“You slept with Cameron Schulz?” he blurts. “The baseball player?”
My eyes dart to the coffee table, searching frantically for Josh’s note—but it’s not where I left it. Goddammit!
Dax holds up Josh’s card between his two fingers like he’s holding a cigarette, a wicked smirk on his face.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I say evenly, pointing to the door.
Dax tosses the card onto my kitchen counter. “Wow, Jizz,” he says smoothly. “You’re my fucking hero, dude.”
19
KAT
The minute the door closes behind Dax’s back, I pull out my laptop from my carry-on bag, log in remotely to my firm’s network, and check the shared calendar, trying to figure out when I can realistically commit to a trip to L.A. to see Josh.
Based on the workload I’m seeing on the firm’s calendar, I seriously shouldn’t go for at least a month. I was in Las Vegas way longer than I ever expected to be, and, based on what I’m seeing on my firm’s calendar, my absence has quite obviously been felt. Dang it. If I’m gonna stay at this job, I really should take a chill pill on skipping town for a while. But am I gonna stay at this job or open my own firm in the near future? That’s the million-dollar question. And if Iamgonna start my own thing, then I suppose in good conscience I really shouldn’t sit for too much longer on my company’s payroll while I’m getting my own ducks in a row. Shoot. I’ve got some big-girl decisions to make.
I flip into my personal calendar, just to see if there’s something requiring my attention here at home next week. Whoa. Today’s theeighteenth? All this time, I’ve been thinking it was the seventeenth. I look up sharply from my screen. Wait. Did I miss taking a birth control pill somewhere along the line this past week?
I quickly rummage into my bag and pull out my pills. Oh crap. Yeah, I missed a day. Well, it’s no wonder with the crazy hours Josh and I kept in Vegas. Who could keep track of day and night the way we were going?
Quickly, I pop one of my pills to make up for my lapse. It really shouldn’t make that big a difference, right? It’s just one day. In fact, I’m pretty sure the pill I missed was yesterday.
Okay, back to the calendar. It looks like I can head down to L.A. on Thursday of next week. But should I give notice at my job before I leave? Gah. I just don’t know. It’d be a huge leap of faith. I’m conflicted.
I take a deep breath and click into my email account, poised to send Josh a quick email giving him my proposed dates and thanking him for his latest gift, when I think, “Hey, I should attach a photo of the Sybian to my thank-you email so Josh can see that it arrived.”
I pull out my phone to snap a quick photo of the machine sitting in the middle of the room, but then I get an even better idea: “Hey, I should take a photo ofmesitting onthe Sybian, smiling happily for the camera.”
One side of my mouth hitches up with an even better idea: “I should pose on the machine buck naked.”
My smile widens. I’ll send Josh a naked photo of myself as if I were one of the hookers in The Club.
Yes.
Surprisingly, I’ve never sent a man a naked-selfie before (mainly because my mom always put the fear of God into me that any naked photo I’d send, no matter how much I might trust the guy at the time, would eventually wind up on hotgirls.com after things went south in the relationship). But when it comes to Josh, I don’t think for one minute he’d betray me, ever, come what may. Hey, if one of the world’s top models trusts Josh with a photo of herself sticking her hand up her cooch, then surely, a non-celebrity like me can trust him, too.
I peel off my clothes, situate myself suggestively on the saddle of my new machine, raise my phone above my head, and snap a photo, giggling to myself as I do—and when I survey the resulting photo, I laugh out loud. Well, if I’m going for “treat me like one of the whores in The Club,” then I’ve definitely succeeded with this shot.
I grab my laptop and sit on my couch, still completely nude, and begin writing an email with the photo attached:
“Dear Mr. Faraday,” I write. “Thank you for your application to The Katherine Ulla Morgan Club, also known as the KUM Club, also known as the Fantasy Fulfillment Club. We have reviewed the sexual preferences you described in your application and have determined that you are, indeed, one helluva sick fuck, Mr. Faraday. But do notfret because, as it turns out, we absolutely adore sick fucks here at The KUM Club. In fact, lucky for you, our most sought-after girl at The KUM Club strongly prefers sick fucks above all other freaks and perverts—and guess what, you lucky bastard? She’s a blonde!
“The fantasy-provider to whom I refer goes by many code names, including The Jealous Bitch and Madame Terrorist to name a few, but the code name she strongly prefers the most is Party Girl with a Hyphen (abbreviated herein as ‘PGWH’).
“As mentioned, PGWH isby farour most popular and coveted fantasy-provider. Wise and powerful men the world over, including sheiks, kings, politicians, and professional athletes (including Cameron Schulz, the shortstop for the Seattle Mariners!!!) clamor for this woman’s valuable services. And it’s no wonder: it is said PGWH can give a man a blowjob that will make him weep with joy like a newborn lamb.
“PGWH is very selective of her clients, but she has viewed your photos and determined she would be willing to bestow her remarkable talents upon you. If you desire this talented and coveted blonde woman’s services (as every other wise and powerful man from around the globe does), then PGWH would beveryexcited to make your every fantasy come true. In fact, she’d like nothing better (as long as you pay her eminently reasonable fee, addressed below).
“Mr. Faraday, PGWH is the top fantasy-provider in the world. As I’m sure you can understand, a woman like that doesn’t come cheap. Indeed, you’ll have to pay handsomely to experience PGWH’s charms: onemilliondollars per night.
“Perhaps you’re thinking this price seems a tad high for one night of mind-blowing pleasure with the most sought-after call girl in the entire world (even for amill-i-on-airemany times over such as yourself), but please rest assured PGWH is well worth this fee. In fact, weguaranteethat by the end of your night with this woman, you’ll declare, without the slightest reservation, ‘You’re worth every fucking penny, baby.’
“Considering your very specific requirements stated in your application, we’ve attached a photo of PGWH for your approval. We hope you’ll find her to be a genuine Gucci bag among counterfeits sold on the sidewalks of New York—the ‘divine original’ of your blonde-girl fantasies.
“Assuming PGWH meets your approval, she’s available to meet you in Los Angeles on Thursday the twenty-fifth for a long weekend. Please reply with details about yourrendezvous, including the location of the hotel you’ve arranged, when and under what name she should pick up her room key, etc. (whatever types of details you supplied when arranging trysts during your month-long membership in the far inferior Mickey Mouse Roller Coaster Club).
“We cannot emphasize enough that PGWH wishes to experience what you’ve outlined in your application, exactly the way you’ve described it (because she’s a high-end call girl, you might recall, and not just a woman who works at a PR firm going on a date with the hottest guy ever).
