The Infatuation (Josh and Kat #1 , The Club #5) (15 page)

I’m rendered speechless for a moment. “Well, joke’s
on you because I also grew up with four brothers,” I finally manage
to say. “All of them contained in the sole person of Jonas Faraday.
You’d be shocked what I’ve had to do to survive and thrive in a
house with a brother with four personalities. Holding off on
kissing you ’til I get my way, even though all I wanna do right now
is kiss the hell out of you—including biting that goddamned lower
lip of yours and doing unmentionable things to that goddamned cleft
in your chin—is freaking child’s play.”

She parts her lips but doesn’t speak.

“Do I give off a Jeffrey Dahmer vibe or something?”
I ask, leaning forward into her personal space.

“Not at all.” She leans back and sips her drink.
“Maybe that’s why I’m so damned curious. Your seeming normalcy
makes me wonder even more why a guy like you felt the need to join
a sex club.”

“I didn’t
need
to join a sex club—any more
than I
need
to go to Tahiti or Monaco.”

“Or Disneyland,” she adds, snickering.

I roll my eyes. “Or Disneyland. Correct. Joining The
Club was a
vacation.
” I sip my drink calmly. “Which means
it’s soundly in the realm of ‘none of your fucking business.’ I
don’t owe you a play-by-play of my vacations. And, news flash, I’m
not gonna let you run my credit report or call my ex-girlfriends,
either.”

She takes another long sip of her drink. “Oh, that’s
a great idea about calling your ex-girlfriends, Playboy. I didn’t
think of that. You can email me their contact information along
with your application.”

I smirk. “You do realize, in theory, you could wake
up gagged and chained to a donkey after fucking any guy, right? The
fact that I joined The Club doesn’t make me any more or less of a
pervert-weirdo-serial-killer-donkey-fucker than the average
guy.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll know for sure after I read
your application. And by the way, I didn’t say anything about
waking up
gagged.
You just added that part.” She raises one
of her eyebrows at me.

I feel my cheeks blazing, despite my best efforts to
keep a neutral face.

“Sarah sure enjoyed reading Jonas’ application,” she
says. “Maybe I’ll like yours as much as she liked his.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about. Jonas and
Sarah.”

She shrugs, but her body language tells me I’ve hit
the nail on the head.

“But Jonas didn’t
willingly
give Sarah his
application, you might recall—he sent it to an anonymous intake
agent. If Jonas had met Sarah in real life the way I’ve met you, he
never would have given her his fucking application, not in a
million years, I guarantee it. Sarah only had it because Jonas had
no choice in the matter—and she misappropriated it for her personal
use.” I sip my drink slowly. “Shame on her.”

“But that’s my whole point. Jonas wouldn’t normally
have given it to her—and yet that’s exactly why they clicked so
hard and fast. All cards on the table. Nothing to hide. No way to
hold back, even if they wanted to. I think there’s something to
that kind of forced honesty.”

Oh, she’s good, but I’m not gonna fall for her
manipulations. “Sure you wanna try it—it’s a one-way street. No
downside for you.”

We sip our drinks again, eying each other.

“Yeah, but most likely a
huge
upside for
you,” she says. “Think about it like that.”

She makes an excellent point, I must admit. But I’d
never tell her that. “Did Sarah show you Jonas’ application, by any
chance?” I ask.

“No. She wouldn’t even summarize it verbally for me.
And she wouldn’t tell me what she wrote to him in response,
either.”

“Yeah, neither would Jonas. Not a word.”

“Damn. I’m dying to know.”

“Me, too.”

“Well, whatever they said to each other, it sure
seems to have worked out well for them.” She looks earnest. “It
seems like maybe they’re on to something with all that... forced
honesty.”

Well, shit. If I knew she was right—if I knew
participating in some sort of bizarre honesty-game would turn out
to be some sort of unparalleled aphrodisiac, I’d be all in. I
really would. But I don’t know if she’s right. For all I know, my
application could easily have the opposite effect than she’s
anticipating. It could make her run away, screaming. And,
regardless, at this point, I’m probably doomed no matter what it
might say. She’s pinning so much expectation on the damned thing,
it can’t possibly live up to whatever kinkfest she’s imagining it
to be. No matter what it says, it’s gonna be anticlimactic now.

