Page 1 of Consummation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #3)

One

Josh

I stumble out of Walmart (the only place open at eleven-forty-five that sells electronics) and cross the parking lot toward my waiting town car. I open the door of the black Sedan and hurl myself into the backseat. “Thanks for waiting, man,” I mumble.

“Did they have what you were looking for?” the driver asks.

I hold up a plastic Walmart bag containing my new purchases.

“Where to now?”

I give the guy the address of Kat’s apartment and he starts the engine.

As the car pulls out of the parking lot, I surreptitiously dig into my plastic bag and pull out one of my three Walmart-purchases: a bottle of Jack.

The driver’s eyes flicker at me in the rearview mirror, but, thankfully, the guy doesn’t say jack about my Jack. I lean back in my seat, the bottle of booze perched against my lips.

Man, I fucked up tonight. I had no idea not telling Kat about my upcoming move to Seattle would play out like fucking Armageddon.

Watching Kat cry big ol’ soggy tears, especially on account of something I did (or, technically, didn’t do), ripped my heart the fuck out of my chest. Each tear that streamed down Kat’s beautiful face felt like a knife stabbing me in the heart.

“I would have been bursting at the seams to tell you if the situation were reversed,” Kat said in front of the karaoke bar, her eyes glistening. “You would have been the first person I would have called.”

Up until that moment, I’d been thinking my tempestuous little terrorist was simply overreacting—letting her emotions and temper run wild, as she’s been known to do a time or two.

But the minute those daggers left Kat’s mouth, I knew they were cutting me so deep because they were the God’s truth—and that if Kat were to buy a house in L.A.

and not bother to mention it to me, I’d be crushed.

Which is exactly how Kat seems to be feeling right now: crushed .

In fact, it seems like Kat might be thinking she’s done with me for good, though that’s not what she said when I dropped her off at her apartment.

All she said before slipping inside her place was that she “needed a couple days to think and regroup” so she could “figure out if she was overreacting or not”—but the look on Kat’s face as she closed her door made it clear she wasn’t even close to deciding she’d overreacted.

“Okay,” I said softly, even though all I wanted to do was plant a deep kiss on her mouth that would somehow erase her short-term memory from her brain.

“Take your time,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few days.

” And I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said that—I really wasn’t—I truly planned to leave her alone.

I mean, shit, God knows groveling never has been my style.

But, fuck me, after only an hour alone in my hotel room, drinking whiskey and staring at the Space Needle—not to mention getting my ass chewed by fucking Adele—I just couldn’t sit there like a flop-dick anymore.

I had to do something to make her forgive me .

So I texted Kat a couple times, asking her to call me—but she didn’t respond.

So I bit the bullet and called her—let the groveling begin!

—but my call went straight to voicemail.

So, finally, I tucked my dick and balls firmly between my legs and left Kat a rambling voicemail that can only be described as “vaginal.” But, still, I didn’t hear a goddamned peep from her.

Which is when a panic started descending upon me, a thumping need to make Kat understand I’m genuinely crazy about her, addicted, insatiable.

And that’s when I got my brilliant idea.

I pull my new portable CD player out of my Walmart bag and remove it from its packaging.

It’s quite a bit smaller and way more modern looking than the old-school boom box I’d envisioned when I stumbled into the electronics aisle at Walmart, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, especially at just before midnight on a Friday night.

The sedan pulls up to the front of Kat’s apartment complex .

“Just park in the driveway,” I say to the driver. I hand him my phone. “Connect this to your stereo—I’ve got a song all cued up.”

“Huh?”

“Blast the song I’ve got cued up on my phone.”

The driver looks incredulous, not to mention annoyed. “It’s past midnight, sir. We can’t be blasting music in a residential area.”

I shove a couple hundred bucks at the guy. “Come on, man, I’ve got a girl to win back. I fucked up and now I gotta make her forgive me.”

The driver takes my cash. “The song’s cued up?”

“Yep. Just press play at my signal—and then blast the motherfucker at full volume, as high as your speakers will go.”

