The Revelation (24 page)

“PGWH is very selective of her clients, but she has
viewed your photos and determined she would be willing to bestow
her remarkable talents upon you. If you desire this talented and
coveted blonde woman’s services (as every other wise and powerful
man from around the globe does), then PGWH would be
very
excited to make your every fantasy come true. In fact, she’d like
nothing better (as long as you pay her eminently reasonable fee,
addressed below).

“Mr. Faraday, PGWH is the top fantasy-provider in
the world. As I’m sure you can understand, a woman like that
doesn’t come cheap. Indeed, you’ll have to pay handsomely to
experience PGWH’s charms: one
million
dollars per night.

“Perhaps you’re thinking this price seems a tad high
for one night of mind-blowing pleasure with the most sought-after
call girl in the entire world (even for a
mill-i-on-aire
many times over such as yourself), but please rest assured PGWH is
well worth this fee. In fact, we
guarantee
that by the end
of your night with this woman, you’ll declare, without the
slightest reservation, ‘You’re worth every fucking penny,
baby.’

“Considering your very specific requirements stated
in your application, we’ve attached a photo of PGWH for your
approval. We hope you’ll find her to be a genuine Gucci bag among
counterfeits sold on the sidewalks of New York—the ‘divine
original’ of your blonde-girl fantasies.

“Assuming PGWH meets your approval, she’s available
to meet you in Los Angeles on Thursday the twenty-fifth for a long
weekend. Please reply with details about your
rendezvous
,
including the location of the hotel you’ve arranged, when and under
what name she should pick up her room key, etc. (whatever types of
details you supplied when arranging trysts during your month-long
membership in the far inferior Mickey Mouse Roller Coaster
Club).

“We cannot emphasize enough that PGWH wishes to
experience what you’ve outlined in your application, exactly the
way you’ve described it (because she’s a high-end call girl, you
might recall, and not just a woman who works at a PR firm going on
a date with the hottest guy ever).

“So let’s talk logistics. In your application, you
requested fulfillment of two different fantasies. We are happy to
inform you that, with just a few minor tweaks to your requests,
PGWH is willing (and quite excited) to deliver both to you, on two
separate nights of her stay in Los Angeles (which means, yes, this
high-end call girl’s gonna cost you a grand total of
two
million bucks). So let’s talk about those minor tweaks:

“Regarding your first scenario, PGWH agrees to be
part of the two-woman scenario you’ve requested, but she’s not game
for both women to be naked when you first arrive to the hotel room.
She might need a little coaxing to get the show on the road, so to
speak, but she’s confident a little alcohol and the sight of your
gorgeous, turned-on face will be all that’s necessary to give her a
little nudge in the right direction. In the end, your fantasies are
all that matter—she very much wants to deliver them to you.

“Also regarding your two-woman scenario, as
previously agreed, you may touch yourself and PGWH, but you
absolutely may not touch the ‘other’ woman.
Breach of this rule
will be deemed unforgivable by PGWH and will result in her leaving
the rendezvous immediately
. (If this amounts to ‘sexual
extortion’ we’re very sorry-not-sorry. It’s just super-duper
important to PGWH that you honor this request and never make PGWH
feel like a third wheel. She wishes to be your window, not your
window dressing. This is non-negotiable. Have we mentioned one of
her code names is The Jealous Bitch?)

“If the foregoing revisions to the first scenario
are agreeable to you, then our next step is to identify the ‘window
dressing’ who’ll be joining you and PGWH. Since you’ve graciously
offered that PGWH may select whomever she chooses, we’re happy to
inform you of PGWH’s selection: supermodel Bridgette Schmidt.”

I take my hands off my keyboard and stare at the
screen for a long moment.

Up ’til now, this email to Josh has poured out of me
in a torrent of excitement—but now, my fingers have paused without
my brain telling them to do it.

Am I really up for this? It’s pretty kinky. Am I
really gonna like kinky as much as I think I will—or am I merely
turned on by the
idea
of kinky? And, besides that, when Josh
and I first started “negotiating” this particular adventure, I made
a big ol’ stink that the woman we selected couldn’t be someone
either of us knows. But now that I’ve had a chance to think this
through, I think Bridgette the Supermodel is the ideal candidate
for the job.

