The Revelation (25 page)

A doorman holds open the heavy glass doors of the
hotel and tips his hat to me as I enter the building. “Good
evening, sir. Welcome to The Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”

“Thanks,” I say, gliding into the expansive
lobby.

Yeah, Kat and I had some pretty fucking amazing
phone- and video-chat-sex this past week, that’s for sure,
including two separate times when she let me watch her turn herself
inside-out with pleasure while riding her new toy. But we also just
talked
a whole lot, too, about anything and everything, for
hours and hours every single night—and it was
awesome
.

In one conversation, Kat told me a thousand
hilarious stories about her family, and I laughed ’til my stomach
hurt. Damn, she’s got a fierce and funny family—and, man, do they
look out for each other. When I found out Kat gave her craps
winnings to her little brother so he could record an album with his
band, I instantly felt this weird sense of
relief
more than
anything else—relief that I’ll never have to explain or defend my
bond with Jonas. Clearly, the girl already completely understands
what it means to put someone else’s needs above your own.

I reach the check-in counter in the lobby and stand
in line behind an old white guy accompanied by a much younger (and
absolutely beautiful) Asian woman.

“I’ll be right with you,” the clerk says to the
couple standing in front of me in line, looking up from assisting a
family of five with their check-in. I nod curtly, just in case she
was directing her comment to me, too, and then let my thoughts
quickly drift to Kat again.

“Michelangelo was the coolest one,” Kat insisted
during one of our many conversations this past week.

“How can you use the word ‘cool’ in reference to the
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” I asked.

“Oh, come on. You know you watched them,” she chided
me.

“Yeah, I
watched
them,” I said, laughing.
“But I never thought they were
cool
.”

“Honesty-game,” she said.

I exhaled. “Damn, that fucking game. Okay, yes. I
thought Raphael was dope.”

I smile to myself at the memory and look at my
watch. The woman working behind the check-in counter is still
helping that goddamned family of five and the couple’s three young
children are bouncing off the walls.

“Jeremy?” the clerk yells over her shoulder toward
an open door behind the front desk. “Are you available to assist,
please?
Jeremy
?”

But Jeremy must be off smoking a bowl because no one
walks through that open door. It’s just the one poor clerk behind
the counter, and the line is growing behind me.

As I wait, my mind drifts to Kat again, the way it
has all week long.
Kat.
She’s upstairs right now, soaking
her panties at the thought of being treated like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
.
Kat.
What the fuck?
Kat, Kat,
Kat.
That’s all my brain is capable of thinking about anymore.
I smile to myself.
Kat.

I broke down and told Kat every little thing about
our plans for Climb & Conquer this week, even though I’d
planned to tell her about it in person. I was naked in my bed,
listening to her sexy voice and feeling particularly relaxed after
some pretty damned good phone sex, and everything just spilled out
of me. Well, not
everything.
I didn’t tell her about the
fact that, since Climb & Conquer will be headquartered in
Seattle, I’ll finally be moving back home in a couple months. I was
tempted to mention it several times, but I stopped myself. I mean,
shit, God only knows where things will stand between Kat and me in
a couple days, let alone a couple months. Why set her up for some
kind of disappointment if things don’t work out? All I can do is
take it a day at a time and see where things lead, right?

The family of five bounces away from the front desk
and the old-guy-Asian-woman-couple in front of me steps up to the
desk.

“I’m so sorry for the wait, sir,” the hotel clerk
says to the old guy, and then her eyes drift apologetically to me.
“I’ll be with you shortly, sir.”

I put my hand up to signal it’s all good and the
clerk smiles gratefully. The minute she looks away, though, I look
at my watch impatiently. Kat’s in this building
right now,
wetting herself at the thought of me treating her like my whore
tonight, and I’m standing here, growing gray hair
.
Fuck,
fuck, fuck. I seriously can’t wait to see Kat.

Kat.

During another conversation this week—and God only
knows how we got on the topic—Kat and I talked about what we
believe happens to a person’s soul after death—which led to a
discussion about spirituality versus religion—a topic I’d normally
avoid like the plague with anyone but Jonas (that’s what years of
Catholic school will do to a guy). But with Kat, the whole
conversation flowed easily and naturally.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Josh?” Kat blurted
at one point during our discussion about spirituality, shocking the
hell out of me.

