The Infatuation

  The Infatuation Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Photography: Kelly Elaine Photo

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

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  Chapter 1

  Josh

  Oh my fucking God. What’s wrong with Jonas this time? I’m so worried I’m jumping out of my skin. I look out the window of the limo, wracked with the same sense of dread I always feel when Jonas calls me with that barely contained panic in his voice. Of course, I dropped everything and immediately caught the next flight to Seattle, just like I always do—but this time, unlike every other time, I don’t have a clue what’s happened to freak Jonas out. And that, in turn, freaks me out.

  “Hey,” I call up to the limo driver. “Can you change the channel to something a bit more mellow, please?” The song blaring in my ear is “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred, definitely not a song that’s gonna calm my jangling nerves.

  “How’s this?” the driver says, switching to another station on the radio. The song playing now is “Mad World” by Tears for Fears.

  “Yeah,” I say, smirking to myself. “Leave it here. Thanks.”

  When I saw my brother’s incoming call on my phone earlier this evening, I figured Jonas had gotten back from his trip to Belize with the “most amazing girl ever,” the one and only Sarah Cruz, the magical, mystical unicorn he hacked into U Dub’s server to find, sight unseen, and that he was calling to slobber all over the phone about how “amazing” she is. But the minute I heard his voice, I knew he wasn’t calling to babble happily about his Belizian getaway with his new crush—I knew something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  “Are you okay? Is Sarah okay?” I asked him, my stomach twisting into knots.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. The trip was incredible—Sarah’s incredible,” Jonas replied. But before I could exhale with any kind of relief, he said something that sent me reeling: “It’s The Club, Josh. It’s total bullshit—a fucking scam. I think Sarah’s in danger—like, maybe serious danger.”

  What the fuck? I couldn’t process what that statement could possibly mean.

  Mad World, indeed.

  It’s been well over three hours since Jonas called and said those bizarre words, and I still haven’t figured out what the fuck he meant by them. The Club’s a scam? Well, no, it isn’t, Jonas. I happen to know through my own personal experience it’s one hundred percent not a scam. I can personally attest that I filled out my application, paid my money, and got exactly what I asked for, to the letter, in multiple cities, over the course of one very awesome and cathartic month. So what’s the fucking scam?

  The more likely scenario is that Jonas didn’t get what he asked for because, whatever it was, it was literally impossible to deliver. Knowing him, he probably asked for something only some magical combination of the circus, the philosophy department at Yale, and American Ninja Warrior could have delivered. And that’s what he thinks of as a scam? Maybe this is a wanton case of “it’s not them, it’s you.”

  Shit. When I told Jonas about The Club in the first place, I should have told him, “Dude, when you fill out your application, less is more. Just go for the big one or two things you’re dying for and leave it at that. You can only do so much in one month, trust me—don’t get too ambitious.” I shake my head. Jonas is so fucking bad with women, I swear to God—and he always has been. They fall all over themselves the minute they see him, of course—everywhere he goes women practically throw their panties at him. But then he opens his fucking mouth and starts quoting fucking Plato and talking in riddles and looking like a fucking serial killer and they run away, screaming in bloody terror. (God only knows how he tricked this Sarah girl into sticking around for so long. Hell, maybe she has a thing for Plato, too, for all I know.)

  But for the sake of argument, let’s say The Club is some kind of scam (which it’s not); how the fuck could that possibly mean this new girl of Jonas’ is in some kind of danger—let alone “serious” danger? I can’t wrap my brain around any of it. The only thing I can think is that Jonas must have met Sarah in The Club? But that makes no sense. When I asked Jonas about his membership not too long ago, he said he’d applied but had gotten hopelessly distracted by his quest to get laid by his mystery law student.

  I’m just so fucking confused. I look out the window of the limo, listening to the song for a long minute.

