The Infatuation (Josh and Kat #1 , The Club #5) (30 page)

“Oh, shit. I gotta go, Jen,” I blurt, pressing the
phone back into my ear. “Something really important just came up.
Sorry. Gotta go.”

“What?”

“Look, Jen, I’m sorry about the other night at the
party. Kat’s got a bit of a temper, it turns out.” The image of Kat
stomping like a toddler down the hallway, dripping wet, barefoot,
her incredible ass-cheeks hanging out of her black G-string, pops
into my mind. “She put words into my mouth. I absolutely didn’t
call you an airhead. That’s what I wanted to tell you—and also that
I’m not at all interested in a relationship. I’m sorry to cut this
short, but I really gotta go.”

Kat

I take a deep breath. I’ve got a full flock of
butterflies flapping around in my stomach. Our
Ocean’s
Eleven
crew is scheduled to meet at ten to head over to the Las
Vegas branch of the FBI, Sarah’s report in hand, and by God, I’m
determined to give Josh my application before then. I take another
deep breath, turn up the volume on the Audra Mae and the Almighty
Sound song I’m now officially addicted to (“The Real Thing”),
thanks to Sarah, and place my hands on my keyboard. Here goes
nothing.

“The following is my application to The Josh Faraday
Club,” I type onto my screen. “All answers will be one hundred
percent honest. (And bee tee dubs, some of this stuff is kind of
personal, so please keep it in confidence.)”

Name?

“Katherine Ulla Morgan,” I write. “But everyone just
calls me Kat.” I take a deep breath. I never tell anyone about
this. I can’t believe I’m writing this. “I’m named after my dad’s
mother Katherine and my mom’s Swedish grandmother Ulla. Pretty
name, huh?
Katherine Ulla Morgan.
Yeah, it’s pretty until
you realize my initials spell ‘KUM.’ Let me repeat that, in case
you’re not understanding the full implication: my initials spell
the word ‘KUM’
and I have four brothers
. Which means that,
in addition to being called Kat and Kitty Kat my whole life, I’ve
also been called charming things like... wait for it... Kum Shot,
Jizz, Splooge, Pecker-Snot, Man-Yogurt, Dick-Spit, Schlong-Juice,
Jerk-Sauce, and, oh, so many more clever and classy things only
boys would ever dream up.

“The only one of my brothers who’s never joined in
on the semen-infused nicknaming is my oldest brother, Colby—and I’m
pretty sure I know why. As family lore goes, my clueless mother had
originally wanted to give Baby Colby her grandfather’s name as his
middle name, but thanks to a family tradition on my dad’s side
(whereby the first-born son is given the middle name of Edwin),
Colby narrowly escaped being named Colby
Ulysses
Morgan. And
so, perhaps in adherence to the philosophy ‘But for the grace of
God go I’—a philosophy you’ve expressed a strong affinity for,
too—Colby’s always stuck to calling me ‘Kumquat.’ (As a side note,
my second oldest brother Ryan ultimately wound up with the dreaded
‘Ulysses’ moniker as his middle name, but being called ‘RUM’ and
‘Bacardi’ and... wait for it... ‘Captain Morgan’ hasn’t exactly
scarred him for life.)

“So, there you have it. I’m KUM. What you choose to
do with the truth about my name is entirely up to you. But be
warned: if you’re suddenly feeling an irresistible urge to call me
Cream-of-Sum-Yung-Guy or Baby-Gravy or Protein-Milkshake, you won’t
be the first. There’s literally no semen-related name you could
sling at me that I haven’t already been called a hundred times in
the ‘comfort’ of my own home or in the hallways of middle school
(where, for three long years, we were most unfortunately required
to mark our full initials onto the hem of our P. E. shorts).

“Beginning in high school (when I thankfully was no
longer required to display ‘KUM’ on my P. E. shorts anymore), I
started lying and saying my middle name is Ella. And to this day, I
never tell anyone the truth about my middle name, just in case
they’re apt to put two and two together and start calling me
Nut-Butter or Trouser-Juice or Man-Chowder or Spunk.

“Why, you might wonder, am I telling
you
of
all people my KUM-tastic secret after all this time? I’m not
entirely sure. All I know is that, judging by the way Sarah and
Jonas have benefitted from playing the honesty-game right from the
start, I’m eager to give the game a whirl, too. With you.”

