The Revelation (21 page)

The windshield wipers are going back and forth at
full speed, lulling me into a kind of trance.

I don’t care what Josh says—we’re definitely not
even
when it comes to the two of us bestowing gifts and
favors on each other. I joined our
Ocean’s Eleven
crew to
protect Sarah and possibly myself, too—not to mention to get a free
trip to Las Vegas with my best friend. Yes, everything wound up
blowing up and becoming way, way bigger than any of us had ever
imagined, but still... Josh keeps doing stuff for me,
personally
, and I most definitely didn’t save the world for
him specifically. There’s no way around it: all I’ve done is take,
take, take from Josh, letting him give, give, give to me ’til he’s
blue in his ridiculously gorgeous face. And I’ve done absolutely
nothing to deserve his generosity or express my gratitude. In fact,
I’m getting perilously close to becoming a total user-abuser, if
I’m not already there. But what gift can I possibly give to Josh
that would come even close to everything he’s already given to
me?

My heart is throbbing in my ears. My chest is
tight.

I already know the answer, of course. It’s not a big
mystery: his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies served up on a
silver platter.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to give him. Right
down the line.

Of course, giving Josh complete sexual satisfaction,
no matter what form that comes in, isn’t some sort of noble or
charitable pursuit on my part—ha! It will be my sublime pleasure to
give Josh exactly what he desires in the bedroom, a gift to myself
as much as him. Hell yeah, it will.

And it’s not all the gifts and money Josh has given
me that’s making me feel this way, either. Nate used to shower me
with gifts, too (though on a much smaller scale), and I never once
physically ached for him the way I’m aching for Josh right now. I
never once daydreamed about feeling Nate pushing himself deep
inside me, or closed my eyes and imagined his warm tongue on my
clit, or fantasized about waking up in Nate’s arms and wordlessly
taking his morning wood into my mouth.

I breathe deeply, arousal suddenly seeping into my
panties.

I never once felt a near-desperate urge to fuck Nate
any which way he likes it, literally,
any which way
, no
matter how dirty or naughty it might be, or felt the urge to make
his desires my own, or fantasized about sitting on his face or
riding his cock ’til I’m screaming his name. And I certainly never
once imagined Nate sitting at the dinner table with my family on
Thanksgiving, or on the couch with my brothers, watching the
Seahawks and eating my mom’s famous chili.

I gasp and jerk forward in my seat, clutching my
throat like I’m choking on a chicken bone. Oh my fucking shit. What
am I thinking? I want to take Josh home to meet my family? I
haven’t taken anyone home since Garrett.

I stare at the rain battering the window of the
taxicab, still clutching my throat, trying desperately to think of
some logical reason why I’m feeling like a tortured, lovesick puppy
that doesn’t involve falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor
(who, in case I missed it, just told me in not-so-secret code he’s
not at all interested in a long-term commitment). But I can’t come
up with a damned thing.

I’m falling for the world’s most eligible
bachelor.

Oh God.

No. I need to stop feeling this way right now and
get a handle on my emotions. I press both of my palms on my cheeks,
willing myself to stop feeling this all-consuming ache. Infatuation
is fine. Sexual attraction is fine. We’ll-see-where-this-goes is
perfectly fine. Really liking someone a whole lot is perfectly
fine. But risking inevitable, shattering heartbreak is emphatically
not
.

Dude, I need to think rationally, with my brain, and
not my lady-parts.

I’m in lust, and nothing more. Well, that and very
strong like. Very, very strong like. But once I get back to work
and the routine of my real life, once the neon lights and
excitement of our spy-caper-porno in Las Vegas have faded for both
of us and reality sets in and we remember that Josh and I live not
just in different states but in different
worlds
—because I’m
not a supermodel and my mom isn’t a movie star with houses in the
Hamptons and Aspen, for crying out loud—I’m sure my
fairytale-delusions will crash down to reality without a
parachute.

Indubitably
.

Kat

When I enter my apartment, my youngest brother, Dax,
is on the couch, playing his guitar and singing a song I’ve never
heard before. When he sees me, he sets down his guitar and lopes
over to me, his lean muscles taut in his tight-fitting T-shirt.

“Jizz,” he says warmly, wrapping me in a big hug.
“Welcome to my humble abode.”