“What?” I asked, worried I’d offended her with my
frank honesty on the topic.

“You’re not supposed to be the deep-thinking Faraday
brother. Pull yourself together, Playboy—you’ve got a shallow rep
to live up to.”

“Sorry,” I replied, laughing. “It won’t happen
again.”

The old-guy-Asian-girlfriend-couple in front of me
finally
steps away from the front desk, and I step
forward.

“Checking in?” the hotel clerk asks. She looks
totally frazzled.

“Yes. Joshua Faraday. My guests should have already
checked into the room.” I hand her my identification and credit
card. “I arranged in advance for my guests to access the room
before my check-in.”

The woman clicks her keyboard for a brief moment.
“Oh, yes,
of course
, Mr. Faraday.” She suddenly looks
stricken. “I’m
so
sorry to have kept you waiting in line. Oh
my gosh.
Please
forgive me.”

“No problem,” I say smoothly, flashing her a
smile.

“Let me send you a complimentary bottle of champagne
to your suite to make up for the delay.”

“Thank you, but, no, I’d prefer no interruptions
tonight.”

She blushes. “Oh. Of course.” She clears her throat.
“Uh, looks like your guests have already checked into the suite
with no problem—it’s the penthouse, as you know—and all catering
and amenities requested have already been sent up.”

“Excellent,” I say, my heart clanging with
anticipation. “The bar is stocked with Gran Patron, right?”

“Um, actually, it looks like they brought
Roca
Patron to the suite. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes, fabulous. Either one. Thank you.”

The desk clerk smiles at me and, suddenly, I’m
overwhelmed with a crazy feeling of
déjà fucking vu
. How
many times have I checked into a hotel while my “guests” awaited me
upstairs, an odd mixture of sexual anticipation and self-loathing
coursing through my veins? And yet, today feels totally different
than all those other times in The Club. Today, for the first time
ever, I feel only sexual
anticipation
pumping through me,
not tainted whatsoever by rampant self-loathing. Because today,
unlike all the times that have come before, the hottest woman alive
is waiting for me upstairs, not some random hooker I don’t know or
give a shit about—and not only is she hot, she’s sweet and funny
and smart, too.
And
in a twist of awesomeness I never could
have predicted (or even hoped for), the hottest woman alive doesn’t
give a shit if I’m a sick fuck. In fact, she actually
likes
my sick-fuckedness. It’s an incredible feeling.

The clerk hands me my key-card. “Do you know how to
get to the penthouse suite, Mr. Faraday?”

“I sure do,” I say. “Thanks.”

I head toward the elevator bank at the far end of
the lobby. My heart’s beating wildly. Holy shit, I’m gonna see Kat
in a matter of minutes.

Kat.

I would have preferred to personally pick Kat up
from the airport this afternoon and bring her to my house for our
first night together, rather than meeting her here at the hotel—I
hate that I haven’t even had a chance to hug her and say hello to
her yet, just me and her—and I told Kat as much on the phone last
night. But my little terrorist insisted we jump right into
fantasy-fulfillment, first thing, before seeing each other in “real
life.”

“First off, we don’t have a choice in the matter,”
she said. “Bridgette’s only gonna be in L.A. Thursday night,
right?”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to do the Bridgette thing
this trip,” I said. “We can do it during your next trip.”

“No, we gotta do it,” Kat insisted. “We’re kicking
off our fantasy-fulfillment extravaganza with the stuff in your
application, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So that means whenever
Bridgette can fit us in, that’s when we gotta do it. Plus,” she
continued, “I wouldn’t want to come to your house the first night,
anyway, babe. That wouldn’t be very call-girlish, now would it?” I
could practically hear her licking her lips at that last statement.
“Not seeing you beforehand will make me feel even more like a call
girl. It’s perfect.”