Age?

“24,” I type.

Provide a brief physical description of
yourself.

I stare at my computer screen for a moment. Josh is
already quite familiar with almost every square inch of me—I mean,
jeez, the man has seen me throw a tantrum in my underwear and
shoved his fingers up my wahoo on a dance floor. But, still, I
might as well answer the question.

“I have blonde hair, blue eyes, and a VAGINA,” I
write, giggling to myself.

With this application, you will be required to
submit three recent photographs of yourself to your intake agent.
Please include the following: one headshot, one full-body shot
revealing your physique, and one shot wearing something you’d
typically wear out in a public location. These photographs shall be
maintained under the strictest confidentiality.

I pull out my phone and take a selfie-headshot,
crossing my eyes and puckering my lips. Next, I strip off my
clothes and stand in front of the full-length mirror in my hotel
room and snap a quick shot of myself in my bra and undies—a sight
he’s already well acquainted with. And, for my last required
shot—“something I’d typically wear in a public location”—I throw on
my sequined dress from the other night, kneel at the toilet and
pretend to be barfing into it while holding my phone above my head
and snapping a photo.

“I’m attaching all three required photos with this
application,” I write. “Enjoy!”

Please sign the enclosed waiver describing the
requisite background check, medical physical, and blood test, which
you must complete as a condition of membership.

“If you want to do background and credit checks on
me, knock yourself out. But if you don’t want to expend the effort,
let me tell you exactly what you’d find out: I’ve never been
convicted of a crime (though I’ve broken the law a time or two and
not gotten caught, heehee); I’ve got two credit cards, one of which
is maxed out (and which I’m planning to pay off with my craps
winnings); I’m paid up and current on my rent at my apartment; I’m
one payment behind on my car loan (which I’m also going to pay off
with my gambling winnings); and I’ve been employed at the same PR
firm for almost two years.

“The last time I checked, my credit score was around
660, which is decent but not stupendous. It’s possible it’s gone
down slightly recently because of that missed car payment. I swear
to God, I’m normally really responsible when it comes to paying my
bills, I really am, but when my place was trashed by The Club,
there were several things I needed to replace and I just didn’t
have enough cash to go around for all that stuff plus my car
payment, too. I was planning to make a double payment this month
(because I’m supposed to get a raise when I hit my two-year
anniversary at work), but now, thanks to you and Jonas (and some
lucky dice!), I can pay off the whole car loan in one fell swoop.
(Thank you so much!)

“You know, writing this makes me realize I haven’t
adequately thanked you for that craps money. I think I was just
sort of stunned and also maybe a little uncomfortable with how
easily I took it from you. I probably shouldn’t have said yes so
fast, if at all, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not having a car
payment or that Visa bill hanging over my head every month is going
to be so effing amazing, I can’t begin to tell you. So thank you
again, very, very much. I’m really grateful. And thank you also for
arranging everything so I could stay here in Las Vegas to save the
world with our
Ocean’s Eleven
crew
and
keep my job.
Your generosity is truly mindboggling, Josh. I’ve never met anyone
with such a big and generous heart. The way you take care of
everyone around you, including me, is admirable and beyond
attractive and sexy. I want you to know I’m grateful and blown away
by your incredible thoughtfulness. Thank you.

“Okay, back to the application. What would you learn
about me if you called my ex-boyfriends? Well, probably that I’m a
wee bit crazy (sorry!), overly dramatic at times (sorry again!),
and stubborn (news flash!). But I can also be bighearted,
especially with the people I care about, devoted to my friends and
family, funny, and outlandishly serious about having fun. (I think
maybe I’ve got a little Jekyll and Hyde thing going on?)

“You’d also find out I’ve had only three serious
boyfriends in my life—one in high school and two in college.
Besides those three ‘serious’ boyfriends, I’ve also had other
‘relationships’ that have lasted anywhere from one night to, oh,
about three or four months maximum, but, for purposes of this
application, I’m only gonna bother telling you about the three boys
I’ve cared enough about to bring them home to meet my family:

“My first serious boyfriend was in high school—a guy
named Kade. Kade was two years older than me and oh man did I love,
love, loooooooooooooove him. Holy shitballs, I loved that boy. I
used to write ‘Kat + Kade’ on all my notebooks and practice writing
my signature using his last name. Kade was the star quarterback on
my high school’s football team, and when he went away to college on
a scholarship, he decided he needed to have the ‘full college
experience,’ which, roughly translated, meant he didn’t want to be
tied down by having a sixteen-year-old girlfriend pining for him
back home. Of course, my adult self realizes that was absolutely
the best decision for both of us, but at the time I didn’t think my
heart would survive the horrible pain.