I kiss his cheek. “Hey, baby brother,” I say.
“Thanks for keeping my apartment safe and sound.”

“It was hard work, but somebody had to do it. Was
Vegas a blast?”

“Yeah, it was amazing.”

“How much money did you lose?”

“Oh, not too much,” I say coyly. “So, hey, was that
a new song you were just playing?”

“Yeah, I was just fine-tuning it. It’s not done
yet.”

“Play me what you’ve got.” I lead him to the couch
and we sit.

“Naw, I’ll play it for you when I’ve got it
finished.”

“I won’t criticize it. Just play me what you
got.”

His face lights up. “Well, if you insist.”

I laugh. “I do.”

Dax picks up his guitar and plays an up-tempo song
about looking for love in the anonymous faces he passes on a busy
city street—and his expressive voice and vulnerable lyrics
transport me with every word and note.

“Wistful, hopeful, funny, romantic, and lonely all
at the same time,” I say when he’s done. “I absolutely love
it.”

“Yeah, but you love everything I write.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sincere.”

He grins. “So, hey, I got your mail for you.” He
slides a stack of mail on the coffee table toward me.

“Oh, thanks. I never thought I’d be gone so long.” I
start rifling through the stack. “Bills, bills, bills. Credit card
offers. Coupons. Catalogs. Doesn’t look like I missed—” I look up.
Oh. I’m talking to myself. Dax isn’t in the room. I look back down
at the stack of mail and continue sorting it.

I hear a thudding noise in the center of the room
and look up just in time to see Dax straightening up from putting
down a heavy-looking box. “This bad boy got delivered a couple
hours ago,” he says. “From someone named J.W. Faraday.”

My skin pricks with goose bumps. “Oh, okay, thanks,”
I say, trying to sound casual—but, oh my God, the size of that box
sure looks familiar. I pop up off the couch, intending to shoo Dax
away, because, oh my God, if that box contains what I think it
does, there’d better not be any markings on the outside to give it
away.

“And, of course, I already opened the box for you,
sis,” Dax continues, “just to be super-duper helpful.”

A weird screech of anxiety escapes my throat.

Dax chuckles. “Whoever this J.W. Faraday guy is,
he’s
awfully
generous—and somewhat of a perv, too, it
seems.”

“You
opened
it?” I blurt angrily.

“Of course, I did. I’d never make my sister open a
big ol’
box
all by herself with her own two fragile hands.
I’m a
gentleman
.” He opens the already-cut flaps of the box
with a wide smile and pulls out a humongous assortment of
dildo-attachments, all packaged together in a clear plastic bag.
“So many dicks to choose from, Jizz. I don’t know how you’ll
decide.” He places the dildos on my coffee table with a wide
smile.

“Oh my God,” I say, my cheeks burning. I can’t
breathe. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. But Dax
isn’t done with me. He reaches inside the box, pulls out the main
event, and places it carefully on the floor.

At the sight of my brand new Sybian, my face
explodes with instant heat, both from excitement and embarrassment,
but I force myself to remain calm. Dax might have no idea what a
Sybian is, I tell myself—I’d certainly never heard of one before
last week when Josh rented one for me.

“This is the first time I’m seeing a Sybian in
person,” Dax says, standing over it with his hands on his hips.

I throw my hands over my face, completely mortified.
I can’t believe my baby brother’s here to witness this gift from
Josh. Nightmare.

“It’s really quite the feat of modern engineering,”
he says.

I don’t reply.

Dax laughs. “So who the fuck is this guy, Jizz?”

I still don’t reply.

“Aw, come on. It’s just me.”

As I often do, I decide my best defense is a good
offense. “I can’t believe you opened my personal stuff, Dax!” I
yell, throwing my hands up in outrage.

But Dax completely ignores my outburst—a tactic I’ve
seen him employ too many times to count (and a tactic I’ve copied
and used to great success myself). In fact, he’s smiling serenely
at me. “I think Sybians cost like fifteen hundred bucks,” he says.
“Gosh, you must have done something awfully nice to J.W. Faraday to
make him wanna send you such an expensive gift.”

I open my mouth to yell at him, but nothing comes
out. I’m so freaking embarrassed, I can’t speak.

