The Revelation Page 2

  “Thank you,” I say smoothly, scrolling through the photos again. “Yep, I’d agree you definitely have a type.” I snort. “Actually, they all look just like...” I abruptly stop speaking. Holy shit.

  There’s a long beat.

  “Yeah, Kat,” Josh finally says. He lets out a loud puff of air. “They look just like you.”

  He’s read my mind. I swallow hard.

  “Less attractive versions of you, of course,” he continues softly. “They’re all wannabe-Kats. You’re what my brother refers to as the ‘divine original.’”

  I’m tingling all over. “The ‘divine original’?” I breathe. “What’s that?”

  He lets out a long groan. “I can’t believe I just said that. It’s this Plato-thing Jonas is always babbling about. Forget I ever said it—I wanna gouge my eyes out every time my brother mentions it and now it’s me who’s saying it. Gah.”

  I press my phone into my ear, my breathing shallow. “What does it mean, Josh?” I ask softly. “Whatever it means, it’s making me tingle all over.”

  “It just means you’re the original template and everyone else is a knock-off.” He lets out a long sigh. “Like, you know, you’re the authentic Gucci bag and everyone else is one of those counterfeits they sell on the sidewalk in New York.”

  I pause, letting that sink in. I’ve never been to New York, actually, but his metaphor is still perfectly understandable to me. “So does that mean I make you a sick fuck more than anyone else?”

  He growls with exasperation. “You don’t make me a sick fuck—no one makes me a sick fuck. Someone I cared about once called me a sick fuck and I was pissed as hell about it when I named that folder, that’s all. I was, you know, flipping that person the bird when I named that folder.”

  While Josh has been talking, I’ve been leafing through the photos. There’s one girl I keep going back to again and again. She’s not working the lens or trying to be sexy like the others—in fact, the woman is clearly put off by posing for the photo—and her shyness about the whole thing makes her all the more alluring. Suddenly, there’s no doubt in my mind this shy girl is the non-Clubber Josh photographed himself—and, if my Scooby Doo senses are right, she’s also the one who pissed him off by calling him a “sick fuck.”

  “What about the shy one?” I ask.

  “The shy one?”

  “The one who looks mortified to be posing for a naked photo? She looks pretty divine-original-ish to me. Is she the one you photographed yourself?” I swallow hard. “Is she your ex-girlfriend?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Did she call you a sick fuck?”

  “Click out of there, Kat,” he says softly, a stiffness overtaking his tone. “Interrogation over.”

  My skin erupts in goose bumps. He’s not kidding around. Shoot. He sounds genuinely upset.

  “Okay, I’m out,” I say, exiting the folder.

  “I’m gonna go,” he says evenly. “Happy reading.”

  “No, wait. Please, Josh. Wait.” The angry edge in his voice has made my chest tighten. Clearly, I’ve pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, Josh. Sometimes I take things too far. It’s a major flaw of mine.”

  Josh chuckles despite himself.

  I bite my lip, smiling into the phone. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Says the woman with a bomb strapped to her chest.” He lets out a long exhale. “Just read my goddamned application, okay? I can’t take it anymore. The anticipation’s killing me. Just read it and make your decision already.”

  “My decision?”

  He pauses. “Whether to sleep with me or not,” he finally says.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Well, a girl’s gotta know if she’s gonna wake up chained to a goat.”

  “No, a donkey.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. A girl’s gotta know these things.”

  “You never know what might happen with me. I’m kind of a sick fuck.”

  “According to whom?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “The Shy Girl?”

  He pauses. “Yeah.”

  “That’s Emma?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, Josh, I haven’t even read your application yet, and I can already tell you Emma was full of shit.”

  He lets out a yelp of surprise.

  I clear my throat. “So back to the reason I called in the first place,” I say. “Where are the three photos you submitted with your application?”

  “Well, strangely enough, Kat, they’re in a folder marked ‘Club Application Photos.’ Imagine that.”

  “Oh. Well, gosh. That makes a whole lot more sense than putting them into a folder called ‘Sick Fuck.’”

  Josh sighs. “Hey, can I just come up there? I thought I wanted to stay as far away as possible while you were reading my application, but all of a sudden I’d rather just sit next to you while you read it and watch your facial expressions.”

