The Revelation

  The Revelation Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe

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  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Photography: Kelly Elaine Photo

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review

  Chapter 1

  Kat

  The door to Jonas and Sarah’s suite closes behind Josh’s back and I look down at Josh’s laptop, holding my breath with excitement. This is it. I can’t believe I’m finally gonna read Josh’s application to The Club, after all this build-up. My chest is tight. My stomach is in knots. What on earth did that man write that’s made him so skittish about revealing it to me? Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out:

  Name?

  “Joshua William Faraday,” he writes. Oh, I didn’t know Josh’s middle name is William. For some reason, seeing his full name makes my heart flutter.

  With this application, you will be required to submit three separate forms of identification. The Club maintains a strict “No Aliases Policy” for admission. You may, however, use aliases during interactions with other Club members, at your discretion.

  “OK,” he writes.

  Age?

  “29,” he writes.

  I stop and think. Josh is thirty. I wonder when he had his birthday? I’d love to know his zodiac sign. Damn, it sure would suck donkey balls if it turned out we were cosmically incompatible.

  Provide a brief physical description of yourself.

  “I’m 6’1, 190 lbs. I’ve got brown hair and blue eyes and tattoos on my torso and arms. I prefer not to talk about the meanings of my tattoos at length, so please tell whoever gets assigned to me not to ask about them.

  “I work pretty hard at keeping fit,” he continues. “I’m a big believer that a man only gets one chance at a first impression, so I try to make mine count, every time. Just to be clear: I’m not applying for membership to The Club because I have some sort of inferiority complex about my appearance (I don’t) or because I can’t attract women on my own (I can).”

  I can’t help but smile. Even when Josh is being kind of douche-y, he’s sexy as hell to me.

  With this application, you will be required to submit three recent photographs of yourself to your intake agent. Please include the following: one headshot, one full-body shot revealing your physique, and one shot wearing something you’d typically wear out in a public location. These photographs shall be maintained under the strictest confidentiality.

  Oh, this I gotta see. I scroll down, assuming Josh’s photos will be attached to the end of his application, but they’re not there. I scan the top of the document, looking for some indication of where I can find his pictures—but, nope. There’s nothing. Goddammit! I grab my phone.

  Josh answers my call immediately. “Wow, that was fast,” he says. “I’m only just now walking into the casino.”

  “Where are your photos?”

  “My photos?”

  “Yeah, the three photos you submitted with your application.”

  “Oh, my photos.” He pauses. “Why do you want them? You already know exactly what I look like.”

  “I just want to see them.”

  “But you’ve already seen every inch of me—you’ve seen my YOLO’d ass, for Chrissakes.” He snickers. “Not to mention my balls.”

  I join him in snickering. “Up close and personal.”

  He snickers again.

  “But I still wanna see your photos.”

  He sighs. “How ’bout this? I’ll come back up there and let you take three photos of me any which way you want. We’ll have a photo shoot, just you and me, baby.”

  “Ooh, sounds fun—I’ll definitely take a rain check on that offer. But I still wanna see the photos.”

  He grumbles. “But why?”

  “Because I wanna see what photos you thought would best represent yourself to perverts in a sex club.”

  There’s a long pause. “You’re such a fucking pain in the ass, you know that? A terrorist and a colossal pain in the ass.”

  “I told you—I’m a Scorpio. We’re extremely focused and we also have a disproportionate sense of entitlement. Plus, I gave you my three photos—a deal’s a deal.”

  He laughs. “Oh my God, those photos, Kat.”

  “You liked them?”

  “I loved them. The one of you in your undies was so hot—and then I practically pissed myself laughing at the one of you pretending to barf over the toilet. You’re so funny.”

  “Thank you. You’re pretty funny yourself—but funny ain’t gonna get you off the hook, dude. Those photos are part of your application, which means they’re part of your promise.”

  He grunts. “Fine. Are you familiar with Macs?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got one—from your brother, actually.”

  “My brother gave you a Mac?”

  “Yeah. To replace the one The Club stole from me.”

  “That was awfully nice of him—I didn’t know Jonas knew how to be nice.”

  “Yeah. He’s been super nice to me. Okay, quit stalling. Where are the photos?”

  He groans. “Fine. Go to ‘Finder’ and click on ‘Pictures’ on the left side of the screen.”

  “Yep. Okay.”

  “And now do you see the folder...” Josh says, but I don’t hear the rest of his sentence because something has caught my attention on Josh’s laptop screen: a folder labeled “Sick Fuck.” Well, jeez, with a name like that, the folder might as well be named “Open me, Kat!”

  “Do you see it?” Josh says.

  “Mmm hmm,” I say, clicking on the “Sick Fuck” folder.

  Oh my God. I’m looking at a bunch of photos of naked women—lots and lots of naked women—all of them blonde, all of them gorgeous, and all of them striking poses like porn stars.

  “Kat? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I say, scrolling through the photos. There’s probably close to twenty different women here. “Josh, who are all the blondes?”