  Frankly, I’m really worried that all this rambling is a sign that Jonas is having some sort of psychotic break again. And if that’s what’s really going on, why now? As far as I know, my brother’s been in full beast mode lately. I mean, shit, just last week when we negotiated the acquisition of all those rock-climbing gyms, he was in tiptop form, kicking ass and taking names like the beast he is. He was a sight to see, actually—he sure out-beasted me by a fucking mile. Of course, he couldn’t stop talking about this Sarah chick the whole three days I was with him—which is so unlike him, at first I wasn’t sure if he was punking me—but I didn’t see that as any cause for alarm. In fact, I was happy for him.

  But now, I’m wondering if his obsession with her was a sign that things weren’t completely right in his head.

  Actually, I was a tad bit worried when he called me in the first place, barking at me to find some random girl who’d sent him an email. (Any time Jonas gets ultra-obsessed about something, it’s usually not a good sign for his mental health.) But, much to my relief and surprise, the magical, mystical Sarah Cruz turned out to be well worth his effort, a truly fantastic girl. The minute I met her during our mutual limo ride to the airport, I thought, Now here’s a girl who’s gonna bring out the very best in my brother. She’s absolutely adorable. And I can certainly understand the physical attraction, too, I don’t mind admitting.

  So what the fuck happened in the four days between that limo ride and today that made Jonas’ wheels fall off his cart?

  Downtown Seattle is whizzing past me outside my car window.

  I exhale and shake my head.

  I’m so fucking worried right now, I can’t think straight. I just wish I understood what’s going on with Jonas. And The Club. And Sarah? I shake my head again. What the fuck did Jonas mean she might be in serious danger?

  My phone buzzes with a text and I look down.

  “Hey, Josh!” the text says. “Loooooooooooong time no see. How ya doing, baby? LOL!”

  I chuckle in surprise. Now there’s a name I never expected (or particularly wanted) to see on my phone again: Jennifer LeMonde. I admit I was dazzled by the girl’s pedigree (and slamming body) when we dated for four or five months when I was twenty-three—chalk that up to youth and being stoned out of my mind half the time—but once the initial heat and the novelty of her Grammy-winning daddy and Oscar-winning mommy wore off, not to mention the weed, I quickly realized Jen was very likely the least interesting girl in the world. And that’s when I decided once and for all to pull my shit together and lay off the weed and fulfill my family obligations in earnest. And I’ve stayed on track ever since, other than duri
ng the occasional short vacations of total debauchery I’ve allowed myself over the years (which I’m not sorry about, by the way). Honestly, my little sojourns into hedonism have helped me stay the course, something I’ve been bound and determined to do, not just for me, but for Jonas, too. I mean, let’s face it, Jonas and I can’t both be on the verge of a nervous breakdown at all times, and Jonas long ago called dibs on that role.

  “Hey, Jen,” I type. “It’s been a long time. What’s up?”

  “Have you seen what’s going on with Isabel lately? OMG!”

  “Yeah. Hard to miss. Good for her. I’m thrilled for her,” I type.

  I’m being sincere. From what I remember of Isabel from seven years ago, she’s a really sweet girl. I’m honestly thrilled all her dreams of stardom are coming true.

  “The studio rented Isabel a freaking castle in San Tropez all next week to celebrate her movie opening at number one!” Jen writes. “Dude. It’s literally a castle! Made me remember that time our whole group partied together in Cannes—remember that? Or, actually, come to think of it, you probably don’t! LOL!!!!” She adds a whole bunch of wineglass emojis and a marijuana-leaf emoji and a smiley face wearing sunglasses. “So, anyhoo, Isabel’s getting a huge group together to party in the castle in France (did I mention it’s a freaking castle???!!!! OMFG!!!!) and she wanted to know if maybe you and Reed wanna join us for a mini-reunion? It’ll be just like old times! LOL!” She adds what appears to be a dancing cat, a reference I’m not sure I understand.