  My heart leaps. “Are you by any chance planning to distract me again, Joshua William Faraday?”

  “Maybe.”

  I smile broadly into the phone. “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “Get your YOLO’d-ass up here, Playboy. We’ll read the damned thing together, line by perverted line—and maybe, if you’re extra nice to me, I’ll let you distract me again.”

  I can hear his smile again.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  Chapter 2

  Kat

  The minute Josh and I hang up from our call, I scroll through his blonde-girl “Sick Fuck” folder again, this time more slowly than before. These are some spectacularly gorgeous women here—and he thinks I’m some sort of ‘ideal form’ of all of them? Surely, he’s just flattering me. I mean, come on.

  I stop scrolling.

  Holy crap.

  I recognize one of the women in the folder. I think she’s a well-known model—like, literally on Victoria’s Secret ads and the covers of fashion magazines. Yep, I’m sure of it. Her name is Bridgette something. Is she the ‘bisexual supermodel’ Josh said he turned down? She’s gotta be the second non-Clubber in the folder.

  I look at my watch. Gah. Josh should be here any minute. I click out of the “Sick Fuck” folder, intending to take a quick peek at his three photos before he arrives, but on a sudden impulse, I find myself dragging the entire “Sick Fuck” folder into the trashcan and pressing “Empty trash.” Oops. My finger must have slipped.

  And now back to my actual mission. I click into the folder marked “Club Application Photos” and open the first of three images. It’s a headshot. Josh is smiling and looking as charismatic and confident as ever. Oh man, those eyes. I could sit and stare at them all day long. He’s gorgeous.

  I click on the next photo. It’s classic Josh Faraday. He’s in a perfectly tailored, blue designer suit, looking like an ad for Hugo Boss or cologne. Yummy.

  I click on the third photo and... ka-boom. My ovaries explode like two little nuclear bombs. Josh is completely nude in this third shot, every inch of his ripped and muscled—and erect—body on full display—and, oh my fuck, the shit-eating grin on his face is so unapologetic, it instantly makes my blood boil with desire. Holy crappola, as Sarah would say, I’m short-circuiting at the sight of him.

  Without even thinking about it, I click into Josh’s email account, address an email to myself attaching Josh’s smoking-hot-bad-boy-with-a-gigantic-boner-selfie, and press send. Zowie, as Sarah also likes to say, that sucker’s definitely gonna inspire countless future orgasms.

  Hey, as long as I’m sending myself stuff from Josh’s computer, I figure I might as well send myself his application, too, right? That way, if he distracts me again when he gets up here, I’ll be able to read it later from the comfort of my own bed.

  Just as I press “send” on my second email to myself, a notification message flashes across the upper right corner of Josh’s screen: he’s got an email from someone named “Jennifer LeMonde” with the sub
ject line “Hey, Cutie!”

  My stomach clenches.

  My lip snarls involuntarily.

  Jen.

  Oh, God, I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t. But show me a woman in my exact shoes who wouldn’t read that goddamned email and I’ll show you a woman with no pulse or vagina—or, at the very least, no balls.

  I open the email.

  “Josh!” Jennifer LeMonde writes. “OMFG! I’m so bummed you didn’t come to NYC with me. My mom’s show was amaaaaaaaaaazing. You would have looooooooooved it. Critics are saying she’s a shoo-in for a Tony. And the party afterwards was REDONK. You should have seen the A-listers who showed up! I’ve attached a pic of Mom and me at the after-party. (Mom says hi, btw—she totally remembers you from that time we all stayed at our house in Aspen.)

  “I wanted to send you a quick note to thank you for calling me after Reed’s party. I was pretty bummed at how everything went down that night, to be honest. I’m really glad we had a chance to talk so you could clear everything up for me.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said and I totally understand where you’re coming from. I feel the exact same way. So if you’re ready to chill with someone who’s not gonna explode like a fricking grenade all over you like The Jealous Bitch (can you say drama?? OMG!), then let’s hang out again. I’m totally up for what you suggested. We’ll just hang out and have some fun and see where it leads. No pressure. Nothing serious.

  “So, anyway, next weekend is my birthday (the big 2-9!) and my mom’s letting me use our house in the Hamptons to celebrate. I’m gonna invite a bunch of friends and I really want you to come. No drama. Just FUN FUN FUN! It would be the best birthday present EVER if you’d come and hang out (and hopefully make me scream again!! Heehee!).

