The Revelation (23 page)

Dax tilts his head like he’s not sure he heard me
correctly.

I giggle. “Reed
owns
a record label, Dax.
Like, he literally
owns
it—
and RCR is one of his
bands
.”

Dax is looking at me like I’ve just proved time
travel is real. “And you partied with him?” he asks, incredulous.
“You partied with the owner of a record label?”

I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “
Twice
.” I
hold up two fingers for emphasis.

Dax’s thoughts are clearly racing. “So... oh my God.
Does this Reed guy know your name or did you just sort of, you
know, shake hands in a crowded bar?”

“No, we totally hung out. Had real conversations. He
called me Stubborn Kat.”

Dax makes a face of total confusion.

“They were all joking that Stubborn Kat is like some
kind of
Garfield
rip-off. ‘Oh no, Stubborn Kat ate all the
curly fries and now she won’t get off the couch!’” I say by way of
explanation, but he still looks nonplussed. “Never mind. I just
mean we totally hung out and became friends. I went to his party
the first night and then out to dinner with him and his friends a
second night.”

Dax runs his hands through his hair, totally
freaking out. “Listen to me, Jizz.” His eyes are blazing. “This
could be a really lucky break for me.
Fuck
. Oh my God.” He
bites his lip. “Do you think you could send this Reed guy my demo?
Or would that make Sir J.W. Faraday feel like you’re just using him
to get to Reed?”

I laugh. “Um, there’s no way in hell Josh would ever
think I’m using him to get to Reed.”

Dax’s face lights up. “So you’ll send him my
demo?”

I sigh and shake my head solemnly. “Sorry, Dax. No.
I don’t feel comfortable sending Reed your demo. I’m sorry.”

Dax is obviously crestfallen but trying to hide it.
“It’s okay,” he says evenly. “Yeah, no problem. I totally
understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“But only because that demo doesn’t show how totally
awesome
you are!” I add brightly. “Only because we’ve got
this one amazing chance to make an
awesome
first impression
with the guy who owns Red Card Riot’s record label and we’re
totally gonna blow him outta the water!”

He looks like I’ve punched him and kissed him all at
once. “Yeah, but that demo’s all I’ve got—at least for now. I’m
working on it, but it’s gonna be a while.”

“How much do you still need?” I ask.

For as long as I can remember, Dax and his band (but
mostly Dax) have been saving their pennies to record a full-length
studio album of his songs with full instrumentation. But saving
that kind of money—fifteen thousand bucks, he estimates, to record
and produce the album exactly the way he wants it—is an awfully
tall order for a group of twenty-something musicians living
hand-to-mouth by playing bars and festivals.

“I had almost three thousand saved, but then my bike
totally crapped out on me so I’m basically back to square one.”

“So you still need about fifteen grand or so?”

“Well, we could certainly record an album for less
if we cut some corners on production value. Or I guess we could
just do a few songs instead of a full album—or maybe another basic
demo.” He puffs out his cheeks like a puffer fish, thinking. “But I
really didn’t wanna do another demo—been there done that—I wanted
to put together a full album that showcases who we are and what we
can do.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. Maybe I should
just record a quick demo with my acoustic guitar on my iPad, just
so you have something current to send to the guy before he forgets
who you are—”

“Nope. We’re not gonna send Reed a demo, Dax.” I
pull a thick envelope out of my purse and plop it onto the coffee
table with a thud. “Because you’re recording a full album.”

“What’s that?”

“Open it.”

Dax opens the envelope and peeks inside. “Oh my...
What the fuck is this? Did you rob a bank?”

I smirk. Oh, if only Dax knew how spot-on that
comment is. I’d originally planned to use this wad of cash to pay
off my credit cards and car, of course, but that was before I found
out I’m gonna be a
mill-i-on-aire
.

“Where the fuck did you get this kind of cash?” Dax
asks, his eyes wide.

