by Lauren Rowe
My cell phone rings in my bedroom, pulling me out of my thoughts. I leap out of the shower and run to my phone on my bed, dripping water across my wood floor as I go. I missed the call—fuck!—it was Josh. I call right back, my heart in my throat.
He picks up right away. “We found her.”
I’m sitting on my bed in a pair of jeans, staring at Josh’s follow-up email, trying to gain control of my breathing. Of the three Sarahs currently enrolled at the University of Washington’s law school—Sarah McHutchinson, Sarah Jones, and Sarah Cruz—two of them are twenty-four years old: Sarah McHutchinson and Sarah Cruz. With Sarah’s olive skin, my money’s on Sarah Cruz. I suddenly remember she said gracias in her first email to me. I smirk. Yeah, she’s Sarah Cruz. It doesn’t matter if I’m right or wrong about my guess, though, because Josh styled me with all three women’s cell phone numbers and email addresses, plus their physical addresses, too. But I know in my gut I’m right. Sarah Cruz.
“We can get their social security numbers and transcripts, too, if you want ‘em,” Josh said during our call, about ten minutes ago.
“I don’t want to run a credit report on her,” I said, “or interview her for a job. I just want to find her.”
Josh laughed. “Lemme know what happens. At this point, I’m probably as invested in this romance as you are, bro.”
I bristle. “It’s not a romance.”
“Jonas, you’re such an idiot.”
I Google the name “Sarah Cruz,” but so many cluttered results and links and images come up there’s no way I can possibly make heads or tails of all the information. I try “Sarah Cruz Seattle” to narrow things down, but it barely makes a dent in the white noise of information, and nothing that comes up looks even remotely promising, anyway. I try “Sarah Cruz University Washington” and a link to a pdf document pops up on some student forum—a list of first semester standings for the University of Washington Law School, Class of 2016. I open the document and scan the names, beginning at the top of the list. I don’t have to go very far down the list—Sarah Cruz is ranked fourth in her entire class right now. Yeah, my clever Sarah is Sarah Cruz, I’m sure of it. And she’s kicking everyone’s ass, not just mine. Of course she is.
I pick up the phone and Josh answers immediately.
“Can your guy see if there are photos in the Sarah files—like for student IDs or something? I only need a photo for whichever one’s got olive-ish skin. I know my Sarah’s definitely not fair-skinned.”
“Wait, you don’t know what she looks like?”
I don’t say anything.
“You’ve never seen her?”
I’m silent. Shit.
Josh makes a “mind officially blown” kind of sound. “I assumed you started this quest after she sent you some anonymous, sexy photo that rocked your world. But you’ve never even seen this girl? This is all because of something she wrote to you in an email?”
Well, shit, the whole thing sounds fucking insane when he says it like that. I sigh, unwilling to answer the question—but my sigh tells Josh everything he needs to know. Even I can hear how ragged and desperate it sounds when I exhale.
“Wow. This really is a romance of epic proportions.” He laughs.
I can’t even muster a “fuck you.” I’m a wreck.
“Don’t worry, I’ll see what my guy can find. Sit tight.”
“Hey, Josh, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Get me the transcripts, too.”
I don’t know what’s taking so long. I thought Josh would get back to me right away with those pictures. But he hasn’t called or emailed and I’m on pins and needles. So close, and yet so far. I can’t concentrate on anything. I certainly can’t do any work. Or even work out. I don’t want to do anything that pulls me away from my phone and makes me miss a call from Josh.
I pace around my kitchen, staring at my laptop on the counter. I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket. Nothing.
Sarah Cruz. I can’t stop thinking about her breast. Her nipple. Her thigh. Her skin. And about how she said she wished I’d realize what I want and what I need are two very different things.
