The Revelation

by Lauren Rowe

Clearly, I’ve said something wrong. “What are you thinking?” I ask. “You suddenly look like a chick.”

  She assesses me with two chickified chips of blue granite for a moment. “I’m just trying to figure out why the change of heart—at least when it comes to me.”

  I pause. She said that last part like she was gonna bomb my embassy—but I’d said those words to her as a compliment. What the fuck am I missing?

  “Just what I said,” I say slowly. “When it comes to you, all bets are off. You’re a game-changer.”

  “Oh,” she says. Apparently, she likes that answer. “After what you wrote about in your application—and how turned-on you were in Vegas when we talked about you watching me—I’m surprised. What’s changed?”

  Kat’s right. I’ve done a one-eighty on the subject, at least when it comes to her. I can’t honestly say I’d never wanna watch two women again—but not if one of them is Kat. At least not now. But the truth is I felt literally sick about the whole arrangement the minute I walked into the hotel room tonight and saw Kat and Bridgette sitting together. I felt like I was taking a shit right where I eat. No bueno.

  “Yeah, I was crazy-turned-on when we talked about it in Las Vegas,” I admit. “But that was before.” I trace her lips with my fingertip.

  “Before what?”

  Damn, she’s persistent. “You know,” I say.

  “I actually don’t.”

  “Before this past week.”

  She grins from ear to ear. “What happened this past week?”

  “I thought about you nonstop.”

  “Oh.” She grins. “Well, I thought about you, too.”

  “And not once did I fantasize about you fucking around with another woman. The only thing I thought about on an endless loop was doing what I just did to you.”

  She bites her lip, but she can’t hide her smile.

  “The thought of sharing you with anyone makes me wanna punch a wall or break a face.”

  Her face lights up. “Well, gosh, that’s an unexpected development. Who would have thought?”

  I lean back, narrowing my eyes at her. “You really are evil.”

  “What?”

  I shake my head at her.

  “What?”

  “I thought I was coming here tonight to play out my fantasy, but we were doing yours all along, weren’t we? Right from the start.”

  She doesn’t reply, but her slow blink tells me I’m right—and that I played my part perfectly.

  “Evil genius,” I whisper.

  She grins wickedly. “I was totally prepared to do it for you, I really was—and I still will, if that’s what you want. But, yeah, I do admit I like that you couldn’t stand watching me with someone else—that you wanted me all to yourself.”

  There’s a very long beat. I don’t know what the fuck to say or do, so I kiss her. And then I kiss her again, my heart racing. When we part lips, I touch her face again. She’s so fucking beautiful. And so fucking evil. She’s perfect.

  “So, hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I think I’ve had enough of hotels for a while. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept in my own bed this past month. If it’s cool with you, I’d prefer to ditch this ramshackle motel and take you to my house. I wanna kiss every inch of the great Katherine Ulla Morgan in my own bed tonight.”

  She presses her body into mine. “Awesome. Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything, but this place really is a dump.”

  I laugh.

  “You’re sure you don’t feel like you’re missing out if I don’t lesbo-out with Bridgette?” she asks. “Maybe we could do it on my next trip if you’re still—”

  “Babe.” I touch the cleft in her chin and she abruptly stops talking. “No.” I exhale a long, shaky breath. “The thought of seeing you with someone else makes me wanna break a face.” Her face lights up. “And if I break a face, it’s quite possible I could get punched in return. And if I get punched, I might get a mark on my pretty face.” I shake my head, chastising her. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

  She shakes her head in mimicry of my movement. “No way. Your face is much too pretty to get marked up.”

  “Exactly. So that means from here on out, no one touches my Party Girl With a Hyphen but me.”

  Chapter 23

  Kat

  “Wow, you really like black leather, huh?” I say, looking around Josh’s sleek and spacious living room.

  “Yeah. Makes life simple.”

  “Your house is spectacular. If my mom were here, she’d fall to the floor, weeping.”

  He looks at me funny.

  “She’s an interior decorator.”

