The Revelation (22 page)

“Oh. My. God,” I say breathlessly. My crotch is
exploding with arousal in my panties and I’m panting like a
Pekingese running a hundred-yard dash.

“What does it say?” Dax asks.

I press the note against my chest. “It says, ‘It’s
none of your frickin’ business, Dax Morgan.’”

“Aw, come on.”

“No way.”

He makes a wry face. “So what’s the status with you
two—are you in a relationship or... ?”

“I have no freaking idea what our status is.
Whatever we’re doing defies standard labeling.”

“The guy sends you a fifteen-hundred-dollar gift and
you don’t know the status? That’s a lot of money to spend on a gift
for some chick you’re just hanging out with.”

I shrug. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Are you at least dating?”

I sigh. “Yeah. I think so. I mean we’ve both made it
clear we’re really into each other. But I don’t know where things
are headed—he gets really skittish the minute he feels like he’s
being penned in. But on the other hand we agreed to be
exclusive.”

“You’re exclusive? Well, then it’s way beyond
dating.”

I sigh. “One would think. But we’re exclusive only
temporarily. It’s hard to explain.”

“
Temporarily
exclusive? That’s a new one. I
gotta steal that.”

“It was me who suggested it.”

He flashes me a look that says, “You’re an
idiot.”

I rub my face. “This week was just a unique set of
circumstances. We were together day and night, doing this crazy
thing to help Sarah, and it was this incredible, fairytale
existence. It’s like we were in the fantasy suite on
The
Bachelor
for an entire week—and my feelings for him were so
freaking intense and surreal—and now it’s like the show is over and
the cameras are off and it’s back-to-reality time.”

Dax nods.

I shake my head. “I just don’t know if what we felt
in Vegas will translate to real life. Plus, he lives in L.A. and
travels a ton and I’m here, obviously. So, I dunno, it might be
kinda tough to keep the fantasy alive.”

Dax motions to the Sybian. “Looks like he’s giving
it the ol’ college try.”

I bite my lip to suppress a huge smile.

“I must say, giving you a Sybian as a gift is an
interesting choice—he could have gone with shoes or a purse.”

“Oh, he did. Both.”

“And you still don’t know if he’s serious about you?
I think you might be overanalyzing things here. The guy’s making
his feelings pretty clear.”

I sigh. “I don’t wanna get my hopes up.”

“This is so unlike you. Why are you being
so...?”

“Analytical?”

“Annoying.”

I make a face. “I don’t know. Josh and I are just so
incredibly...” I was about to say
sexual
, but then I
remember I’m talking to my little brother, not to Sarah.
“
Physical
,” I say, opting for a tamer word to finish my
sentence. “The physical chemistry is so off the charts, it makes me
wonder if I’m just in some sort of hormone-induced coma and not
seeing things clearly.”

“Just because you have incredible physical chemistry
with the guy doesn’t mean it’s not serious, too,” he says.

“So I’ve heard. But from what I’ve seen personally,
at least as an adult, it’s one or the other.”

He pulls back and looks at me, stupefied. “Are you
serious?” he asks.

I nod.

“Jizz, that’s fucked up. How’d you get so fucked
up?”

I shrug.

“You can have off-the-charts physical chemistry
without it being ‘serious,’ for sure—and thank God for that.” He
snickers. “But it doesn’t work the other way around: you absolutely
cannot
have something serious if you don’t have physical
chemistry. The fact that you think it’s one or the other is so
fucked up, it’s pathetic. It’s like you’ve got a... what’s the word
I’m looking for... that complex thing?”

I make a face. “A Madonna-whore complex?”

“Exactly. Only in reverse. What’s it called when a
woman thinks that about a guy?”

“A Jesus-manwhore complex?”

We both laugh.

“Yeah, I don’t think society has a cute little
phrase for when it’s a guy.”

“What about that Nate guy?” Dax asks. “You guys were
pretty serious, right?”

“Serious, yes, but we were sort of blah in the
physical department,” I say. “At least it was blah for me.”

“Ooph. I think maybe you
do
have a
Madonna-whore complex when it comes to guys, sis, whatever it’s
called—like you somehow think the guys who turn you on the most
can’t possibly be boyfriend material.”

I make a face. He might have a point there. Hmm.