  “What?” he asks, his voice suddenly tight.

  “The porn stars in the folder labeled ‘Sick Fuck’?”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ! Get out of there, Kat! That’s personal!”

  “Who are they?”

  “I didn’t give you permission to look through my private stuff. Get the fuck out of there right now. Jesus!”

  “Oh, waah, waah. So you like porn—you’re such a pervert.” I laugh, but he doesn’t join me. “Come on. Just tell me who they are. It’s no big whoop.”

  “This is a total breach of trust. Absolutely inexcusable.”

  I ignore his outrage. It’s an extremely effective tactic I’ve learned from observing my brothers over the years: remain calm in the face of indignation and then deny, deny, deny any and all wrongdoing until the person angry with you simply forgets what they’re mad about.

  “Are these photos off the Internet, or are they women you actually know?” I ask calmly.

  There’s a long silence. “This is total bullshit,” he grumbles, but it’s clear his outrage is already beginning to soften. “I want to lod
ge a formal complaint,” he says.

  I laugh. “With whom?”

  “With... the Common Decency Police.”

  “Okay. Duly noted. Complaint lodged.”

  “Because you suck.”

  “Yes, I do, actually, as we both know very well. And if you ever want me to do it again, then answer my question.”

  Out of nowhere, his fury roars back to life. “Oh, fuck no,” he bellows. “Let me set you straight about something right here and now: I do not tolerate any form of sexual extortion in a relationship. That’s an absolute deal-breaker with me. You wanna suck my dick? Great; then suck it. You don’t wanna suck it? Then don’t. But don’t use sex as a weapon to manipulate me. I fucking hate that.”

  My heart lurches into my throat—and not because Josh is chastising me—I don’t care about that—but because Josh just said he doesn’t tolerate any form of sexual extortion in a relationship. Are Josh and I in a relationship?

  “Jeez,” I manage to say. “Overreact much?”

  “I’m not overreacting,” Josh replies. “I absolutely hate that shit.”

  “Okay, okay. Jeez-us. I’m sorry. I’ll never again say, ‘If you want me to suck your dick, then fill-in-the-blank.’ Happy?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I hate that shit.”

  “Fine. Got it. But I must say I find your whole speech awfully ironic considering I used sexual extortion to get you to give me your application in the first place.”

  He pauses. “Hey, wait a minute—you did, didn’t you? Well, that was kinda shitty of you.”

  “Hey, whatever works.”

  There’s a long beat during which I’m smiling from ear to ear.

  “So,” I say. “You still haven’t answered my question, Playboy: Who are all the blonde playmates?”

  He makes a sound of frustration. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

  “No chance. I’m a Scorpio. We hold grudges. So who are they?”

  “You don’t have permission to be snooping around in that folder, Kat. Click out.”

  I don’t reply to him—I’m too busy looking through the folder.

  “Hello? Madame Terrorist? Did you hear me? Exit the folder. You’re trespassing.”

  “Yeah, I heard you. And I would totally follow your instruction, I really would—but the thing is, I’m having somewhat of a conundrum.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It’s kind of like a dilemma.”

  “Have I done something to give you the impression I’ve got the vocabulary of a sixth-grader? I know what a conundrum is—I’m asking what is your conundrum, specifically?”

  I seriously can’t wipe the smile off my face. “Well, on the one hand,” I say, “I really want to respect your request. I really, really do, because I’m actually a fairly nice person, despite the way I tend to behave around you, and also because I think you’re probably right: it was very, very naughty of me to go through your personal stuff without permission.”

  “Thank you. And on the other hand?”

  “Well, on the other hand, I really, really like being naughty.”

  Josh makes a sexy sound. “Oh. Well, that is quite a conundrum. What on earth are you gonna do about it?”

  “I dunno—I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll just look through your pervy blonde-porn-star folder while I figure it out.” I scroll through the photos again, my smile hurting my cheeks. “These women all look the same, Josh,” I say, still going through the photos. “Looks like you’ve got a type, huh?”

  He audibly shrugs. “I like what I like.”

  “Who are they?”

  He pauses briefly and then exhales. “They’re just women I’ve met.”

  “Met? I’m guessing you’ve done more than meet these girls.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Have you slept with all of these women?”

  “So now you’re slut-shaming me?”

  “No. I’m the last person in the world who would ever slut-shame anyone.”

  “You do realize the whole point of your application to me was to make me feel safe enough to reveal my inner-most perverted thoughts to you? You’re supposed to be luring me into emotional intimacy, Kat.”

  “Oh crap. That’s right. Shoot. I should have warned you: I suck at emotional intimacy. I’m working on it, though, I swear.”

  “You’re never gonna break down my walls now,” Josh says playfully.

  “Damn. Oh well.” I audibly shrug and he laughs. “So who took all these photos? Was it you?”

  “Nope.”

  “No? Oh, I thought you were gonna say yes. Did you take some of them?”

  “So we’re playing a game of Perverted Twenty Questions, are we?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t it fun?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. I’ve still got nineteen questions to go.”