  “Oh.” He chuckles. “Yeah, I had a top designer helping me.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward floor-to-ceiling glass on the other side of the room. “Lemme show you the view. It’s gonna make you say ‘Holy shitballs.’”

  He pulls me outside into the night air and we’re met with a view of what might as well be heaven on earth.

  “Holy shitballs,” I say.

  Josh grins. “Amazing, right?” He motions to the infinite expanse of twinkling lights and rugged hills spanning before us into the night. “This right here is why people pay an arm and a leg for houses in the Hollywood Hills. Okay, so, over there, between those two hills? The Hollywood sign is right through there—you can’t really see it right now, but I’ll give you binoculars in the daylight. And if you look that way, that’s downtown L.A. over there.”

  “Amazing. No wonder you love it here.”

  “Oh, I don’t love L.A. I love Seattle. I just tolerate L.A.”

  “Really?” I’m floored. I thought Josh loved living in La La Land with all his flashy friends. “I thought you loved living here,” I say.

  Josh shrugs. “Nah, L.A. definitely gets old, other than the weather—the weather never gets old.” He points in a new direction. “See that house down there? That’s Chris Pratt’s house... ”

  But I can barely process what he’s saying. Josh doesn’t love Los Angeles? Does that mean he might be open to moving back home one day? But, whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell is my brain doing? Josh has made it abundantly clear he’s not thinking about a long-term commitment. For crying out loud, only an hour ago the dude said he was scratching the two-woman scenario off his bucket list “at least when it comes to me”—which means it’s still on his agenda with other women, whenever (if ever?) this crazy whatever-it-is between us has run its course.

  “Wow,” I stammer, even though I don’t know what the hell Josh was just saying. I think it was something about Joaquin Phoenix’s house?

  “Let me give you the rest of the tour,” Josh says.

  He leads me back inside and straight past his gleaming kitchen.

  “Hang on,” I say. “Can I see your kitchen? It looks pretty fancy-schmancy.”

  “Oh, it is. My designer redid the entire thing top to bottom when I moved in four years ago—we installed professional-grade everything.” He flashes me a crooked grin. “But since I don’t cook, it’s basically just for show.”

  “You have a kitchen like this and you don’t cook?”

  “Yup. I’m super-smart that way.”

  “You don’t cook at all?”

  “Not even a little bit. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve turned on this stove in four years—and at least two of those times, I was lighting a doobie.”

  I laugh. “Josh, this is a frickin’ gourmet kitchen. Wolfgang Puck would kill for a kitchen like this.”

  “Yeah, I figured a gourmet kitchen would add value on resale, and I was right.” He shifts his weight. “I mean, it... will. Add. Value. Whenever the time comes.”

  Josh suddenly looks like he feels sick. I don’t understand the expression on his face. He’s grimacing like he’s in pain.

  “Well, if you don’t cook at all, then how do you feed yourself?”

  “Um,” he says. “I... uh... I go out with friends or get food delivered. Sometimes
, if I’m exhausted, I just make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Speaking of which, are you hungry? I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s so good, it’ll make you come.”

  “Wow. That sounds like quite a PB&J.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “I’ll definitely have to take a rain check. Every girl should try an orgasm-inducing PB&J at least once. But I’m still pretty stuffed from all the food we had at the hotel. Those crab cakes really hit the spot.”

  “Especially after we’d worked up such an appetite.” He snickers. “Good times were had by all at the ol’ Four Seasons, eh?”

  “Well, good times were had by two out of three of us, anyway.” I join him in snickering.

  Ah, that was delicious. Just as Josh predicted, Bridgette was long gone when we emerged from the bedroom, and she’d left a delightful text for Josh as a parting gift, too: “Fuck you, Faraday,” Bridgette’s angry text said—and I’m purring even now remembering the gleeful expression on Josh’s face when he showed it to me. “Lose my number, motherfucker. But tell your hot girlfriend I’ll happily comfort her after you’ve dumped her ass and broken her heart. Auf wiedersehen, arschloch. P.S. I hope she gives you herpes.”

  Josh and I laughed pretty hard about Bridgette’s text.

  “Battery acid in her heart, indeed,” I said when I read it.