First off, she’s gorgeous. And since I’m the one
who’s gonna be making out with her, that’s not a small point.
Second, Bridgette is bisexual, at least according to Josh, which
means the odds are good this won’t be her first time making out
with a girl—and, hopefully, she’ll be more enthusiastic about
fooling around with me than my straight friend in college (because
that was kind of lame in retrospect). Third—and this is a
biggie—Bridgette’s a huge celebrity, which means she’s not gonna
take secret photos and sell them to TMZ.

All these reasons are pretty persuasive to me—and
yet there’s an even bigger reason to select Bridgette as my co-star
in this particular mini-porno: Josh said Bridgette’s got “battery
acid in her heart.”

Well, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give that girl
a salami. Because if I’m gonna voluntarily bring a beautiful,
naked, blonde woman into the bedroom with a man I want for my very
own—a man I’ve been fantasizing about taking home to meet my
family—a man who makes my claws come out and jealousy rise up from
my darkest bowels when I even
think
about him with another
woman—then I’m sure as hell gonna make double-damn-sure that
woman’s not gonna have a snowball’s chance in hell of stealing my
man out from under me.

I take a long, deep breath and close my eyes.

Oh my, I seem to be feeling a tad bit psychotic
right now.

I take a deep breath and shake it off.

And there’s another reason to select Bridgette too—a
very, very good reason that might be a tad bit self-sabotaging
(but, oh well, that simply can’t be helped): I want to see if Josh
is full of shit or not. He says I’m more beautiful than Bridgette
Effing Schmidt, one of the world’s most beautiful women? Well,
let’s see if Josh is able to walk the walk of that particular
smooth-talk. Will he be able to keep his hands off Bridgette when
push comes to shove? Or will he find her jaw-dropping physical
beauty too powerful to resist, no matter how much he feels for
me?

Obviously, I might be making a huge mistake by doing
this—setting myself up for epic heartbreak. Actually, come to think
of it, this might be the stupidest idea I’ve ever had in my entire
life, possibly even dumber than the idea of surprising Garrett at
his apartment wearing nothing but a trench coat. But, hey, I’ve got
to look at the big picture here: if Josh is ultimately gonna
shatter my heart, I’d rather know it now than when my heart is
totally on the line.

I place my hands on my keyboard again and continue
typing:

“After explaining the firm no-touch rule to
Bridgette, please invite her to join us during one of the nights of
PGWH’s stay in Los Angeles (whichever night she can make it—we’ll
work around her schedule).

“And now regarding the second scenario detailed in
your application, which we’ll call ‘Saving the Girl.’ Do you think
it’d be possible to combine this fantasy of yours with one of
PGWH’s biggest fantasies, already detailed at length for you, in
which she’s held captive by a dangerous man? Just let us know.
During this trip, fulfillment of
your
fantasies is
paramount, so if simultaneously fulfilling PGWH’s fantasy would
somehow lessen your pleasure, we’ll be very happy to fulfill PGWH’s
fantasy a different time.

“Well, that’s about it. We look forward to serving
you, Mr. Faraday. Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do love
a good sick fuck!”

My heart stops. Oh my God, I absolutely cannot
phrase that last sentence that way. Jesus God, am I mad? Quickly, I
delete the last sentence and rephrase it:

“Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do enjoy
ourselves a good sick fuck!”

Damn. That was a close call. I’m careening out of
control here. Jeez. I can’t drop the ‘L’ word like that, even as a
snarky figure of speech.

“Exclusively yours,” I continue writing, “The KUM
Club.

“P.S. PGWH wishes to thank you profusely for your
latest extremely generous gift (in a long line of generous
gifts)—even though it will surely prevent PGWH from ever leaving
her house again (unless it’s to see you, of course). Whenever PGWH
uses your gift, rest assured she’ll imagine she’s getting
splendidly fucked by you. Certainly, with every orgasm (and there
will surely be many), she’ll moan your name.”

My fingers leave my keyboard. I stare at the screen,
my skin electrified, my crotch burning, my heart aching. Try as I
might, I simply can’t keep myself from falling head-over-heels for
this man. The only question now is whether he wants me the way I
want him. I know Josh wants me sexually, but does he want the rest
of me, too? I’m simultaneously excited and nervous to find out.

I read my email once through, take a deep breath,
and press send.

Josh

I slam my laptop shut.

Holy fuck.

Madame Terrorist strikes again.

I glance furtively at the guy seated next to me on
the plane. He’s working on his laptop, completely oblivious to the
naked photo of Kat that just melted my motherfucking screen. For a
long moment, I look around at the other passengers in my immediate
vicinity, my heart raging, my cheeks burning, my cock twitching in
my pants.

