The Revelation

by Lauren Rowe

  I jerk my head up from my screen, my heart suddenly rising into my throat. Did I just compare Kat and me to Jonas and Sarah? My chest tightens. I hear my pulse in my ears.

  Yeah, I did.

  I close my laptop, unlatch my seatbelt, and walk quickly into the bathroom, my head reeling. Once there, I latch the door with shaking hands, splash cold water on my face and rock-hard dick (because the idea of wacking off in an airplane bathroom is too gross even for me) and then I stare at myself in the mirror.

  “Just breathe,” I say to myself out loud. Shit, I look like Jonas right now. “Don’t overthink it, bro. Just stay in the moment. Chill the fuck out.”

  But the blue eyes staring back at me won’t be soothed.

  How do you know? I asked Jonas.

  I just know, he said.

  I look at myself in the mirror for another long beat, water dripping down my cheeks and off the tip of my nose.

  “She’s your Kryptonite, man,” I finally say to my reflection. “You’re totally fucked, Superman.”

  Chapter 21

  Josh

  “Checking in, sir?” the valet attendant asks as he opens my car door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Need assistance with any bags?”

  “Nope.” I hold up my car keys and a one-hundred-dollar bill. “No cars parked on either side of it.”

  “Yes, sir.” The attendant grabs my keys and the C-note out of my hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Bring it back with no dings in the doors and I’ve got another hundred for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. You got it.”

  I grab the small duffel bag on my passenger seat, straighten my tie, and stride toward the front of the hotel. Holy fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this eager to see a woman. Okay, fine, I’m full of shit—I’ve never been this eager to see a woman, ever, and I know it.

  This whole past week, even though I’ve been absolutely swamped with work hammering out the transition strategy for Jonas and me from Faraday & Sons, I’ve nonetheless managed to continuously count the minutes to seeing Kat again. When I haven’t been working, the only way I’ve been able to prevent my mind from spiraling into some sort of Jonas-style obsession, has been to keep myself constantly busy. I’ve gone to the gym and worked out like a motherfucker every night this week, followed by going home to my empty house and distracting myself with one of four go-to activities (all of which I performed while lying naked in my bed): 1) strategizing about how I’m gonna deliver on Kat’s crazy-ass (but awesome) fantasies; 2) reading one of the sex-books Jonas sent me (fantastic reading, I must say—I owe my brother a huge ‘thank you’); 3) chatting with Kat on the phone (or on FaceTime); and 4) jerking off, an activity which, quite frequently, overlapped with activities one, two and three (but mostly activity three).

  A doorman holds open the heavy glass doors of the hotel and tips his hat to me as I enter the building. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”

  “Thanks,” I say, gliding into the expansive lobby.

  Yeah, Kat and I had some pretty fucking amazing phone- and video-chat-sex this past week, that’s for sure, including two separate times when she let me watch her turn herself inside-out with pleasure while riding her new toy. But we also just talked a whole lot, too, about anything and everything, for hours and hours every single night—and it was awesome.

  In one conversation, Kat told me a thousand hilarious stories about her family, and I laughed ’til my stomach hurt. Damn, she’s got a fierce and funny family—and, man, do they look out for each other. When I found out Kat gave her craps winnings to her little brother so he could record an album with his band, I instantly felt this weird sense of relief more than anything else—relief that I’ll never have to explain or defend my bond with Jonas. Clearly, the girl already completely understands what it means to put someone else’s needs above your own.

  I reach the check-in counter in the lobby and stand in line behind an old white guy accompanied by a much younger (and absolutely beautiful) Asian woman.

  “I’ll be right with you,” the clerk says to the couple standing in front of me in line, looking up from assisting a family of five with their check-in. I nod curtly, just in case she was directing her comment to me, too, and then let my thoughts quickly drift to Kat again.

  “Michelangelo was the coolest one,” Kat insisted during one of our many conversations this past week.

  “How can you use the word ‘cool’ in reference to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on. You know you watched them,” she chided me.