And, more importantly, is it gonna open up an entire
dialogue I have no intention of having? What I wrote in my
application is a fucking time capsule—a moment in time I have no
desire to revisit or fucking explain. My stomach twists. Yeah, it’s
settled. No matter what, I’m
not
gonna give this goddamned
terrorist my fucking application.

“Do you usually practice ‘complete honesty’ with
guys before you’ll even
kiss
them?” I ask.

“No. I can’t remember ever practicing ‘complete
honesty’ with a guy, period,” she replies. “Have you ever practiced
complete honesty with a woman?”

“Complete?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I came very close once. It didn’t work out very
well.”

She twists her mouth.

“But enough about that.” I drain my drink. “I don’t
negotiate with terrorists, like I said. So make your unreasonable
demands all night long if you want—you’re not getting what you
want.”

She exhales. “I tell you what. Just
tell
me
what your stupid application says—and we’ll call it a day. Tell me
and then kiss me and then... who knows what might happen next?” She
looks at me suggestively.

“Nope.”

Her pucker turns to a pout.

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“So you keep saying.”

“You don’t even care about my stupid application.
You’re just trying to
win.
”

“I could say the same thing about you. At least I’m
being reasonable.”

“You’re being reasonable?”

“Yes. I backed down from my original demand and said
you could just
tell
me what’s in it.
And
I’ve offered
to answer any questions honestly tonight. But you? You’re just
sticking to your guns, not budging an inch.”

“All right. Show me how it’s done.” I lean forward,
my eyes blazing. “Play the honesty-game.”

“Fine. Ask me anything.”

“Admit Cameron Fucking Schulz bored you to fucking
tears.”

She twists her mouth—and then she nods.

I laugh. “
I knew it
.”

“I went back into the restaurant after we talked and
after two minutes with the guy I wanted to gouge my eyes out.”

“Hey, maybe I like this honesty-game, after all.” I
chuckle. “So how’d he take it when you turned him down?” I ask,
picking up my drink gleefully.

I’m expecting her to laugh with me or at least break
into a wide smile. But she doesn’t. Instead, she furrows her brow,
takes a long sip of her drink, and levels me with an unflinching
gaze. “I didn’t turn him down.”

Josh

She continues staring at me, her blue eyes sparkling
with defiance.

“You
fucked
Cameron Schulz?” I blurt.

Her cheeks flush. “Back at his place.” She maintains
my gaze, her eyes blazing. “He has a very nice house, bee tee dubs.
Just what you’d expect of a professional baseball player.”

I don’t know whether to cry or scream. Or charter an
airplane to Seattle and kick Cameron Fucking Schulz’s ass. Oh my
fucking God. I glance around the bar, my heart racing, clenching
and unclenching my fists.

She fishes a crunchie thing out of the bowl in front
of us and pops it into her mouth. “And I’m not sorry or ashamed
about it. He was sweet and I got to check off one of my fantasies.
(I’m big on fantasies, bee tee dubs. It’s kinda my
thing
.)
So, yeah, I count the entire experience as a win-win.”

I open and shut my mouth like a fish on a line.

“News flash, Playboy. Not all sex has to be deep and
meaningful. Even for the members of the species with
vaginas
.”

I’m still speechless.

She drains her drink.

“What fantasy did you get to check off?” I finally
say. Oh my God, I feel physically ill just saying the words.

“Well, gosh, that’s kind of a personal question.”
She laughs. “But since we’re being completely
honest
and
all, I’ll tell you. One of my all-time fantasies has always been to
have sex with a professional athlete—though admittedly, in a manner
much more exciting than it went down with Cameron.” She pops
another crunchie into her mouth. “I slept with a guy on the
football team in college who was drafted by the Lions his senior
year, but he went pro
after
I slept with him so I don’t
think that counts as having sex with a pro athlete. Do you think it
does?” She pops another crunchie thing into her mouth and washes it
down with her martini.

I press my lips together, incapable of saying a
goddamned thing. I’m feeling a strange mixture of arousal and rage
and complete repulsion.

“Oh, please,” she finally says. “You think sex
always
has to be something deep and meaningful and profound?
Pffft.”