  “I told you,” Josh said.

  The only thing more enjoyable than reading that text from Bridgette was seeing the look on her face when Josh abruptly changed the plan and dragged me into the bedroom, hell-bent on keeping me all to himself. Delicious.

  I’m suddenly aware Josh has been talking while I’ve been lost in my thoughts.

  “... and since I’ve been home from New York,” Josh is saying, “a delivery service has been bringing me gourmet meals every few days.” He grabs my hand, leads me to his refrigerator, and opens the door to reveal four neatly stacked see-through containers. “Nothing but lean proteins and greens. Everything low in saturated fats; no simple carbs; all calorie counts precisely calibrated for my weight and fitness goals. All courtesy of the one and only Jonas Patrick Faraday.”

  “Jonas orders your meals?”

  Josh rolls his eyes. “He kept giving me shit about my burgers and fries and Doritos and I was like, ‘Dude, I travel too much to think about eating right all the time—leave me the fuck alone.’ Next thing I knew, these meals started showing up.” He chuckles. “The dude’s like having a fucking wife, I swear to God—he’s such a nag. I haven’t eaten any of ’em yet as an act of protest.”

  “Is that what you think a wife does? She nags her husband about what he eats?”

  “Yeah, you know, like that cliché line? ‘Take my wife, please.’”

  I roll my eyes. “Wives get such a bad rap.”

  “Well, shit, I dunno. I have no idea what a wife does—I’ve never actually witnessed one in its natural habitat.”

  “Are we talking about a human or a water buffalo?”

  Josh chuckles. “Cut me some slack. My mom died when I was little; my uncle’s wife died before I was born; and my best friends are either single or in what I’d call non-permanent relationships.”

  I make a face. I didn’t mean to be insensitive about Josh growing up without a mom or any maternal influences. I didn’t even think about that when I made my snarky comment.

  “Plus,” Josh adds, seemingly unfazed by my comment, “and most importantly: there were no wives on Full House.”

  “I’m sorry, Josh,” I say softly. “I didn’t think. I keep forgetting.”

  He waves his hands like I’m totally missing his point. “Forgetting what? It is what it is. Long time ago. No worries. I’m just saying I’ve never witnessed an actual wife up close, that’s all. I don’t know what women are really like if you actually live with one.”

  I’m suddenly starkly aware of just how different my childhood was from Josh’s. I can’t wrap my head around how disconnected and isolating—and masculine—his upbringing must have been. No wonder he has no freaking idea about marriage and relationships.

  “Lori Loughlin,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Lori Loughlin. She played Uncle Jessie’s wife in the later seasons of Full House.”

  “Oh yeah,” Josh says. “I forgot about her. I kinda stopped watching by then.”

  “Oh. Well, she didn’t nag. She was happy and funny and supportive. That’s what a real wife is like.”

  “Really? Well, I don’t remember all that. All I remember is that she was smokin’ hot.”

  “I thought you stopped watching by then?”

  “I might have caught a couple episodes.” He laughs. “She was hot.”

  “Still is. Saw a photo of her the other day. But, anyway, that’s just TV,” I concede. “Uncle Jessie’s wife doesn’t really count as spotting an actual wife in the wild, so your point is still well taken.”

  “Well, tell me, then. You’ve observed the species, right?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve spotted a genuine wife scurrying in the bushes a time or two.”

  “Well, enlighten me. Does your mom nag the shit out of your dad or what?”

  “No. Never. My mom’s the coolest woman who ever lived—super happy and energetic and just sort of like, ‘If you’re not happy, then get yourself happy, motherfucker, and stop bitching.’”

  “Does your mom actually use the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘bitching’?”

  “No, not unless she’s really mad—usually at Keane.” I laugh. “She’s much more likely to use words like ‘honey’ and ‘complaining’—but she’d say both in a really ‘motherfucker’ tone.”

  Josh looks absolutely mesmerized right now. “Did your mom stay home with all you kids when you were little?”