Dax bursts out laughing. “Oh, looks like I hit the
nail on the head, huh? Well, whatever you did to the guy, you
apparently did it very, very well.” He buckles over laughing.

“You’re so gross, Dax. Stop it.”

But he won’t stop laughing.

“Stop it.”

Nope. He’s thoroughly amused.

“You had absolutely no business opening that box.” I
march over to him in a huff and punch him in the shoulder. “Did the
label on the package say ‘David Jackson Morgan’?
No
, it
didn’t.”

He scoffs. “Close enough—it was stamped ‘Personal
& Confidential.’ Hell, the damn thing might as well have said,
‘Open me, Dax.’”

I can’t help but smile broadly, even through my
pissiness. That’s my line, of course. Dax and I have always shared
a brain.

Dax shrugs. “Seriously, a guy can’t see a big ol’
box sent to his
sister
, addressed to ‘Katherine
Ulla
Morgan,’ no less,
and
marked ‘
Personal &
Confidential
’ and not open it, for crying out loud. Gimme a
break, Jizz—I’m but a man, not a saint.”

My irritation is softening. Goddamn my baby brother,
I can never stay mad at him for long. “Just don’t tell everybody
about this, okay? It’s really personal.”

He scoffs. “Of course not. I’d never tell any of our
brothers about any of this.”

I laugh. “You tell them everything, Dax, especially
Keane.”

“I don’t tell Peen
everything.
I only tell
him about my music and girls—”

“Like I said, ‘everything.’”

“But I never tell him your stuff. Seriously, Jizz, I
never do.” His eyes are earnest. “I swear.” He flashes me an
adorable puppy-dog smile. “You aren’t really pissed at me for
opening your box, are you?”

I roll my eyes. “No,” I say begrudgingly. “But never
do it again.”

He crosses his heart. “The next time a guy with a
lord-of-the-manor name sends a big box marked ‘personal &
confidential’ to Katherine Ulla Morgan at your apartment, and I’m
here all alone when the delivery comes, I swear to God I will not
open it before you get home. So who is this ‘J.W. Faraday’ chap?”
he asks, saying Josh’s name with a Queen-Elizabeth-British accent.
“Sounds like a guy with a butler.”

I plop down on the couch and Dax follows suit,
settling himself right next to me. I grab his hand (something I’ve
been doing ever since Mom brought him home from the hospital for
the first time when I was four), and I lean my cheek against his
strong shoulder.

“Joshua William Faraday,” I breathe, my heart
skipping a beat as I say the words.

“So you know each other’s middle names, huh? Sounds
serious, brah.”

I don’t reply. Dax is being flippant, I think—but
his comment hits on the exact thing I can’t stop wondering: Is this
thing with Josh something serious or are we having some sort of
extended fling?

“Hey, by the way,” Dax says, “you’ll probably wanna
read this.” He holds up a small sealed envelope. “It was inside the
box.”

I snatch the envelope from him, hyperventilating.
Oh, thank God, it’s still sealed.

“It pained me not to read it,” Dax says. “It really
did. But I figure there are some lines even I shouldn’t cross,
seeing as how you’re my sister and all.”

I tear open the envelope, pull out a typewritten
note (taking great care to keep it out of Dax’s line of sight), and
read as fast as my eyes can manage:

“My Dearest Party Girl with a Hyphen,” Josh’s note
says. “I hope you get lots and lots of enjoyment from your new toy.
Please make use of it every day when I can’t be there personally to
make you scream. While you use it, I want you to imagine it’s me
who’s fucking you, nice and slow, and whispering into your ear as I
do about how amazing you feel, how dripping wet you are for me, and
how much you turn me on.”

Holy shitballs.

My breathing has suddenly become labored.

“Until we meet again,” Josh continues in his note,
“I want you to use your new toy every time you feel even the
slightest bit horny or lonely. (Because even when I can’t be with
you in person, I’m determined to keep my hot-wired Party Girl with
a Hyphen completely satisfied—wouldn’t want her feeling even
remotely tempted to fuck Cameron Schulz again, now would I?)

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again very soon
and making each and every one of your (highly detailed) sexual
fantasies come true.
Exclusively
yours, Playboy.”