  I stare at my phone for a moment, shaking my head. I’m not even remotely tempted. “Sorry. I’m in Seattle for a family emergency,” I write. “Gonna be tied up here for a while helping my brother. Plus, I’m an old man nowadays, Jen. You wouldn’t even recognize me. I’m practically chasing damn kids off my lawn. Been working pretty hard building my family’s business since you last saw me. But, hey, feel free to contact Reed directly to ask him if he’s interested. I’ll send you his number. And please tell Isabel congrats on all her success for me,” I continue. “I’m genuinely thrilled for her. Just saw she won some People’s Choice Award or something? Ha! Awesome. She’s America’s Sweetheart.”

  “I know! She totally is! LOL! She’s blowing up! She’s gonna do Jimmy Fallon in NYC when she gets back from France! OMFG! Can you believe it? She’s so excited.”

  “Saw her face plastered on a billboard on my way to LAX today. She looks great. Tell her nice boob job, btw. Her surgeon did excellent work. Unless that’s photoshop?”

  “Not photoshop. The real fake deal. Brand new, actually. She’ll be geeked you noticed. Did you notice her nose, too? (The polite answer is no. Haha!)”

  “She looks great, top to bottom. Tell her I said so. But she was always beautiful.”

  “Aw, come on, Josh. You’re making me remember what a sweetheart you are. I wanna see you soooooo bad! Are you sure you can’t swing it? Pwetty pwease? I’ll make sure you have a REALLY good time.” She adds a winking emoji.

  I smirk. This is patently ridiculous. Jennifer LeMonde can’t possibly give a rat’s ass about me, any more than I give one about her. We dated for, what, five months when we were in our early twenties. Not exactly a soul connection. Obviously, this is more about Isabel pining for Reed like she always has than about Jen and me. My guess is Isabel asked Jen to lure Reed to France by any means necessary, including using me as bait.

  When I don’t immediately reply to Jen’s last text, she sends another one right on its heels. “What if I promise not to wear my bikini top the entire time we’re there? ‘When in France,’ right? I remember how much you loooooved my pretty titties.” She adds a bikini emoji and a pair of lips. “And they’re still all-natural, baby!” Winking emoji.

  “Sorry. Can’t. Family emergency, like I say,” I write. But what I’m thinking is, I’m thirty fucking years old, Jen. You really think I’m gonna travel halfway around the world just to see a pair of tits (even if they are, admittedly, the most perfect pair of tits I’ve ever seen)?

  “Bummer.” Sad-face emoji. “Saw you and your brother on the cover of some magazine the other day, creamed my panties just looking at you. Talk about the Wonder Twins. Day-am. You boys should be in movies.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, okay. Text me if something changes. I’ll be crossing my fingers you change your mind.”

  “Family emergency, like I say,” I type. “Sorry.”

  “Well, if France isn’t gonna work out, we’ll have to get together another time really soon. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. About how much fun we used to have.” She adds a lips emoji. “I’d make it worth your effort if you come see me, Josh.” Another winking emoji.

  I roll my eyes. Was she always this annoying? I just told the girl I’ve got a family emergency and that my brother needs me—and she invites me to fuck her rather than ask me if everything’s okay? Not to mention I told her I’ve been working hard to build my family’s business and she didn’t ask me for any details? Par for the course, though. Our “relationship,” such as it was, certainly wasn’t based on anything deep.

  The limo stops and I glance up from my phone. I’m in Jonas’ driveway. Damn. For a second there, I’d actually forgotten where I was headed.

  I exhale audibly. Whatever’s waiting for me on the other side of Jonas’ front door isn’t gonna be good—I can feel it in my bones.

  Chapter 2

  Josh

  The minute I walk through Jonas’ front door, my brother bounds toward me like a Labrador retriever, dragging his new chew toy (Sarah) with him as he goes.