“But that’s the whole point of this grand experiment
we call life—finding the serious stuff
and
the physical
stuff all rolled up together into one fucking awesome person.

“How’d you get so deep at such a tender age?” I
ask.

Dax grabs my hand and kisses it, a move that
instantly makes me think of Josh.

“That’s not even a remotely deep thing to say, sis,”
Dax says. “It’s pretty fucking basic. I think maybe you’re just
particularly stupid when it comes to relationships.”

I know Dax is kidding, sort of, but I think he might
be on to something here—I think I might very well be particularly
stupid when it comes to relationships involving me. “I think when
the sex is crazy-good-off-the-charts with a guy, it makes me kinda
skittish in a twisted way,” I say. “Like I think things are too
good to be true—and then I start shutting down emotionally to
protect myself and the whole thing becomes a self-fulfilling
prophecy.”

Dax squeezes my hand but doesn’t reply.

“The thing is, with this guy Josh, the physical part
is so freaking good, he could be Jeffrey Dahmer and I’d be like,
‘Oh, em, gee, Jeff, you’re such a sweetheart!’”

Dax laughs.

“And that scares me. I feel like I might have a huge
blind spot. But on top of that, horror of horrors, he’s funny and
sweet and generous, too, and he makes me feel really special.” I
shake my head. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out if he’s
really as perfect as he seems? Or if this is just too good to be
true.”

“Well, have you seen any chopped up body parts in
his freezer?”

“No, but I haven’t been to his house yet. Stay
tuned.”

“He lives in L.A.?”

I nod.

“What does he do?”

“He runs some sort of investment company with his
brother and uncle. Other than that, he climbs rocks with his
brother and parties with rock stars and supermodels. Get this: he
used to date Gabrielle LeMonde’s daughter.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, and that model that’s on all the Victoria’s
Secret commercials—Bridgette something—the blonde with the perfect
body? Her, too.”

“Bridgette
Schmidt
,” Dax says reverently. “Oh
my God. She’s my top desert-island pick. Your guy dated
her
?
Wow.”

“Well, actually, come to think of it, I don’t know
if he
dated
her, but he certainly
did
her.”

“Damn, who the fuck is this guy? Jesus. I guess he’s
a major playah-playah, huh? Maybe that’s the ‘not-so-perfect’ thing
you’re afraid is lurking in the shadows of his tormented soul.”

I sigh. “He’s not as big a playah-playah as he
sounds. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he definitely likes having sex
with gorgeous women—when Josh Faraday is single, he’s apparently
very
single—but I don’t think he’s as much of a playboy as I
initially thought. He had this long-term girlfriend he was really
devoted to... ” I shrug. “But, then again, he had a heart attack on
the phone just now when he thought I was trying to pin him down to
something beyond next week.” I roll my eyes and lean my head back
onto the back of the couch. “Aw, shit, I dunno, Dax. I need to just
chill the fuck out and stop overanalyzing things. I’m acting like a
chick.”

“You totally are. I’ve never seen you act like this.
You know what you need to do?” Dax says. “Tap into your inner Peen.
That’ll cure your chickiness right up.”

“Nobody should ever tap into their inner Peen,” I
say. “Even Peen should stop tapping into his inner Peen.”

We both have a good laugh about that.

“So why did this Faraday guy send you a fucking
Sybian?” Dax asks. “Did you lose a bunch of money to him in a
high-stakes poker game and now you’ve gotta do porn to pay off your
debt?”

“He’s not a porn king, Dax. Gimme some credit. He’s
this—I don’t even know what he does, actually. Google him. His
company is called Faraday & Sons—Joshua Faraday.”

Dax pulls out his phone and Googles while I
talk.

“It’s some sort of investment thing. He travels all
the time, looking at potential companies to buy—I don’t even know
what he does. He never talks about it.”

“Oh, wow,” Dax says. He’s found the homepage of
Faraday & Sons. “Were these guys genetically engineered by
Monsanto or what? Which one is your guy?”

“The one with the dark hair. The other guy’s his
fraternal twin brother, Jonas—Sarah’s new boyfriend, actually.”

“Whoa, Sarah’s dating Thor?”

“Yeah. And he adores her. I’ve never seen two people
more into each other in all my life.”

“Aw, good for her.” He scrutinizes the photo for a
long beat. “Well, now I can see why you’re feeling a tad bit
confused. I’m completely straight and
I’d
do him, especially
if he bought me a dress and shoes and a Sybian.”