“My second serious boyfriend was Nate. I met him at
a fraternity party in college. He was sweet and funny and
completely in love with me from day one. He was also smart and
athletic and a truly good person. He wanted to become a doctor and
work with Doctors Without Borders, not even kidding. And on top of
all that, the boy was objectively perfect-looking, too (one of
those can’t-find-a-bad-angle types). Plus, he was head over heels
in love with me, which I found an attractive trait in a boyfriend.
Oh my God, how Nate worshipped me. He always talked about how the
second he saw me, he just
knew
we were meant for each
other
.
‘It was love at first sight,’ he would always tell
people, and I always wondered if he noticed I never said, ‘For me,
too.’

“The truth was I didn’t love Nate the way he loved
me, and I knew it in my bones. I never felt that thunderbolt he
felt when he saw me, though I was physically attracted to him
(because, like I say, he was objectively gorgeous). Maybe I should
have listened to my gut and cut ties with Nate sooner, but I was
young and I kept thinking the passion would come. It had to, right?
Nate was perfect in every way. And sure enough, as time went by, I
loved him more and more. I truly adored him for the wonderful guy
he was, how funny he was, how endlessly thoughtful and sweet and
good. But I never, ever fell in love with Nate. And I knew it. I
didn’t practice writing my name using his last name. I never ached
for him when we were apart—hell, I didn’t even
think
about
him when we were apart, to be perfectly honest. I never got
butterflies when we held hands or kissed or had sex, though all
were exceedingly pleasant. And I most certainly didn’t feel an
ounce of jealousy at the thought of him with another girl. Not an
ounce. And yet Nate made it abundantly clear he lived to make me
smile, yearned to touch me every chance he got, dreamed about me,
and for sure envisioned me as his future wife.

“Why didn’t I feel what Nate felt for me? To this
day, I have no fucking idea. But for a long time, I truly thought
things would change and I’d come to my senses and fall head over
heels. ‘When you like a flower, you pick it,’ my mom always says.
‘When you love a flower, you water it and let it grow.’ So I
figured I’d just keep watering our flower and soon my feelings
would morph and ignite into the kind of life-or-death passion I’d
always dreamed of experiencing. But they didn’t. I guess some
things just can’t be forced, no matter how much you water them.

“Finally, about a year into our relationship, I was
at a party with friends where I met a guy who made my panties burst
into flames in a way I’d never felt with Nate, not even once.
Honestly, the guy took my breath away with just a glance. It was
like he’d cast a spell on me and my lady-parts. I’d never
experienced full-body lust like that before. I didn’t know my body
was even capable of getting that dripping wet—and that was just
from
looking
at the guy. I could only imagine what would
happen if I actually got to touch him.

“It took all my self-restraint not to cheat on Nate
that very night (because believe me, my
vagina
desperately
wanted to do it), but I didn’t. Instead, I nutted up and sat Nate
down the next morning and I broke it off with him as gently as I
could (and then went out and banged the shit out of that hot guy
from the party four nights later on our second date).

“To say I broke Nate’s heart is an understatement.
Even as I’m writing this, I’m crying at the memory of the look on
his face when I told him I wasn’t in love with him. To this day,
I’ve never felt more like a shitty person than when I told that
beautiful, sweet, loving boy I didn’t want to be his girlfriend
anymore for no other reason than ‘I dunno why.’

“Now and again, I’ll get an occasional email from
Nate, asking me how I’m doing, if I’m happy, asking if I’m married,
and I always feel like crying when I have to reply honestly to him,
‘I’m really great, Nate. Still single. How are you?’ I know he’s
hoping one of these times I’ll write, ‘I was an idiot. Please take
me back.’ But I’m never even remotely tempted to write those words.
And, honestly, I hate myself for it.