The Revelation (48 page)

But I was full of shit.

I love him. With all my heart and soul. I don’t want
anyone but him.

I know he’s ‘crazy about me.’ And that he’s done a
million amazing things for me, just like Richard did for Julia in
Pretty Woman.
Yes, just like Julia, I’ve been showered with
gifts and money and offers to help me in countless ways—and, I
suppose, for most women, all of that would be more than enough. But
I’m not most women. I’m just like Julia—I want it all. I want a
commitment. I want true love. I want a knight in shining armor on a
white horse. Goddammit, I want more than
florebblaaaaah.
And
I simply can’t pretend I don’t.

I clutch my stomach and put the pint of Ben &
Jerry’s I’ve been scarfing down onto the coffee table. I’m so
worked up about all this, I feel physically ill. Queasy. And my
nipples are sore, too, by the way, which is really weird. I know
Josh pinched my nipples pretty hard yesterday when he fucked me in
the bathroom at The Pine Box, but did he really pinch them
that
hard? Jeez. They still hurt.

Whitney’s glowing face appears onscreen in close-up,
her teeth a spectacular shade of computer-paper-white, her mocha
skin flawless.

She begins singing The Song—the most famous song in
the world.

Oh, God, she’s an angel. My beautiful Whitney.

And I’m a sobbing mess.
Again
.

This song was written for Josh and me and no one
else. I love him and he doesn’t love me back. He’s crazy about me,
sure—addicted to me. But he can’t promise me tomorrow, he says.
Which is a telltale sign he’s not in love with me. Because when you
love someone, you’re willing to promise forever, even though you
intellectually know you can’t make that promise. You don’t
not
promise forever to the one you love simply because we’re
objectively mortal—you promise it, regardless, and hope forever
turns out to be more than fifty-two days.

No one knows what life might bring or what might
happen two months from now, I get that, but the point is that when
you’re in love, you’re stupid enough to think you can promise
forever. You wanna believe it so badly, you’re willing to tell that
little white lie. And if you’re not willing to tell it, well then,
that’s the surest way to know you’re not really in love, after
all.

Whitney’s done singing.

I grab the remote control, and just that sudden
movement makes my stomach flip over violently, almost like I’m
gonna barf. But that’s ridiculous. I hardly drank a drop
tonight.

Out of nowhere, my body dry heaves.

What the hell? I cock my head to the side, totally
perplexed. What the heck was that? My body heaves again—only this
time, holy shit, fluid has gushed into my mouth.

I sprint off the couch into the bathroom, my palm
clamped over my mouth, and only semi-make it to the toilet before
another, violent heave makes me vomit up every drop of fluid and
Cherry Garcia in my stomach, not to mention the chicken wings and
guacamole I ate at the bar.

Oh, jeez. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

What the hell? I barely drank tonight.

I barf again.

Damn, I feel horrible.

Were the chicken wings bad? I wonder if anyone else
is feeling sick, too?

I rinse out my mouth and clean the barf off the
toilet seat and floor and shuffle back to my couch.

Damn, my nipples are hurting.

I can’t imagine bad chicken wings would make my
nipples extra sensitive.

I begin to nestle back onto the couch and grab the
remote, but then all of a sudden, I sit up, tilting my head like a
cockatiel. An alarming thought just skittered across my brain like
a cockroach after the kitchen lights have been turned on.

No.

It couldn’t be
that
.

I took a pregnancy test ten days ago and it was
negative—and I haven’t missed any pills since then. Have I? I don’t
think so. I didn’t take them at the exact same time every day like
you’re supposed to, granted, but close enough.

I sprint back into my bathroom. The box of pregnancy
tests I bought the other day had three pee-sticks in it, and I’ve
only used one.

I pull out one of the unused pee-sticks, sit on the
toilet, and pee on it, my heart racing. There’s no effing way. That
would be ridiculous. Unthinkable. I just quit my job with medical
benefits
today
. Ha! No. God doesn’t have that mean a sense
of humor.

I sit and stare at the stick, waiting. One line
means I’m in the clear. Two lines means I’m fucked six ways from
Sunday.