I laugh.

Dax continues scrutinizing the photo. “He’s exactly
your type, only the best-looking version of it I’ve ever seen. He
looks a lot like that football-player dude you dated in high
school.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’ve got a
type.”

“What was his name again?”

“Kade.”

“That’s right. He looks like he could be Kade’s
older, better-looking brother.” Dax looks up from the phone and
appraises me with sympathetic eyes. “Poor, Jizz. I don’t know how
any woman could figure out if she had actual feelings around this
guy. He must leave a wake of exploded ovaries wherever he
goes.”

“Exactly,” I say. “I told you—the dude could keep a
severed head in his fridge and I’d totally reach behind it to get
myself a Diet Coke while giggling at something he just said.”

Dax laughs and looks at his phone again. “Yeah, both
of ’em are just stupid-good-looking. It’s like God fell asleep at
the ‘good looking’ switch and didn’t move on to the next guy on the
conveyor belt like he was supposed to.”

“And I just spent a week with him in freaking
Las
Vegas
of all places—and all expenses paid, too. No wonder I
can’t distinguish fantasy from reality. The whole thing was like a
fairytale.”

“Snow White and the Seven Sybians.”

“How the hell do you even know what a Sybian is, by
the way?”

He scoffs. “Dude, I’m twenty and I’m a guy,” he
says, as if this answers my question.

I shrug.

“Every twenty-something-year-old male in America
knows what a Sybian is—it’s a porn staple. Howard Stern even has
one in his studio for female guests to ride. It’s, like, Porn
101.”

“Really? I had no idea. I’d never even heard of one
’til last week.”

“Well, are you a twenty-something-year-old
male?”

“Not the last time I checked.”

“And do you watch a shit-ton of porn?”

“Never.”

“Well, there you go. Now you know why you discovered
the Sybian for the first time while watching porn with Sir J.W.
Faraday.”

I bite my lip. Dax has obviously misunderstood the
circumstances under which Josh first acquainted me with my new
toy—and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a very good thing. No one
ever needs to know I rode that thing for Josh’s pleasure—least of
all my brother. “So, hey, that concludes the ‘What Happens In Vegas
Stays In Vegas’ portion of our program,” I say. “There’s something
that happened in Vegas I actually
want
to tell you about.” I
take a deep breath, a huge smile bursting across my face. “Guess
who I partied with one crazy night while I was there?”

“Who?”

“All four members of Red Card Riot.” I can barely
keep from squealing.

“What?” he bellows, his face the picture of pure
astonishment. “How the
fuck
did that happen?”

I tell him about that night at Reed’s party,
omitting certain key elements such as Jen’s attendance at the party
and my near-naked tantrum in the hallway (because I’m a big
believer that editing one’s life stories in the retelling is a
girl’s prerogative).

“Damn, I wish I could have been there,” Dax says
wistfully, shaking his head. “I would have
loved
to hang
with those guys. Can you imagine what it would feel like to play
for an entire
arena
of people, all of them singing along to
a song you wrote?”

I shake my head, awed by the thought. “When I met
them, they’d just performed on
Saturday Night Live
the prior
week, and the lead-singer guy, Dean, started talking about it with
this rapper guy and all I could think was, ‘God, I wish Dax could
hear this.’”

The look on Dax’s face is so cute right now, I wanna
throw him into a papoose and wear him on my back.

“You lucky bitch,” he mumbles.

“It ain’t no luck, son. I
make
my luck.”

He laughs. “Yes, you do. Always.”

“If RCR comes to Seattle, I’ll totally ask Josh if
his friend Reed might get us backstage—well, if Josh and I are
still doing our ‘temporarily-exclusive’ thing by then, that
is.”

“Who’s Reed? And why would he be able to get us
backstage at a Red Card Riot concert?”

I smile. This is exactly the piece of the story I’ve
been
dying
to tell Dax for days. “Reed’s the guy who threw
the party in Vegas where I met Red Card Riot.”

“How does he know them?”

It’s as if we choreographed this conversation in
advance. “Well, let me see if I remember how he knows them,” I say.
“Hmm.” I look up at the ceiling like I’m deep in thought. “I think
Reed knows Red Card Riot because...
they’re
signed to
his
record label
!”