“Playing craps,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s
almost twenty grand there, baby. Enough for whatever album you’ve
been dreaming of making plus a bit extra for bells and whistles:
strings, horns, a freaking choir—whatever. Or maybe PR for the
album when you release it or a down payment on a new bike.
Whatever
. It’s yours. Go forth and prosper.”

“How the fuck did you win twenty grand playing
craps
?” Dax asks. “How is that even possible? You must have
been betting, like, hundreds of bucks per roll—maybe even
thousands.”

“Yeah, well, Josh spotted me some gambling money and
then his brother walked away from the table and gave me all his
chips. So, actually, I didn’t win any of this money fair and
square. But Josh insisted I keep it, so whaddayagonnado?” I shrug.
“And now it’s yours.”

“Wait a minute. The dude
gave
you
twenty
grand and you’re not sure if he’s
serious
about you? Are you mentally deficient?”

I wave him off. “No, trust me. You don’t know Josh.
Just because he’s crazy-generous and he gave me an insane amount of
money doesn’t necessarily mean he wants a serious relationship with
me. He has a warped sense of reality when it comes to money. The
guy wears two-thousand-dollar shoes (which, true story, I barfed on
one night).
He drives a frickin’ Lamborghini, Dax.
The guy’s
not normal.”

“Dude, I don’t care how rich he is or what shoes he
wears or what car he drives. If a guy gives a woman, especially a
woman he’s sleeping with, twenty grand, then he thinks she’s one of
two things: a
very
high-priced hooker or the woman of his
dreams.”

My heart skips a beat. Damn, my brother has a knack
for hitting the nail right on the head sometimes.

Dax picks up the envelope and begins counting the
hundred-dollar bills inside, shaking his head with awe as he does.
When he’s finally done counting, he looks up at me, his eyes
glistening. “Thank you so much, Kat,” he says. “I’ll repay you one
day, I swear to God, every last penny.” His voice breaks adorably.
“I’m gonna do everything in my power to make you proud of me,
Kat.”

I grin from ear-to-ear. It’s so rare that Dax calls
me Kat. With him, I’m always Jizz or sis (or Splooge or Protein
Shake if he’s feeling particularly silly). He must feel uniquely
overcome right now to be addressing me by my real name.

“You never need to pay me back,” I say. “It was
never my money in the first place. And I’m already proud of you.
All I want is for you to make the exact album you wanna make—no
holding back.”

He lurches at me and wraps me in a fervent hug. “I
love you, Kat. You’re my all-time favorite sister.”

I laugh and kiss his cheek, my eyes stinging. “I
love you, too. You’re my all-time favorite baby brother.”

We hold each other for a long beat.

“Now get the fuck out of my house, you mooch,” I
say, pulling away from our embrace and wiping my eyes. “I’ve got a
thank-you email to write to our mutual benefactor, and then I’ve
got a hot date with a certain piece of motorized machinery.”

Dax laughs. “No shit, you do.” He rubs his eyes.
“Thanks so much, Kat. I’ll never forget this as long as I
live.”

“I didn’t do it so you’d owe me something. I did it
because watching you make your dreams come true will be the same
thing as making my own dream come true.”

He wipes his eyes again. “I’ll make you proud,
sis.”

“You already have.”

There’s a beat. We’re smiling at each other like
simpletons. I think this is one of the best moments of my life. Way
better than if I’d received something amazing for myself.

“Now get the fuck out,” I say. “You’re cramping my
style.”

He kisses me on the cheek again, shoves his guitar
into its case, scoops up his envelope full of cash, and strides
toward my front door. But a few feet from the door, he stops short
and looks down for a very long beat, his back still to me.

When Dax finally whirls around to face me, I’m
expecting him to thank me again, or maybe say something deep and
poignant—but that’s not what happens.

“
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.”

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 I
am
gonna 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 the
eighteenth
? 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 of
me
sitting on
the 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 not fret 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 is
by far
our 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.