  “Nineteen? Ha! More like ten. And that’s generous.”

  “Okay ten. Did you personally take any of these photos?”

  He exhales loudly. “Just one.”

  “Oh, now that’s an interesting answer. Not what I expected. I thought it’d be all or nothing.” I suddenly remember Sarah saying Oksana photographs every girl in The Club. “By George, I think I’ve got it,” I say. “Are these the women you slept with in The Club?”

  Josh sighs loudly. “Correct. All but two of them.”

  “Well, now I’m confused again. You mean all but two of these women were in The Club—or there are two Clubbers missing from this folder?”

  “Your mind is a scary place, Kat. You’re like Henn but in a totally different context. You’re a man-hacker.”

  I laugh. “Thank you. Now answer the question, please.”

  He exhales audibly. “Every woman from The Club is there—plus there are two non-Clubbers in the folder, too.”

  “Ah. Interesting. Two bonus-women from real life. This just gets more and more intriguing. Which ones are the non-Clubbers and why’d you put them in the folder with all the Clubbers?”

  “Aren’t you out of questions yet?”

  “Nope.” I pause. “I’ve still got eight to go.”

  He scoffs.

  “You personally took one of the non-Clubbers’ photos—not both of them?”

  “Correct.”

  “Hmm. So that means one of the non-Clubbers sent you her photo?”

  “Correct. You’re now officially out of questions.”

  “No way. I’ve still got at least eight left.”

  “Eight? You started with ten and you’ve asked like fifty.”

  “I’ve been asking sub-questions to questions, Josh—sub-questions don’t count as full questions.”

  He grumbles.

  “So, come on, which one of these pretty ladies was the one non-Clubber you personally photographed? And why’d you put her in the Sick Fuck folder with all the others?”

  He pauses. “No comment.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “You’ve got my application. That’s what I promised you—nothing more. Perverted Twenty Questions is now officially over.”

  “Aw. Not fair.”

  “It’s totally fair—and if not, then too bad. Life isn’t fair.”

  “Just tell me why you have all these photos and then I’ll drop it. I promise.”

  Josh exhales. “Okay, Madame Terrorist. Fine.” He mutters something to himself under his breath. “I requested a specific type of girl in my application, and so The Club emailed me photos of women they’d selected for me to make sure they were exactly what I wanted. And at the end of my membership-month, I didn’t know what the fuck to do with all the photos so I put them into a folder.”

  “And labeled it ‘Sick Fuck.’”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “And you didn’t have any inkling these women were hookers before Jonas told you?”

  Josh pauses. “I was pretty specific about what I wanted in my application, so I figured The Club likely made some kind of special arrangement to delive
r on my wishes—but I didn’t know for sure. Just because a woman is willing to meet a rich guy in a hotel room and fulfill his sick-fuck-fantasies doesn’t necessarily make her a hooker, does it?”

  I consider that bit of logic. “No,” I finally say. “Not necessarily. Especially when he looks like you.”

  “Thank you. But, honestly, I really didn’t care one way or the other if the women were being paid on the side—I just didn’t wanna know about it. All I was trying to do was escape reality for a month—I wasn’t looking for some sort of deep soul connection.”

  “So you asked for blondes?”

  “Kat,” he says softly. “You’ve got my application. Just read it. No more questions.”

  The earnest tone of his voice has thrown me. I thought we were bantering, and now, suddenly, he seems totally sincere. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I wait a beat. “But can I ask one more teeny tiny itty bitty question? In the name of emotional intimacy?”

  He chuckles despite himself. “What?” he asks.

  “Thank you. Wow, we’re killing the emotional intimacy thing, Josh. We’re emotionally intimate beasts.”

  He chuckles again. “This isn’t emotional intimacy, Kat—this is just plain torture.”

  “I’m almost positive they’re one and the same thing,” I say. “Though I can’t be sure.”

  He laughs a full laugh, which I take as a good sign. “Okay, Madame Interrogator, what’s your last question?”

  “Do you typically only sleep with blondes—or just in The Club? And is it sex with blondes that makes you a sick fuck?”

  He pauses for a moment. “That’s two questions.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal: I’m gonna tell you the answer to these two questions and then this interrogation is officially done.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t only sleep with blondes. I’ve been with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, ethnicities, and hair colors, and I’ve enjoyed them all. In fact, I’ve enjoyed them all immensely.”

  “Thanks. Little more info than I needed.”

  “And, no, I don’t have some bizarre complex whereby I think sleeping with a beautiful blonde woman somehow transforms me into a sick fuck. Yes, I specifically requested blondes in The Club because The Club was about fantasy-fulfillment and escape from reality, and, call me unimaginative or trite, but when I shop at the fantasy store, at least for purposes of fulfilling the fantasies I specifically asked for in The Club, that’s what I want—a classic blonde. Why? I don’t know. It’s just the way I’m wired—I definitely have a type.” He makes a sound that emphatically signals he’s done talking.