  “Yeah, I watched them,” I said, laughing. “But I never thought they were cool.”

  “Honesty-game,” she said.

  I exhaled. “Damn, that fucking game. Okay, yes. I thought Raphael was dope.”

  I smile to myself at the memory and look at my watch. The woman working behind the check-in counter is still helping that goddamned family of five and the couple’s three young children are bouncing off the walls.

  “Jeremy?” the clerk yells over her shoulder toward an open door behind the front desk. “Are you available to assist, please? Jeremy?”

  But Jeremy must be off smoking a bowl because no one walks through that open door. It’s just the one poor clerk behind the counter, and the line is growing behind me.

  As I wait, my mind drifts to Kat again, the way it has all week long. Kat. She’s upstairs right now, soaking her panties at the thought of being treated like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Kat. What the fuck? Kat, Kat, Kat. That’s all my brain is capable of thinking about anymore. I smile to myself. Kat.

  I broke down and told Kat every little thing about our plans for Climb & Conquer this week, even though I’d planned to tell her about it in person. I was naked in my bed, listening to her sexy voice and feeling particularly relaxed after some pretty damned good phone sex, and everything just spilled out of me. Well, not everything. I didn’t tell her about the fact that, since Climb & Conquer will be headquartered in Seattle, I’ll finally be moving back home in a couple months. I was tempted to mention it several times, but I stopped myself. I mean, shit, God only knows where things will stand between Kat and me in a couple days, let alone a couple months. Why set her up for some kind of disappointment if things don’t work out? All I can do is take it a day at a time and see where things lead, right?

  The family of five bounces away from the front desk and the old-guy-Asian-woman-couple in front of me steps up to the desk.

  “I’m so sorry for the wait, sir,” the hotel clerk says to the old guy, and then her eyes drift apologetically to me. “I’ll be with you shortly, sir.”

  I put my hand up to signal it’s all good and the clerk smiles gratefully. The minute she looks away, though, I look at my watch impatiently. Kat’s in this building right now, wetting herself at the thought of me treating her like my whore tonight, and I’m standing here, growing gray hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I seriously can’t wait to see Kat.

  Kat.

  During another conversation this week—and God only knows how we got on the topic—Kat and I talked about what we believe happens to a person’s soul after death—which led to a discussion about spirituality versus religion—a topic I’d normally avoid like the plague with anyone but Jonas (that’s what years of Catholic school will do to a guy). But with Kat, the whole conversation flowed easily and naturally.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Josh?” Kat blurted at one point during our discussion about spirituality, shocking the hell out of me.

  “What?” I asked, worried I’d offended her with my frank honesty on the topic.

  “You’re not supposed to be the deep-thinking Faraday brother. Pull yourself together, Playboy—you’ve got a shallow rep to live up to.”

  “Sorry,” I replied, laughing. “It won’t happen again.”

  The old-guy-Asian-girlfriend-couple in front of me finally steps away from the front desk, and I step
forward.

  “Checking in?” the hotel clerk asks. She looks totally frazzled.

  “Yes. Joshua Faraday. My guests should have already checked into the room.” I hand her my identification and credit card. “I arranged in advance for my guests to access the room before my check-in.”

  The woman clicks her keyboard for a brief moment. “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Faraday.” She suddenly looks stricken. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting in line. Oh my gosh. Please forgive me.”

  “No problem,” I say smoothly, flashing her a smile.

  “Let me send you a complimentary bottle of champagne to your suite to make up for the delay.”

  “Thank you, but, no, I’d prefer no interruptions tonight.”

  She blushes. “Oh. Of course.” She clears her throat. “Uh, looks like your guests have already checked into the suite with no problem—it’s the penthouse, as you know—and all catering and amenities requested have already been sent up.”

  “Excellent,” I say, my heart clanging with anticipation. “The bar is stocked with Gran Patron, right?”