Fuck it. I don’t need to see her photo to call her. Whatever she looks like, I still want to talk to her, at least. I still want to meet her. If it turns out she’s not classically beautiful, so what? Or even if it turns out I’m not physically attracted to her in the slightest ... But, no, I can’t even imagine not being physically attracted her. She’s hot; I’m sure of it. Her skin is heavenly. Her breast is perfect. Her nipple standing at attention gave me a raging hard-on. What more do I need to know? If her face isn’t what I’d normally go for, all I’d have to do is look down at that nipple of hers, and I’d be all good.
I pull up Josh’s email with the contact information for all three Sarahs and squint at my computer screen for the phone number listed under Sarah Cruz’s name. I suppose she could be the other twenty-four-year-old Sarah—Sarah McHutchinson?—but I doubt it.
With shaky hands, I slowly dial the digits for little miss bullshit-detector, I-lost-my-mind-momentarily-but-now-I’ve-regained-control-of-myself, doesn’t-see-the-upside-in-me, number-four-in-her-law-school-class, never-howled-like-a-monkey-once-in-her-well-ordered-little-life, makes-me-fucking-crazy, I-want-her-but-she-doesn’t-want-me, Sarah Cruz.
Chapter 10
Sarah
Watching Jonas move in on that ridiculously hot woman in the purple bracelet was a sobering slap in my face—a wake-up call that Jonas Faraday is and always will be exactly the horndog he claimed to be from day one, and nothing more, and that all the depth and gravitas and yearning and loneliness and innate goodness I thought I saw in his eyes was a figment of my imagination. A mere projection. As much as it ripped my heart out to realize all that, the silver lining has been that I’ve decided to vigorously focus all my time and attention on my studies and crazy-ass job, just as I should be doing. Jonas Faraday was a distraction, an unwise and time-consuming distraction, that’s all, and now I’m done with him.
I pulled a marathon study session after coming home from the bar last night, and now I’m all caught up on my reading for every one of my classes (and I’ve even read ahead in contracts, too). This morning, I started making myself a detailed study outline for torts that covers the issue, rule, analysis and conclusion of every case we’ve read since week one, and next week, I’ll start my outline for contracts, and right after that, I’ll dig into constitutional law. If I keep up this pace, I’ll be completely prepared when finals roll around with plenty of time to spare. The top ten ranked students at the end of the first year are granted a full-ride scholarship for the remaining two years of the law program, and I’m hell bent on getting one of those coveted slots.
The Club has kept me busy, too. A new application from a guy in Seattle landed in my inbox this morning, and I’ve just now gotten back from conducting my confirming surveillance. I’ve only been back home for ten minutes and I’ve already logged into my intake report and recommended approval (contingent on an “all clear” from pending medical and psychological testing, of course). The guy signed up for a one-month membership (always a good sign), and his sexual preferences section was the biggest vanilla-snoozefest I’ve seen yet. He’s refreshingly normal. Sweet as can be, in fact—but, whoa boring as hell. I’m guessing he hasn’t had a heck of a lot of luck with the ladies up to this point. Hopefully, membership in The Club will give him a shot at finding love—and, if not, then I hope it will bring him the most thrilling month of his life. Either way, I’m rooting for him.
When I clicked on the pictures he sent with is application, they were bursting with his normalcy and utter loneliness, and it was very obvious to me he was exactly who he said he was—I mean, who would pretend to look like that guy in a catfish attempt? All I had to do was stand in the lobby of his office building (he’s a software engineer) at lunchtime and I quickly spotted him leaving his building to grab a sandwich, looking every bit the thirty-seve
n-year-old, five-foot-seven, introverted computer nerd he claimed to be in his application. Done-zo.
Maybe I’m just feeling emotional lately, thanks to seeing Jonas on the prowl flashing his purple bracelet, but when Mr. Normal walked past me, all alone and looking sad among his departing co-workers (all of whom were rushing off to lunch around him in animated, chatty groups), I felt like crying for him. Or maybe I just felt like crying for myself. Everyone deserves love, whether that simply means being invited to lunch with co-workers once in a while, or finding that one person with whom you can share all the sides of yourself, no matter how normal or boring, or maybe even a little bit freaky—or, as the case may be, no matter how cocky or arrogant or emotionally disconnected or, possibly, just a little bit sad. But, anyway, if a person can’t find love on his own, who can blame him for plunking down his hard-earned savings for a shot at finding it through any means possible—or, at least, for a shot at experiencing a little excitement for once?