“Full volume? Sir, I really can’t—”

I throw a bunch more bills at the guy. “Just do it,” I bark. “I’ll handle any complaints.”

Without waiting for the driver’s reply, I stagger out of the car with my CD player in one hand and my brand new Walmart-issued trench coat in the other.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Was there an exact moment when I handed Kat my dick and balls, or did I give her my manhood in bite-sized pieces, the same way I fed her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the sex dungeon?

Well, either way, the woman’s definitely got my crown jewels in a Ziploc baggie now.

I place the CD player on the ground so I can put on my spiffy new trench coat, and when I’m positive I’m sufficiently John-Cusack-ified, I take a deep breath, lift my makeshift boom box over my head, and signal to the driver to start the music.

Peter Gabriel’s song “In Your Eyes” begins blaring loudly from the car.

I stand stock still, holding the boom box over my head. And I wait.

But no Kat. What the hell? Surely, she can hear the loud music—her apartment is one of the units closest to the street.

I continue waiting, holding the CD player over my head.

But, still, no Kat.

Shit.

A feeling of pure desperation floods me.

Is she really gonna ignore me out here? I’m putting my fucking heart on the line for her.

But wait. What if Kat hears the song but doesn’t put two and two together?

What if she thinks it’s just some drunken asshole, passed out in his car, playing the oldies station much too loud?

I quickly stride back to the sedan and bend down to the driver.

“Hand me my phone,” I say. “I’m gonna send my girl a text.”

“You want me to disconnect it from the stereo?”

“No,” I reply. “Keep the song going. I’ll just reach over you real quick.

” The driver pulls my phone toward me, as far as it will go with the connection cord attached, and I lean over him and tap out a text to Kat: “Come out to the street, Kitty Kat. There’s a hound dog out here with his tail between his legs.

” I press send on my message and quickly reposition myself with the boom box again.

A few seconds later, a shirtless guy with a beer belly marches out of the apartment building, a lit cigarette in one hand, a beer can in the other.

“What the fuck , man?” the guy shouts. “I’ve got a baby trying to sleep in there.”

“I’m doing Say Anything for my girl, man,” I say. “I’m in the doghouse.”

The guy makes a face like I’ve just blurted I have no penis.

“Dude, I got no choice,” I continue. “My girl’s a fucking unicorn.”

The guy nods and takes a long drag off his cigarette. “She likes that movie, huh? The one with the boom box?”

I roll my eyes. “She thinks it’s ‘romantic.’”

The dude laughs heartily and takes a few steps back, apparently ceding center-stage to me. “This I gotta see,” he mumbles.

A brunette woman comes out of one of the apartments, a look of complete annoyance etched onto her face—but when she catches sight of me, her face melts.

She quickly disappears into the apartment building and returns with another woman in tow, and when the second woman sees me, her face melts, too.

Well, shit. I’m glad these two women think I’m so fucking adorable, but they’re not my intended audience.

Where the fuck is Kat? Could she be asleep already?

Or maybe in the shower? Did she not see my text?

My arms are getting tired. I didn’t expect to have to do this for so long.

I shift my weight. Shit. In the movie, the girl looked out her window right away, didn’t she? What the fuck is taking Kat so goddamned long to come out here and put me out of my misery?

A guy’s face appears in the window of the front apartment. He turns to say something to someone behind him and an instant later, a second face appears in the window, laughing at me.

Well, let them laugh. As long as Kat comes out here and sees me and forgives me for crushing her, I don’t care if the whole world laughs at me tonight.

All I care about is setting things right with Kat—making her understand my failure to tell her about Seattle had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

“Hey, sir,” the driver says to me above the music. “You just got a text. I don’t think she’s coming out.”

I lower my boom box and turn around to face him, my heart beating like a steel drum.

“She replied to your text,” the driver continues. He motions to my phone.

I lurch over to the car and grab my phone, my eyes bugging out of my head.

“I’m not playing hard to get or being a terrorist,” Kat’s text says. “I can’t see or talk to you tonight. Please just give me a couple days to think and regroup and figure a few things out.”