  “Um, actually, it looks like they brought Roca Patron to the suite. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, fabulous. Either one. Thank you.”

  The desk clerk smiles at me and, suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with a crazy feeling of déjà fucking vu. How many times have I checked into a hotel while my “guests” awaited me upstairs, an odd mixture of sexual anticipation and self-loathing coursing through my veins? And yet, today feels totally different than all those other times in The Club. Today, for the first time ever, I feel only sexual anticipation pumping through me, not tainted whatsoever by rampant self-loathing. Because today, unlike all the times that have come before, the hottest woman alive is waiting for me upstairs, not some random hooker I don’t know or give a shit about—and not only is she hot, she’s sweet and funny and smart, too. And in a twist of awesomeness I never could have predicted (or even hoped for), the hottest woman alive doesn’t give a shit if I’m a sick fuck. In fact, she actually likes my sick-fuckedness. It’s an incredible feeling.

  The clerk hands me my key-card. “Do you know how to get to the penthouse suite, Mr. Faraday?”

  “I sure do,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I head toward the elevator bank at the far end of the lobby. My heart’s beating wildly. Holy shit, I’m gonna see Kat in a matter of minutes.

  Kat.

  I would have preferred to personally pick Kat up from the airport this afternoon and bring her to my house for our first night together, rather than meeting her here at the hotel—I hate that I haven’t even had a chance to hug her and say hello to her yet, just me and her—and I told Kat as much on the phone last night. But my little terrorist insisted we jump right into fantasy-fulfillment, first thing, before seeing each other in “real life.”

  “First off, we don’t have a choice in the matter,” she said. “Bridgette’s only gonna be in L.A. Thursday night, right?”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have to do the Bridgette thing this trip,” I said. “We can do it during your next trip.”

  “No, we gotta do it,” Kat insisted. “We’re kicking off our fantasy-fulfillment extravaganza with the stuff in your application, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So that means whenever Bridgette can fit us in, that’s when we gotta do it. Plus,” she continued, “I wouldn’t want to come to your house the first night, anyway, babe. That wouldn’t be very call-girlish, now would it?” I could practically hear her licking her lips at that last statement. “Not seeing you beforehand will make me feel even more like a call girl. It’s perfect.”

  The elevator reaches the top floor and I practically sprint down the long hallway toward the room, grinning from ear to ear. Kat talked a good game about wanting to fulfill my fantasies during this trip, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she was actually chomping at the bit to fulfill her own high-priced-call-girl fantasy. When I texted Kat this afternoon to find out if she’d landed safely and connected with the driver I’d sent, she sent me a reply that made me laugh out loud:

  “How the heck did you get my phone number, sir? My name isn’t Kat, it’s Heidi Kumquat (though, in light of my profession, I never reveal my real name). I’m a world-class call girl, sir, sought after by sheiks, kings, and presidents, working under the code name Party Girl with the Hyphen. I’ve just landed (safely) in Los Angeles to meet a very sexy but incredibly demanding client (whom I’d very much like to thank for flying me first-class, by the way), and, yes, his driver picked me up exactly according to plan (thank you!), and now I’m headed to my client’s ritzy hotel.

  “Please don’t text me again, sir. My client has paid a pretty penny to have my undivided attention for the whole night, starting RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, and he’d be positively enraged if he found out I was texting with another man during his purchased time. I’ve been bought and paid for tonight, mind, body, and soul—which means I’m duty-bound to think of absolutely nothing but fulfilling my client’s sexual desires all night long, LITERALLY NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  I must say, that was a sexy goddamned text. If there’s one thing Kat Morgan knows how to do, it’s turn a man on.

  I’ve reached the door to the penthouse suite.

  Oh my God, I’ve got so much adrenaline coursing through me, I’m shaking.

  I take a deep breath and rap twice on the door to signal I’m here and coming in, exactly the way I did before entering each new hotel room during my month in The Club—and just like I said I’d do when I replied to Kat’s awesome email from “The KUM Club.” And then I swipe the key and open the door.