I sit and wait.

I thought it was weird I almost barfed in the sex
dungeon, but when I Googled “vomiting from intense orgasm,” the
Internet was littered with countless women who’d experienced the
exact same thing. So I didn’t sweat it.

“Don’t you dare let me catch either of you
ever
making an accidental Faraday with a woman unworthy of
our name or I’ll get the last laugh on that gold digger’s ass and
disown the fuck out of you faster than she can demand a paternity
test.” That’s what Josh said his father told him when he was barely
a teenager.

The faintest second pink line begins to appear on
the pee stick and my eyes pop out of my head.

“No,” I say out loud. “Go away. Go away!”

The line is getting darker.

“No,” I say, pulling at my hair. “Please, God,
no.”

This has to be a mistake. A false positive. Yes,
that’s what it is. A false positive. Of course. I run into the
living room and grab my laptop. I Google “false positive pregnancy
test” and it turns out there’s no such thing, basically—except in
cases of certain medication (no), defective test (maybe?), or,
rarely, certain kinds of cancer. Is it wrong to be wishing I have
cancer right now?

Okay, maybe the test was defective. That’s my only
hope.

I drink a couple glasses of water and sit on the
couch, Googling like a madwoman for at least thirty minutes, trying
to find a reasonable explanation for those two pink lines that
doesn’t involve a little Faraday growing inside me, and when I feel
the tiniest hint of pee in my bladder, I run back into the bathroom
and pee on the third pee-stick.

I would never try to trap you,
I assured
Josh.
I’m a millionaire now, Josh—I don’t need your stinkin’
Faraday money.

Oh, I know you’d never do that to me,
he
assured me.
Of course, not
.

I look up at the ceiling, another massive wave of
nausea slamming into me.

Within a minute, a second pink line appears on the
new pee-stick. I stare at the two positive pregnancy tests lined up
on my counter, my eyes bugging out of my head, my recent
conversation with Josh echoing in my head. Oh God, Josh is gonna
shit. He’s gonna kill me, and then he’s gonna shit.

And then he’s gonna call me a gold digger.

And then he’s gonna run away, his arms flailing.

And then he’s gonna shit again.

My heart is aching.

This is a complete disaster.

Worst-case scenario.

“Shit,” I say out loud.

I amble into my living room in a daze, clutching the
two positive pregnancy tests.

I sit down on my couch, my eyes wide, my head
spinning.

“Shit,” I say again.

From the minute I laid eyes on Josh, I felt like I’d
hopped aboard a bullet train.

Well, it looks like our train just jumped the
tracks.

And now there’s only one possible outcome.

Crash.

This book is for The Love Monkeys, my devoted and
wonderful readers. Thank you for loving my characters as much as I
do—and, therefore, loving me.

USA Today bestselling author Lauren Rowe lives in San
Diego, California, where, in addition to writing books, she
performs with her dance/party band at events all over Southern
California, writes songs, takes embarrassing snapshots of her
ever-patient Boston terrier, Buster, spends time with her family,
and narrates audiobooks. To find out about Lauren’s upcoming
releases and giveaways, sign up for Lauren’s emails at
www.LaurenRoweBooks.com
.
Lauren loves to hear from readers! Send Lauren an email from her
website, follow her on Twitter @laurenrowebooks, and/or come by her
Facebook page by searching Facebook for “Lauren Rowe author.” (The
actual Facebook link is:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lauren-Rowe/1498285267074016
).

-
The Club
(
The Club
#1)

- The Reclamation
(
The Club
#2)

- The Redemption
(
The Club
#3)

-
The Culmination
(
The Club
#4)

-
The Infatuation: Josh and Kat Part I
(
The
Club
#5) (January 5, 2016)

-
The Revelation: Josh and Kat Part II
(
The
Club
#6) (January 12, 2016)

-
The Consummation: Josh and Kat Part III
(
The Club
#7) (January 19, 2016)

- Countdown to Killing Kurtis
(a stand-alone
psychological thriller featuring Lauren’s distinctive humor, unique
characters, “what the fuck!”-inducing plot twists, and a touch of
steam)