  “Hey,” I say, putting down my duffel bag and giving Jonas a big hug. “Well, hello, Sarah Cruz.” I give her a hug, too. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Get used to it,” Jonas says, obviously thrilled to be saying those words.

  “So what the hell’s going on?” I ask, steeling myself for whatever fucked up shit’s about to come my way.

  Jonas moans. “It’s so fucked up, man.”

  My stomach twists. I sit down on the couch, readying myself. “Tell me.”

  Jonas sits down next to me and runs his hand through his hair, obviously getting ready to launch into some sort of monologue, but before he gets a word out, the bathroom door on the far side of the spacious room opens abruptly and a blur of golden blondeness moves into my peripheral vision. My eyes dart toward the movement—I wasn’t aware there was anyone else here besides Jonas, Sarah, and me—and then I absentmindedly look back toward Jonas.

  But all of a sudden, my brain processes the startling golden perfection my eyes just beheld and my eyes dart back to the astonishing figure striding toward me. Oh my fucking God. Who the fuck is this creature?

  The girl walking toward me is literally the most spectacularly beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life, without exception (and this is coming from a guy who briefly dated Miss Universe and currently fucks a Victoria’s Secret model whenever we both happen to be in L.A.). This girl’s... oh my God. She’s the precise sum of parts I’d order at the Build-a-Girl store if there were such a thing. Holy fuck. And she’s headed right toward me, smiling at me like she can read my exact thoughts.

  She’s got to be a model. Or an actress. Of course, she is. What else could she be, looking the way she does? Shit. Damn. Fuck. Oh my God. Holy fucking Christ.

  Miss Perfect sashays right up to me, without hesitation. “I’m Kat,” she says, putting out her hand. “Sarah’s best friend.”

  She’s got sky-blue eyes. Her long hair is a heart-stopping shade of golden blonde—and it’s obviously totally natural. And, oh my God, this can’t be happening—she’s got a subtle little indentation in her chin, too—the slightest cleft. That’s always been my Achilles’ heel—ever since I made out with Jessica Simpson at Reed’s twenty-first birthday party so many years ago.

  “Josh,” I say, taking her hand. “Jonas’ brother.”

  “I know,” she says, smirking. “I read the article.” She moti
ons in the direction of the coffee table.

  I glance down to see which article she’s referring to, and I’m bummed to discover it’s the one that made Jonas out to be some kind of deep-thinking poet with a Midas touch with investments and me out to be nothing but a giant, throbbing dick with cotton between my ears.

  “I sure hope you’re more complicated than that article makes you out to be,” Kat says, her blue eyes sparkling.

  I look at Jonas, hoping maybe he’ll step in and say something to help a brother out, like, oh, I dunno, how ’bout, “Oh, that reporter was just trying to sell magazines.” Or, maybe, “We thought we were doing a serious interview about Faraday & Sons and it turned into a fluff piece for Tiger Beat.” But Jonas doesn’t say a damned thing on my behalf. Of course, he doesn’t, the motherfucker. I guess now that he’s got his dream girl all locked up he’s content to let me twist in the wind in front of a woman who looks like mine?

  “If the article is to be believed,” Kat goes on, smirking at me, “Jonas is the ‘enigmatic loner-investment-wunderkind’ twin—and you’re just the simple playboy.”

  I laugh. So this girl’s not only gorgeous, she’s sassy, too? Oh, how I like me a sassy woman.

  “That’s what the article said?” I ask, even though I know that’s exactly what the article said.

  “In so many words,” she says, arching one of her bold eyebrows.

  “Hmm,” I say, returning her raised-eyebrow gesture. “Interesting. And if someone were writing a magazine article about you, what gross over-simplification would they use?”

  She bites her lip. “I’d be ‘a party girl with a heart of gold.’” She glances at Sarah and they share a smile.

  Oh man. This girl’s too much. My skin is buzzing like I’ve just downed a double shot of Patron. “How come I only get a one-word description—playboy—and you get a whole phrase?” I ask.