  Chapter 22

  Josh

  When I enter the suite, I stop just inside the door, paralyzed by the incomprehensible sight of Kat and Bridgette in the same room together. Talk about two worlds colliding. My brain can’t process what I’m seeing—though, apparently, my body sure can. Hello, instant hard-on.

  The women are sitting in side-by-side armchairs, sipping what looks like cranberry-vodkas, giggling happily like they’re longtime friends. Kat looks like a million bucks (appropriately) in the Prada dress and heels I bought her in Las Vegas, her long, toned legs crossed demurely, while Bridgette’s wearing a simple black tank top, jeans, and flip-flops, her blonde hair tied into a knot on top of her gorgeous head, her legs spread like she’s a dude talking football in a sports bar. Talk about two women monopolizing the entire planet’s supply of physical perfection all at once. Holy motherfucking shit. Seeing these two women together would almost certainly make a weaker man stroke-out.

  “Kat,” I blurt, my heart leaping out of my chest. I begin crossing the room to greet her, to take her into my arms and kiss the holy motherfucking shit out of her—has it only been a week since I last saw her, because it feels like a year?—but Kat puts up her hand sharply and shoots me a smoldering look that stops me dead in my tracks.

  “So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Faraday,” she says smoothly.

  Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I come to a complete halt.

  “You’re even handsomer than in your photos,” she purrs. She sits up straight, arches her back, and folds her hands primly in her lap.

  “So are you,” I say. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  One side of Kat’s mouth hitches up into a devious smirk, and, suddenly, I feel like a fly in a spider’s web. I thought we were here to fulfill my sick-fuck fantasy—so why do I suddenly feel like I’m merely a pawn in fulfilling hers?

  “Let me introduce you to my friend, Frieda Fucks-A-Lot,” Kat says. She motions to Bridgette who takes that as her cue to pop up and waltz toward me.

  Frieda Fucks-A-Lot?

  “Hey there, Mr. Faraday,” Bridgette coos in her clipped English, outstretching her arms to me as she approaches.

  I take a step back, but Bridgette continues advancing on me. She lays her hand on my shoulder and leans forward as if to kiss my cheek and I jerk back like B
ridgette’s hair is on fire. I promised Kat I wouldn’t lay a finger on the “window dressing” of our threesome, whoever that turned out to be, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna risk making my temperamental “window” beeline out of yet another hotel suite and stomp down yet another hallway in a jealous huff.

  But my anxiety about Bridgette touching me and bringing out the terrorist in Kat is all in vain, apparently: Kat’s all charm and ease on the far side of the room, throwing her head back and giggling. “Oh, come on, Mr. Faraday,” she says. “You can give Frieda a little kiss on her cheek in greeting. Of course that’s allowed.”

  Bridgette turns around to look at Kat and the two women break into peals of laughter.

  What the hell? How’d these two become besties so fucking fast? And why the hell is Kat acting like Bridgette’s in on our game? Bridgette’s not a player in our fantasy—she’s nothing but a fucking pawn.

  Bridgette hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks, but when she does, I recoil at her touch. I want absolutely nothing to do with her. The only person I wanna touch right now is Kat; specifically, I wanna rip Kat’s clothes off and fuck the shit out of her—it’s what I’ve been fantasizing about doing night and day all week long—not sitting in a chair in a corner, jerking off while watching someone else touch and kiss and lick my girl. In fact, the thought of Bridgette—or anyone—laying a fucking finger on my Party Girl with a Hyphen makes my stomach turn over.

  “Hey, asshole,” Bridgette says, swatting my shoulder. “You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was this gorgeous.” She motions to Kat. “I was just telling Kat—Heidi Kumquat”—she giggles and Kat joins her—“if she ever wants to try modeling, she could make an absolute killing. Look at that bone structure! Those legs! That skin! Oh my God, she’s to die for. I can’t wait to take a juicy bite out of her.” She licks her lips.