After appropriately logging the details of my surveillance onto my intake report, I pull out my phone. I’ve got a text from Kat asking if I feel better about the whole Jonas situation today. I was upset yesterday, but I’m fine now. It’s time to move on. I text her that I’m good, followed by a string of winking emojis to emphasize the point.
Just as I’m about to put my phone down, it rings with an incoming call. I don’t recognize the number. I usually let unknown calls go into my voicemail, but what the heck, I’m sitting here with a few minutes to burn before I jump back into my torts outline.
“Hello?” I answer.
There’s an audible exhale of breath on the other end of the line. “Sarah?”
I’m suddenly uneasy. “Who’s calling, please?” Why is my stomach doing cartwheels?
“It’s Jonas.”
I inhale a sharp breath, but I can’t speak.
“Jonas Faraday,” he clarifies.
I still can’t speak. His voice is masculine. Sexy. It sends tingles up my spine and back down again.
“Are you there?”
“How did you get my number?” I’m suddenly panicked. Did he get my contact information from The Club? Did he tell them about me?
“I figured out you’re a law student at U Dub.” He clears his throat. “So I hacked into the university’s server to find you.”
I’m speechless. Did he just say he hacked into U Dub’s server to find me?
“I had to find you, Sarah. I had to talk to you. I’m going crazy.” His voice is low, intense.
There’s a long pause. He’s waiting for me to say something.
“You didn’t get my number from The Club?”
“No, of course not.” He sounds offended. “I would never contact The Club about you.” Yeah, definitely offended. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I can’t believe he called me. I can’t believe he found me. And he hacked into a major university’s computer system to do it? I’m silent for a minute, trying to process the fact that I’m talking to Jonas Faraday right now—that he tracked me down. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my body’s beginning to react to his voice exactly the way it did to his application.
“Sarah, I have to see you—”
“How’d you figure out I’m a law student at U Dub? I didn’t tell you anything except my first name.” My mind is racing. What did I tell him? My first name and age, and that’s it. How did he find me? I can’t for the life of me understand how he’s calling me right now.
He explains the deductions and conclusions and clues in my email that led him to this very moment. I’m impressed. Electrified, really. He loves my sense of humor, he says. He calls me “smart” like four times. And, wow, he’s pretty fixated on my olive skin tone. Hearing him go bananas about my skin makes it zip and zap like a live wire. If he likes my skin, then maybe he’ll like the rest of me, too. But, wait, hold on. It’s suddenly occurring to me he hasn’t complimented my looks, other than my skin. So, overall, he must have been disappointed by whatever photo he saw. I mean, isn’t a guy saying, “You’ve got gorgeous skin” sort of like saying, “You’ve got a great personality?”
“So you find my skin attractive, huh?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “And now I can add your voice to the list, too. It’s so sexy. I love that little edge in it. I was already dying to know what you look like, but now I’m losing my mind.”
Hold up. He’s never seen me? No, surely, he just means he hasn’t seen me in person. “You mean you want to know if I look like my picture?” I wish I knew what photo he has of me.
He pauses and my stomach drops. Why is he pausing?
“Did you see the photo on my student ID?” I ask. “Because when that photo was taken, I’d just gotten back from the gym and I wasn’t wearing any makeup—”
“No, no. I’ve never seen your photo.”
My face flushes. He’s never seen my photo? He hunted me down and called me—and has been going on and on about how attractive he finds me—and he has no idea at all what I look like? “Oh.” I don’t even know what to say. “Why did you pause before answering?”
He sighs. “Because I want to see you more than I want to breathe. And I had to get control of myself before speaking. I’m feeling pretty intense right now. I don’t want to scare you off.”