  “Yeah. But she always helped decorate people’s houses on the side. At first it was just her friends, and then it expanded to her friends’ friends. Nowadays, she’s got her own little interior decorating business and she absolutely loves it. In her spare time she cooks the most incredible food—the best turkey chili you’ve ever had, oh my God—oh, and her spaghetti sauce is next level, and her lasagna is to die for. I think she wishes her ancestors came from Italy instead of Sweden.” I laugh. “Oh, sorry, what was I saying? I get all excited when I talk about my mom’s food.”

  “You were saying your mom doesn’t nag your dad.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. She doesn’t. She leaves him the hell alone and makes herself happy cooking incredible food and decorating people’s houses and going to her exercise classes. You should see my mom with her little five-pound weights, doing her classes at the gym. She’s such a little badass.”

  He chuckles.

  “Oh, and she plays Bunco with her friends, too.”

  “What’s Bunco?”

  “It’s this stupid dice game. It’s basically craps with wine. But I think the dice are just an excuse to get drunk. I can’t be sure of that, but that’s my strong hunch.”

  Josh laughs. “I love your mom already.”

  I bite my lip. I know Josh meant that comment as a throwaway—a figure of speech—but it made my heart flutter nonetheless.

  “So do you cook like your mom?”

  “Not really. She’s always wanted to teach me, but I’m too frickin’ lazy to learn. Dax is an awesome cook, though—he’s the one who always hangs out with Mom in the kitchen. And Colby cooks in the firehouse all the time, so he’s pretty good, too—but he only knows how to cook in quantities for ten guys.” I laugh. “Ryan’s adequate—a little better than me—but he makes the best guacamole. And Keane is freakin’ hopeless. The dude can’t boil water.”

  “Well, thank God you’re at least better than Peen,” Josh says. “Or else I would have had to un-friend you.”

  I grin. In one of our many conversations this past week, I told Josh a bunch of stories about my brothers, including several that showcased Keane (also known as “Peen” in our family) a
s the beloved fuck-up of our family.

  “Hey, can I get you something to drink?” Josh asks.

  “Thanks. Do you have sparkling water?”

  “Club soda okay?”

  “Yep, same-same. Thanks.”

  Josh moves across his kitchen and pulls a couple glasses out of a cabinet. “Would you care for a little vodka in your club soda, Party Girl? I’ve got Belvedere and Absolut.”

  I shrug. “Why the fuck not?”

  Josh laughs. “Words to live by. Which one?”

  “Surprise me. I feel like living on the edge.” I lean my butt against the counter.

  “A girl after my own heart.” He grabs a bottle of Belvedere from a low cabinet. “So what do you guys call Dax?”

  “Dax is actually his nickname, a contraction of David Jackson.”

  “I didn’t realize that. Cool.” He fills the glasses with ice. “And Colby?”

  “Cheese.”

  “Well, shit. That’s not fair. You’re Jizz and Kum Shot and Baby Gravy and Keane is Peen, but Colby gets to be something as G-rated as ‘Cheese’?” He pours vodka into the glasses. “Not fair.”

  “Oh, it all evens out in the end,” I say, enjoying the view of Josh’s ass as he bends over to grab something from his fridge. “No one gets off easy in my family, I assure you. We all get raked over the coals somehow, just in different ways.”

  Josh closes his fridge, a bottle of something in his hands. “What about Ryan?”

  “Ryan is RUM, Bacardi, Captain, Captain Morgan.”

  “Oh yeah, you said that in your application.” He grins. “Ryan Ulysses Morgan.”

  “That’s right.” I grin. “Sometimes, when he’s dressed up to go out—which he is a lot—he’s ‘Scion’ or ‘Pretty Boy.’ Ry is basically you if he had a much bigger budget to work with.”

  “I like him already.”

  “You would, trust me. You’d love him. He’s perfectly groomed and put together at all times, slays it with the ladies, charm oozing out his pores. The other guys ride him mercilessly for how pretty he is and how much he cares about his appearance. I can only imagine how much shit my brothers would give you if they ever met you.”

  Josh chuckles. “Well, thanks for the heads up. I’ll make sure to dress down when I meet your brothers. I’ll take a page out of Jonas’ book and go with a T-shirt and jeans.”