  “I know how much you like my ‘pretty titties’ (LOL!) so I’m attaching a special pic just for you. It’s just a little something to tide you over ’til you can come see them in person (and motorboat them again if you want! LMFAO!). Thanks again for explaining everything to me when we talked. We’re defo on the same page. No relationship. Nothing serious. I’m totally down with that plan. XOXOXOXO Jen.”

  I have never felt this capable of murder in my entire life.

  Holy I Wanna Beat the Living Shit Out of Her, Batman.

  And Then I Wanna Cut Off His Balls and Roast Them Over the Burning Embers of His Fucking House, Batman. And Then I Want To Eat Them In Between Two Graham Crackers.

  I’m gritting my teeth so hard, they’re about to crumble like shards of bleu cheese in my mouth. I’m ‘The Jealous Bitch,’ huh? Did Jen coin that cute little nickname for me, or did Josh help her come up with it—perhaps during their after-party phone conversation? Was that phone conversation when Josh “suggested” they get together again so he could “motorboat” Jen’s “pretty titties” again?

  Why the hell did Josh call Jen after Reed’s party? He told me he wasn’t the least bit interested in her. Did he rush back to his room for a little phone sex after washing the barf off his shoes and my hair and putting me to bed?

  I should click out of this email, I really should—that would be the self-preserving thing to do—but instead I torture myself and click on the first photo attached to Jen’s email.

  I shriek.

  What the holy hell? Jen’s mom is Gabrielle LeMonde? I blink rapidly, my brain overloading. Gabrielle LeMonde is a national treasure—an icon! I’ve seen every one of her frickin’ movies—and not just the comedies, either!—the really boring ones in which she spoke in a spot-on British accent, too! What. The. Hell?

  Well, this sure sheds light on why Josh hooked up with Jen in the first place. If I were a twenty-three-year-old guy with a huge dick, I’d have fucked Gabrielle LeMonde’s daughter too, just to be able to say I did—especially if she had a body like Jen’s. And Jesus, now it makes total sense that Jen pals around with movie stars like Isabel Randolph. Good lord, Jen’s entire contacts list must be a who’s-who of Hollywood’s young elite.

  My head is spinning. I feel like I’m gonna barf. It’s suddenly hitting me like a ton of bricks that Josh is literally one of the world’s most eligible bachelors—like literally. Holy shit. Before this moment, Josh was Sarah’s boyfriend’s brother—his gorgeous and rich brother—his hilarious and well-dressed brother—his smoking hot and sexy brother—his brother who arranged for me to stay in Vegas and keep my job, too—his brother who fucked me so brilliantly, I blacked out there for a minute—but, still, just a human-brother-dude who presumably puts his pants on one leg at a time (and who presumably stows his donkey-dick in one of those pant legs before zipping up).

  But now, out of nowhere, it turns out Josh is some quasi-celebrity-god among men who lives in an alternate universe populated by world-famous actresses and their spawn? And Victoria’s Secret supermodels? Oh, and freaking Red Card Riot, too? What the heck? Who is this Most Interesting Man in the World who could hop a cross-country flight on a whim for no other reason than to attend the birthday party of a fuck-buddy who happens to be the daughter of Gabrielle LeMonde? Gah! Insanity.

  My stomach flips over.

  I’m usually a confident girl—probably more so than the average Jane, if I’m being honest—but how could I ever be so cocky as to think a guy like that would ever pick me out of literally anyone on the planet to choose from? I roll my eyes even though I’m sitting here alone. I’ve always had a pretty high opinion of myself, truthfully (which isn’t something I usually admit out loud), but all of a sudden, in comparison to the women who populate Josh’s rarified world, I feel shockingly average. Not to mention, quite possibly, really gullible, too. Has Josh just been selling me a line of bullshit? Does he make every girl feel special the way I’ve been feeling with him? Have I been a fool?

  Oh, jeez, my eyes are filling with tears. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m standing at Garrett Bennett’s door all over again, about to get annihilated? I take a deep breath to steady myself.