I make a face.

“Well, then. Why should it be any different for me?
Just because I have a
vagina
?”

I lean back in my chair. “So you say. I’m not sure I
believe it.”

She laughs.

“Just tell me right now, Kat. Do you really have a
vagina? Because I swear to fucking God, if you’re hiding a dick and
balls under there, I’m gonna lose my fucking shit.”

She laughs. “I’m not a dude. I promise.”

“Because you’re acting like a dude right now.”

“Nope. Rest assured, I do indeed have a
vagina
and ovaries and fallopian tubes. Oh, and boobs, too,
which I’ve been told multiple times are ‘absolutely perfect,’ bee
tee dubs. But I can certainly understand your confusion about my
genitalia, because I’m actually an
honorary
dude, probably
from growing up with four brothers and all.”

I can’t formulate a response. My head is
reeling.

“And, to be clear, I don’t have
only
meaningless sex. I absolutely love meaningful sex, too, but I’m not
hung up about it either way. I do what I want—oh, and I’m very
selective
. I’m just saying when I
do
have meaningless
sex, it’s because I want to do it—and, therefore, I’m not at all
sorry or ashamed about it. My choice.”

I mull that over.

“So I take it you’ve never had meaningless sex,
then?” she asks. “That’s so sweet.”

“This is a really bizarre conversation. Excuse me,”
I say to the bartender. “Two more shots of Patron, please.”

“Have you ever wished you could have meaningless
sex, Josh?” she persists.

I roll my eyes. “I’ve had meaningless sex, Kat.”

“But it was somehow supposed to be simultaneously
meaning
ful
for the woman you were screwing, is that it?”

“No. Of course, not.”

“Well, there you go. Works both ways. Have you ever
had
meaningful
sex?”

“Of course. I strongly prefer it, actually. But I
find it’s much, much harder to come by.”

She nods. “I agree. I prefer it, too—and, yes, it’s
much,
much
harder to come by.”

We stare at each other for a long beat.

The bartender places our shots in front of us.

“To you, Kat—to the honorary dude who’s blowing my
mind right now.”

“To you, Josh—to the playboy who’s maybe not quite
as much of a playboy as I originally thought.”

We knock back our shots.

“Whew,” she says. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“So do you possess any other dude-like qualities
besides unapologetically engaging in meaningless sex with sports
stars?” I ask.

“Well, my brothers say I laugh like a dude, but I
don’t know about that.”

“You do. Totally.”

“I hardly ever cry.”

“Okay. That’s a plus.”

“I’m not easily offended, but when I am, watch the
fuck out, because I’ve got a fucking temper, motherfucker, and I
will cut you.”

“Whoa. Good to know. Anything else?”

“Well, I can burp the alphabet. And I don’t flinch
when men fart around me—the sound of men farting is just white
noise to me at this point, like a sound machine that lulls me to
sleep.”

I laugh. “Wow.”

“Yup.”

“What about girlie stuff? Tell me some of that stuff
so I don’t start imagining you hiding a dick and balls under
there.”

“Well, let’s start with the biggest girlie thing of
all: I have a
vagina
.”

“That’s definitely a biggie. Glad to hear it.”

“Oh, and here’s something. I like saying the word
vagina
. Vagina, vagina, vagina. I say it a lot.
Vagina
.”

“Actually, I think that’s another dude thing.
Vagina, vagina, vagina. See? I like saying it, too.
Vagina.
”

“Or maybe that’s a
girlie
thing about
you
.”

“Hmm. I never thought of it that way.
Vagina
.
Hmm. I dunno. You may be right.”

“Have you noticed people never say that word?” she
says. “Why is that?”

“Because they’re pussies,” I reply.

She laughs.

“What else?” I ask. “Tell me something really girlie
about you that’ll prove you’ve got a
vagina
under there,
once and for all.”

“Okay. Well, I’m a sucker for sequins and
fringe.”

“You and Neil Diamond. That proves nothing.”

She laughs. “Good point. You’re right. Okay. Let’s
see. Pink is my favorite color.” She looks up at the ceiling,
thinking. “I love getting pedicures and doing yoga and drinking
white wine. Oh, and eating cupcakes. That’s all pretty girlie.”