I’ve seen my share of naked-blonde-woman-photos
before now, of course, but my body’s never reacted quite like this
to any of them. Holy fuck, I feel like I just mainlined a cocktail
of Ecstasy and Viagra. You’d think I was thirteen and sneaking my
dad’s stash of porno-mags the way my body’s reacting to this photo
of Kat.

But it’s not just Kat’s tits and ass making my dick
so hard—it’s how much of Kat’s personality comes through in the
shot. There’s a devilish smile on her lips that tells me she was as
turned on snapping this photo as I am looking at it, and, shit,
there’s a glint in her eye that says, “I got you right where I want
you, chump,” too. The woman slays me.

I can’t believe Kat gave this photo to me, no
coaxing required. I had to
beg
Emma to let me snap one
measly naked shot of her for my birthday last year, and now Kat’s
sending me this for no other reason than she likes getting me hard?
She’s incredible.

What did Kat say after Sarah sent that naked photo
of herself to Max and Oksana? “
No matter how smart or powerful a
guy might be, he’s got the same Kryptonite as every other man
throughout history—naked boobs
.” I close my eyes for a long
beat, shaking my head. God, I hate proving Kat right, I really do,
just on principle—but there’s no way around it: Kat’s naked boobs
just flat-out stripped me of whatever superpowers I might have
had.

And yet her naked boobs didn’t come close to slaying
me the way her naked words did. I already knew she was a terrorist,
but now I know she’s a fucking ninja with words, too.

I made fun of Jonas pretty relentlessly for the way
he went ballistic over Sarah’s anonymous email, sight unseen, but
now I get it. Shit, I might even owe Jonas an apology for the way I
gave him shit about that. If Sarah’s note was even half as clever
and sexy and hot as Kat’s, then it’s no wonder Jonas fell so hard
for—

I jerk my head up from my screen, my heart suddenly
rising into my throat. Did I just compare Kat and me to Jonas and
Sarah? My chest tightens. I hear my pulse in my ears.

Yeah, I did.

I close my laptop, unlatch my seatbelt, and walk
quickly into the bathroom, my head reeling. Once there, I latch the
door with shaking hands, splash cold water on my face and rock-hard
dick (because the idea of wacking off in an airplane bathroom is
too gross even for me) and then I stare at myself in the
mirror.

“Just breathe,” I say to myself out loud. Shit, I
look like Jonas right now. “Don’t overthink it, bro. Just stay in
the moment. Chill the fuck out.”

But the blue eyes staring back at me won’t be
soothed.

How do you know?
I asked Jonas.

I just know,
he said.

I look at myself in the mirror for another long
beat, water dripping down my cheeks and off the tip of my nose.

“She’s your Kryptonite, man,” I finally say to my
reflection. “You’re totally fucked, Superman.”

Josh

“Checking in, sir?” the valet attendant asks as he
opens my car door.

“Yeah.”

“Need assistance with any bags?”

“Nope.” I hold up my car keys and a
one-hundred-dollar bill. “No cars parked on either side of it.”

“Yes, sir.” The attendant grabs my keys and the
C-note out of my hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bring it back with no dings in the doors and I’ve
got another hundred for you.”

“Thank you, sir. You got it.”

I grab the small duffel bag on my passenger seat,
straighten my tie, and stride toward the front of the hotel. Holy
fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this eager to see a
woman. Okay, fine, I’m full of shit—I’ve never been this eager to
see a woman, ever, and I know it.

This whole past week, even though I’ve been
absolutely swamped with work hammering out the transition strategy
for Jonas and me from Faraday & Sons, I’ve nonetheless managed
to continuously count the minutes to seeing Kat again. When I
haven’t been working, the only way I’ve been able to prevent my
mind from spiraling into some sort of Jonas-style obsession, has
been to keep myself constantly busy. I’ve gone to the gym and
worked out like a motherfucker every night this week, followed by
going home to my empty house and distracting myself with one of
four go-to activities (all of which I performed while lying naked
in my bed): 1) strategizing about how I’m gonna deliver on Kat’s
crazy-ass (but awesome) fantasies; 2) reading one of the sex-books
Jonas sent me (fantastic reading, I must say—I owe my brother a
huge ‘thank you’)
;
3) chatting with Kat on the phone (or on
FaceTime); and 4) jerking off, an activity which, quite frequently,
overlapped with activities one, two and three (but mostly activity
three).