The floor drops out from under me. A throbbing in my panties announces itself. “Are you telling me the truth, Jonas?” I whisper.
“Say that again,” he whispers back.
I know exactly what he wants. “Jonas,” I say. And when I do, the pulsing between my legs becomes more insistent.
He lets out a shaky breath. There’s another long pause. I can feel the electricity of his arousal on his end of the line. “Yes, I’m telling you the truth. I’ll always tell you the truth, Sarah.”
Well, that breaks the spell. I laugh. “Seeing as how your ‘relationships’ last two to seven hours max, depending on Your Holiness’s mood on a particular day, your promise to ‘always’ tell me the truth isn’t all that impressive a commitment.”
He huffs. “Wow.” By the tone of his voice, I know I’ve broken the spell for him, too.
“Yeah, well,” I huff right back. What did he expect from me? I just saw him drooling over Miss Purple last night.
“You don’t like me very much.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Yeah, you do.” He pauses. His voice is surprisingly wounded. “You know you do.”
My heart leaps.
Damn. I know I’m supposed to be all “righteous indignation” in response, maybe laugh at him or read him the riot act, maybe make him chase me and try to convince me, and all that other stuff I’ve been conditioned to think is the normal reaction of a sane, rule abiding, self-respecting woman—but suddenly, I don’t feel like a sane, rule abiding, self-respecting woman. And I certainly don’t feel like saying anything that’s not one hundred percent honest.
“Yeah, I know you,” I concede. I don’t know why I understand this man, but I do. I just get him. And I want him, despite myself. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m being a bitch.”
He lets out a huge burst of air, like he’d been holding his breath.
“I’m coming to pick you up right now. I can’t wait another minute to see you.”
That pisses me off. “Yeah, okay, let’s see, we can ‘fuck’ for—what?—about an hour?—does that work with your schedule?—because after that I’ve got to study, and you’ve probably got to go screw yet another hot brunette wearing a purple bracelet.”
“Oh my God!” he shouts with glee. “I knew it!” He’s effusive.
Did he not just hear a word I said? I just ripped him a new one—did he not hear that?
He chuckles. “That was you behind that menu yesterday! I knew it.” He’s thrilled. “Oh my God.”
Oops. Oh, damn.
“You couldn’t stay away.” His voice is pure elation.
I can’t speak. Shoot.
<
br /> “You just couldn’t stay away,” he says again. He’s utterly thrilled.
I’m silent. Pissed.
“I knew that was you. Just from the little patches of skin I saw on the photos you sent me.” He sighs with delight. “I’m just that good.”
“Fine, yes, it was me. Curiosity got the best of me. But then I saw you drooling over Miss Purple at the bar and I felt physically ill. No, actually, I felt like a piece of trash. Believe me, I think I’ll be able to ‘stay away’ from now on.”
His tone shifts to panic. “Oh man, we are so not on the same page here. You’ve got to let me explain something to you—”
“There’s nothing to explain. You’ve paid two hundred fifty thousand dollars to have sex with a different woman wearing a purple bracelet every night of your life for the next year, and by God, that’s what you’re gonna do. I get it. Please, feel free—enjoy yourself—but leave me the hell off the roster—”
“Sarah, could you please let me get a word in edgewise here?”
I huff into the phone.
“Please? I know you’re angry and confused right now—”
“I’m not angry or confused.” The minute the words come out, I know they’re not entirely accurate. “Okay, wait, yes, I’m angry. In fact, I’m really, really angry. But I’m not confused. At all. I’m pretty clear on everything—”
“No, wait, listen, you have no fucking idea what’s going on—”
“I have no fucking idea?”
He sighs. “Correct. You have no fucking idea.”
“I’ve read your application. And I saw you in action last night with Miss Purple. What more is there to understand?”
“If I gave a shit about The Club, then why the hell did I track you down? Why the hell am I calling you right now?”