The elevator reaches the top floor and I practically
sprint down the long hallway toward the room, grinning from ear to
ear. Kat talked a good game about wanting to fulfill
my
fantasies during this trip, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she
was actually chomping at the bit to fulfill her own
high-priced-call-girl fantasy. When I texted Kat this afternoon to
find out if she’d landed safely and connected with the driver I’d
sent, she sent me a reply that made me laugh out loud:

“How the heck did you get my phone number, sir? My
name isn’t Kat, it’s Heidi Kumquat (though, in light of my
profession, I never reveal my real name). I’m a world-class call
girl, sir, sought after by sheiks, kings, and presidents, working
under the code name Party Girl with the Hyphen. I’ve just landed
(safely) in Los Angeles to meet a very sexy but incredibly
demanding client (whom I’d very much like to thank for flying me
first-class, by the way), and, yes, his driver picked me up exactly
according to plan (thank you!), and now I’m headed to my client’s
ritzy hotel.

“Please don’t text me again, sir. My client has paid
a pretty penny to have my undivided attention for the whole night,
starting RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, and he’d be positively enraged if
he found out I was texting with another man during
his
purchased time. I’ve been bought and paid for tonight, mind, body,
and soul—which means I’m duty-bound to think of absolutely nothing
but fulfilling my client’s sexual desires all night long, LITERALLY
NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE, and that’s exactly what I’m going to
do.”

I must say, that was a sexy goddamned text. If
there’s one thing Kat Morgan knows how to do, it’s turn a man
on.

I’ve reached the door to the penthouse suite.

Oh my God, I’ve got so much adrenaline coursing
through me, I’m shaking.

I take a deep breath and rap twice on the door to
signal I’m here and coming in, exactly the way I did before
entering each new hotel room during my month in The Club—and just
like I said I’d do when I replied to Kat’s awesome email from “The
KUM Club.” And then I swipe the key and open the door.

Josh

When I enter the suite, I stop just inside the door,
paralyzed by the incomprehensible sight of Kat and Bridgette in the
same room together. Talk about two worlds colliding. My brain can’t
process what I’m seeing—though, apparently, my body sure can.
Hello, instant hard-on.

The women are sitting in side-by-side armchairs,
sipping what looks like cranberry-vodkas, giggling happily like
they’re longtime friends. Kat looks like a million bucks
(appropriately) in the Prada dress and heels I bought her in Las
Vegas, her long, toned legs crossed demurely, while Bridgette’s
wearing a simple black tank top, jeans, and flip-flops, her blonde
hair tied into a knot on top of her gorgeous head, her legs spread
like she’s a dude talking football in a sports bar. Talk about two
women monopolizing the entire planet’s supply of physical
perfection all at once. Holy motherfucking shit. Seeing these two
women together would almost certainly make a weaker man
stroke-out.

“Kat,” I blurt, my heart leaping out of my chest. I
begin crossing the room to greet her, to take her into my arms and
kiss the holy motherfucking shit out of her—has it only been a week
since I last saw her, because it feels like a year?—but Kat puts up
her hand sharply and shoots me a smoldering look that stops me dead
in my tracks.

“So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Faraday,” she says
smoothly.

Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I come to a
complete halt.

“You’re even handsomer than in your photos,” she
purrs. She sits up straight, arches her back, and folds her hands
primly in her lap.

“So are you,” I say. My heart is pounding in my
ears.

One side of Kat’s mouth hitches up into a devious
smirk, and, suddenly, I feel like a fly in a spider’s web. I
thought we were here to fulfill
my
sick-fuck fantasy—so why
do I suddenly feel like I’m merely a pawn in fulfilling hers?

“Let me introduce you to my friend, Frieda
Fucks-A-Lot,” Kat says. She motions to Bridgette who takes that as
her cue to pop up and waltz toward me.

Frieda Fucks-A-Lot
?

“Hey there, Mr. Faraday,” Bridgette coos in her
clipped English, outstretching her arms to me as she
approaches.

I take a step back, but Bridgette continues
advancing on me. She lays her hand on my shoulder and leans forward
as if to kiss my cheek and I jerk back like Bridgette’s hair is on
fire. I promised Kat I wouldn’t lay a finger on the “window
dressing” of our threesome, whoever that turned out to be, and
there’s no way in hell I’m gonna risk making my temperamental
“window” beeline out of yet another hotel suite and stomp down yet
another hallway in a jealous huff.