  The healthy choice would be to click out of Jen’s email right now. It’s making me doubt Josh and I don’t want to do that. He’s been nothing but incredible toward me. Generous. Attentive. Affectionate. Passionate. I’m acting crazy right now. So what if Jen’s mom is Gabrielle LeMonde? That doesn’t change anything. Why is that sending me into a tailspin? I should shut Josh’s laptop and stop this right now.

  But I don’t.

  In fact, I do the opposite: I open the second picture attached to Jen’s email.

  Holy Oh-No-She-Didn’t, Batman.

  If I felt sick after seeing the picture of Jen with her movie-star mom, then I feel terminally ill after seeing this second photo.

  It’s a naked selfie of Jen. She’s smiling broadly and pushing her “pretty titties” up toward the camera—obviously inviting Josh to “motorboat” them “again.”

  My eyes prick with tears. Is Jen a pathetically desperate girl who’s pursuing a hot guy after he’s clearly told her to get lost? Or, to the contrary, is she a girl who’s merely going after a guy who slept with her and then continued encouraging her? Josh told me he’s not interested in Jen—and yet he called her after Reed’s party. Why’d he do that? And what did he “suggest” to her when they spoke? Suddenly, I don’t know what’s what anymore.

  My heart is racing. I wipe my eyes. I never cry and I’m not gonna start now. Hell no. It’s so unlike me to feel this jealous and insecure. God, I hate myself right now. I’m acting like a freak and a puss and a lunatic. I need to detach. I need to stop caring. Josh Faraday isn’t my boyfriend (though I admit I want him to be), and I’m not his girlfriend. I’ve got no right to feel this way. The man can do what he wants.

  No, he can’t. He’s mine, goddammit. Mine.

  I slam Josh’s laptop shut and set it on the table. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Josh will be here any minute to “distract” me from his application and I need to pull my shit together before then—because right now I feel like I’m going to fly completely off the handle and say a million thing
s I’m gonna regret.

  I stand to leave—just as the door of the suite bursts open.

  Josh bounds into the room. “Hey, Party Girl with a Hyphen,” he says, holding up a condom packet playfully. “Can I interest you in a little distraction from your reading?”

  I stalk straight past Josh toward the front door, my eyes burning and my mouth clamped shut.

  “Kat?”

  I march to the door and fling it open like I’m trying to take the damned thing off its hinges.

  “Oh shit,” Josh says. “You read my application without me?” His voice is pure anguish. “Goddammit, Kat. Lemme explain. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to read that stupid thing in the first place.”

  Chapter 3

  Josh

  “Kat, come on!” I shout at her back, but she keeps marching down the hallway toward the penthouse’s private elevator, her arms swinging wildly. Déjà fucking vu. How many times am I gonna have to chase this goddamned terrorist down a fucking hallway? “Oh, come on, Kat. It wasn’t that bad.”

  But she just keeps on marching. She pounds on the call button for the private elevator and crosses her arms, her back to me.

  “You can’t possibly be this upset. What the hell?”

  She whirls around and I’m shocked to see hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Panic floods me. My application made her cry? Shit. I’ve obviously grossly miscalculated the situation. I’m floored. “Kat,” I blurt, my chest tightening. “I know everything I wrote in that application came off as douche-y and angry and fucked-up, but the truth is I was just heartbroken when I wrote all that shit.” Oh God, the words are tumbling out of my mouth. “I’d just gotten out of a three-year relationship that didn’t end well,” I ramble, “and I won’t go into detail about everything that happened, but trust me, I had some shit to work out.” I take a deep breath. “I was devastated, to be perfectly honest—I felt like there was something deeply wrong with me, and...” My heart is racing. I swallow hard. “For reasons I don’t wanna go into, there was no way for me to do any of that stuff I wrote about with my girlfriend. And that was okay, of course, because I never would have pushed her to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with—never—but when we broke up—well, actually, when she cheated on me instead of doing me the courtesy of actually breaking up with me—I figured, ‘Well, fuck it. YOLO. Life throws you lemons, make lemonade.’ So I joined The Club and rode a month’s worth of Mickey Mouse roller coasters so I could pull my shit together and move on. And I don’t regret any of it because it actually worked—I totally moved on and now I’m perfectly fine.” Shit. I’m rambling. I’m incoherent. I’m out of breath. Fuck. I force myself to stop talking.