Thank you so much, Kat,” he says. “I’ll repay you one day, I swear to God, every last penny.” His voice breaks adorably. “I’m gonna do everything in my power to make you proud of me, Kat.”

  I grin from ear-to-ear. It’s so rare that Dax calls me Kat. With him, I’m always Jizz or sis (or Splooge or Protein Shake if he’s feeling particularly silly). He must feel uniquely overcome right now to be addressing me by my real name.

  “You never need to pay me back,” I say. “It was never my money in the first place. And I’m already proud of you. All I want is for you to make the exact album you wanna make—no holding back.”