“Bye, Josh.”
I hang up and turn off my phone. For a long beat, I stand in the chilly night air, staring at the traffic whizzing by on the street, my crotch throbbing mercilessly and my heart leaping out of my chest. He’s right. He’s got me right where he wants me—not the other way around—just like every other woman he burns through, I’m sure. Clearly, the man has his pick of every bisexual supermodel and starlet in Hollywood, and I can see why. Well, maybe I’m the first woman who’s gonna teach this Playboy that not all women will say “how high” when a rich, handsome, charismatic studmuffin like Josh Faraday commands, “Jump.”
After a moment, a wide smile spreads across my devious, bitchy, turned-on, intrigued, conniving little face. If Josh wants me, he’s gonna have to work for it—something he’s clearly not used to doing. I’m dying to read his frickin’ application, that’s true, but at this point, that stupid application is more than just an application to a sex club.It’s a brass ring.If this is gonna be a battle of wills, then I’m gonna be the one who wins it.
My smile widens.
Kat Morgan knows two things in this life: men and PR. And, by God, when it comes to Josh Faraday, victory will be mine. Along with his supremely bitable ass.
Nine
Kat
“Hey!” I shout, knocking on the door of Jonas and Sarah’s hotel suite. “Vegas, baby!” I begin pounding maniacally on the door like I’m the Energizer Bunny on speed, which is actually a perfect analogy because I feel high with excitement—out of my mind with unbridled glee. I’m in the Promised Land, baby! My own personal Mecca! And on Jonas’ generous dime, no less. Ha! My hotel room is freaking spectacular—I could never in a million years afford to stay in a hotel like this on my own—plus, as Josh would say, I’m free at last, I’m free at last, thank God almighty, I’mfinallyfree at last of my round-the-clock bodyguards (with Jonas’ permission). Who knew having two grumpy old guys trail your every move for a week and a half could become so freaking suffocating? No wonder Whitney finally fucked Kevin—she just needed to de-stress from having some grouchy guy following her around twenty-four-seven.
And the most exciting thing of all? Sarah’s finally feeling back to her old self again, and then some. When Sarah called yesterday to say, “Pack your bags for Vegas, Kitty Kat—we’re goingOcean’s Elevenon The Club’s motherfucking ass!” I practically peed my pants.
“I’m in!” I shrieked (even though I had absolutely no idea how I could possibly contribute a damned thing to goingOcean’s Elevenon The Club’s motherfucking ass).
“Woot!” Sarah replied.
“Woot!” I shouted back.
“Will it be just you, me, and Jonas?” I asked, trying to sound breezy and nonchalant.
“Who else would be joining us?” Sarah asked coyly.
“Oh, I dunno,” I answered. “No one in particular. Just wondering.”
Sarah laughed. “Well, a certainhackerwill be joining us, if that’s who you’re referring to,” Sarah said, teasing me.
“Oh, that’s good,” I said. “Yeah, we’ll definitely need one of those.”
“Mmm hmm,” Sarah said. “Fo shizzle pops.”
There was a very, very long beat, during which I held my breath and bit the inside of my cheek with anticipation until Sarah burst out laughing.
“Oh, Kitty Kat. Of course, the Playboy’s gonna be there, too. Wherever Jonas goes, Josh goes, too—that’s something as reliable as gravity.”
I exhaled like I’d just surfaced from being held forcibly underwater.
I hate to admit it, but I’ve been going out of my mind thinking about Josh this whole week while he’s been in New York—I can’t remember the last time my Rabbit’s gotten this much action in a single week.
Thankfully, Josh has made it clear he’s been thinking about me, too, though he’s obviously playing his cards close to his vest, the smooth bastard. On the one hand, he’s sent multiple texts this past week, just enough to let me know he’s thinking about me, but, on the other hand, his texts say absolutely nothing. No teasing. No innuendo. No semi-inappropriate photos. Not even any questions about Cameron Fucking Schulz. And, notably, no reference whatsoever to his application, despite my explicit demands for it. Just the occasional, “Hey, Party Girl” and “Whatcha doing, hot stuff?” or “Did you have a nice dream about me last night, PG?”
Of course, I know Josh’s game—I’ve played it a time or two (or three) myself: he’s forcing me to make the first move—breaking me down, making me question his interest. Bush league. He clearly doesn’t understand whom he’s dealing with here.
Well, two can play the “I don’t give a shit” game. Hmmph. All week, I’ve answered each and every one of Josh’s texts with pleasant but brief and noncommittal bullshit. “Hey yourself,” I’ve replied. Or “Oh, nothing, just looking for something interesting to read—hint hint,” or, on occasion, “None of your freaking beeswax, PB.” If Joshthinks I’m gonna chase him like every other girl obviously does, he’s sadly mistaken. And so, to put it mildly, our recent communications have been textually unsatisfying—while subtextually dripping with heat—and the whole situation is making me want to jump his freaking bones.
Bastard.
I continue pounding on Jonas and Sarah’s door, my excitement about to boil over.
“Hey!” I shout again. “Vegassssssss!”
The door to Jonas and Sarah’s room opens abruptly and Sarah’s beaming face greets me.
“Woohoo!” I shriek, throwing my arms around her.
