But I’ve got to be careful. Josh is obviously a player of staggering proportions, and I’m not a girl who likes to be chewed up and spit out by any man. If anyone’s gonna do the chewing up and spitting out, then it’s gonna be me. And I’m not so sure I could manage getting the upper hand with a seasoned player like Josh Faraday.
Every article I read about the Faraday brothers when I was snooping around in Jonas’ office the other night (and there were a lot of them) made at least passing reference to Josh’s oversized appreciation for beautiful women. But, of course, I would have figured that out without the benefit of those articles. One quick Google search of the guy revealed he burns through supermodels and reality TV starlets and actresses and daughters of moguls like a Weedwacker. I mean, seriously. The dude’s face is plastered all over the Internetwith strikingly beautiful women at black-tie events and fundraisers and concerts and parties all over the frickin’ world.Jeez. I love to have fun, too, God knows I do—but I’m just a pharmacist’s daughter living in Seattle and working at a PR firm. My idea of fun is going to a karaoke bar with my friends on a Saturday night—not the Cannes Film Festival with Isabel Randolph. Holy shitballs.
And the way he referred to the women in The Club as Mickey Mouse rollercoasters was kinda Douchey McDouchey-pants I gotta say. I’m certainly not one to judge anyone, guy or girl, for enjoyingsex and having a whole frickin’ lot of it—more power to all my horny sistren and brethren—but before I volunteer to be one of Josh Faraday’s many, many rollercoasters, I’d sure like to know what I’d be getting myself into. Holy shitballs. That’s an understatement. I’d give literallyanythingto read that boy’s application to The Club and find out his dirty little secrets.
But first things first: why’d he call? Well, no sense wondering. I’ll just call him back and find out. And, heck, maybe as a condition to saying yes to dinner (if, indeed, that’s what he’s aiming for), I’ll ask him to email me his Club application. Why not? It sure seems like Sarah reading Jonas’ application from the get-go worked out pretty damned well for them.
I take a deep breath. Okay, yes. That’s my strategy. I’ll say yes to dinnerifhe sends me his application. Bold. Ballsy. Kind of obnoxious—but awesome. Yes.
I’m about to press the “call back” button next to Josh’s text, when I remember his voicemail message. I’d better listen to it first before calling him back.
“Kat, this is Josh Faraday,” Josh’s voice says—and the tightness of his tone makes my stomach clench. That’s not the tone of a man calling to ask a girl out on a date. “Please call me right away,” he says. “It’s urgent. Thank you.”
Now I’m confused. What on earth could—
I gasp.
Sarah.
Oh my God. Was Jonas right? Was Sarah actually in grave danger, just like he predicted? I can barely breathe as I push the “call back” button on my phone.
Josh picks up my call immediately. “Kat?” he says, his voice tight.
“What happened, Josh?” I blurt. “Is it Sarah?” I sit down on the edge of my bed, swallowing hard. This is gonna be bad. This is gonna be really, really bad. I know it is. I suddenly feel like I’m gonna throw up.
Josh exhales loudly. “Sarah’s been stabbed.”
“No,” I blurt.
“She’s at the hospital now. Jonas just called me.” His voice wobbles. “She was attacked in a bathroom at school.”
“No.” Tears instantly flood my eyes. “Sarah.”
“I’m trying to get a flight back to Seattle—not having any luck. I need you to get Sarah’s mom and get over to the hospital as soon as possible, okay?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Sarah.”
“Kat. Listen to my voice. I need you to get Sarah’s mom and get over to the hospital as soon as possible. Can you do that for me?”
I take a deep breath and wipe my tears. “Okay.”
“Good girl. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I can’t control my emotions anymore. I lose myself to sobs. “Sarah. Oh my God. No.”
Four
Kat
There’s a raging storm outside Sarah’s hospital window, but the rain is no match for my tears. Oh my God, this is the worst day of my life. Sarah’s my best friend. My partner in crime. My rock. We finish each other’s sentences. We laugh ’til we pee. She’s more than my best friend—she’s mysister. We tell each other everything—or, at least,Itell Sarah everything. I’m not sure it works the other way around. But I’ve never cared about that because that’s just Sarah. She’s this weird mixture of shy and reserved and confident and insecure and hilarious and crazy all at once. There’s just nobody like Sarah Cruz. She’s the absolute best.
And some bastard out therepurposefullyhurtmy girl? Just the thought is making me bawl all over again. How could anyone even think of hurting Sarah of all people? The girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. And someone tried tokillher just because she figured out their stupid sex club is actually a prostitution ring? Who the fuck cares?That’sworth killing the best girl in the world over?
I look across the hospital room at Sarah, asleep in her hospital bed. She’s bandaged and hooked up to tubes and wires and monitors. She looks tiny and pale.
I just can’t believe this is happening.
Sarah’s mom is seated next to Sarah’s bed, asleep and draped over her daughter’s bed. And in the corner of the room, there’s Jonas Faraday, the so-called “boyfriend” himself, sitting in a chair that looks way too small for his large body, his muscled arms crossed over his Seattle Seahawks T-shirt. The poor guy looks horribly pained, even in his sleep—distraught, I’d even say. Gazing at him right now, it’s suddenly perfectly clear I’ve completely misjudged him. I had mydoubts about his intentions toward Sarah, and I told him so, but looking at him now, he sure looks every bit the devoted and loyal boyfriend. Shit. I wish I’d been nicer to him at his house yesterday morning. The guy gave me a computer and I acted like a total bitch. Classic Kat.
