“I am not a current practitioner of BDSM,” I write. “As I’ve described above, the idea of being tied up as part of my ‘captive’ fantasy interests me—although, I should tell you, I’m not turned on by the idea of being physically harmed in any way.”
Shit. I hope that last part’s not a deal-breaker with Josh. Goddamn, I wish I knew what Josh wrote in his freaking application.
Payment and Membership Terms. Please choose from thefollowing options: One Year Membership, $250,000 USD; Monthly Membership, $30,000 USD. All payments are non-refundable. No exceptions.
“I’d like a one-month membership, please,” I write. “I don’t have $30,000 to pay you for your services, unfortunately—but, hopefully, you’ll find it in your heart to waive your membership fee (or maybe accept services in lieu of payment, heehee?).”
Please provide a detailed explanation about what compelled you to seek membership in The (Josh Faraday) Club.
“I wanna get in your pants.”
I chuckle to myself. That’d be funny if I left it at that. But I’m not going for funny. I’m going for full-scale nuclear decimation of this man.
“Remember how you accused me of dripping down my thigh in that hallway after Reed’s party?” I write. “And remember how I scoffed and said it was just pool water trickling down my leg? Well, I lied. Iwasdripping down my thigh for you, just like you said. Before witnessing your muscled, tattooed body in that hallway, I was already quite fond of masturbation, I must admit—but ever since I saw you in that hallway, Josh, I’ve taken self-love to an art form. I want you so badly I’m in pain, desperate to feel your hard-on sliding deep inside me.
“But I’m not gonna give in to my desire for you without seeing your motherfucking application first. Why? Because it’s not about the application anymore, Josh. It’s about something bigger than that. I don’t want Happy Josh. I want Real Josh. And I’m willing to show you the real Katherine Ulla Morgan to get him.
Please provide a detailed statement regarding your sexual preferences. To maximize your experience in The Club, please be as explicit, detailed, and honest as possible. Please do not self-censor, in any fashion.
“Well, I feel like I’ve already answered this one. I want to read your application, word for word, without censorship of any kind, and then I want you to do whatever freaky things you’ve asked for in your application tome, exactly as described. I want to be your Mickey Mouse roller coaster, Josh—and I want you to be mine. Come on, Josh.YOLO. I’ve told you my secrets. Now it’s time for you to tell me yours.”
Thirty-One
Josh
“We really need to talk to your boss,” Jonas says to the FBI agent sitting across the table from us.
“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen. I’m who you get.”
“I’m Jonas Faraday,” Jonas says smoothly. “And this is my brother, Josh.”
I nod at the guy.
“We run Faraday & Sons in Seattle, L.A. and New York,” Jonas continues. “We’d like to talk to the head of this office.”
The kid shrugs. “I’m the only one available to talk to you, sir. Sorry.”
“How long have you been an agent?” Kat asks.
The guy shifts his attention to Kat in all her blonde glory and his entire demeanor detours from “stop wasting my time, bastard” to “I’d love to help in any way I can.”
“Four months,” he replies, his mouth relaxing into a semi-smile.
“Did you go to Quantico for training like they show in the movies?” Kat asks.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. That’s cool. So what’s your assignment? All I know about the FBI is what I saw inSilence of the Lambs.” Oh my God, Kat’s in full terrorist mode. I can’t help but smirk in admiration.
The agent’s smile broadens. “Well, new agents are assigned to run background checks for the first year, mostly. And, of course, I’m the lucky guy who gets to talk to all the nice people such as yourselves who come in off the streets of Las Vegas to report the crime of the century.”
“Everyone’s gotta start somewhere,” Kat says breezily. Sheleans forward like she’s telling a dirty secret. “So here’s the thing, Agent Sheffield. I’ve come here today off the streets of Las Vegas to report the crime of the century.”
He laughs.
Kat’s face turns serious. “Actually, I’m not kidding. I’m here to report the crime of the century.”
He props his hand under his chin, obviously enthralled by the mere sight of her, as any man would be. “What’s your name?”
