Page 30 of Infatuation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #1)

Twenty-One

Josh

Kat’s drunk but beautiful head is resting on my shoulder as we sit in the back of the taxi, heading to our hotel.

I grab her hand and look out the window at the pre-dawn zombies shuffling down The Strip.

My eyelids are beginning to feel heavy. My head is beginning to pound.

And yet I feel like I’m walking on air, sitting here next to Kat, holding her hand.

“Who’s Grace?” Kat suddenly asks.

“What?”

“The tattoo on your chest. You’ve got the dragon on you arm, so I can only assume the tattoo on your chest is the ever-regrettable ex-girlfriend-tattoo.”

“‘Grace’ isn’t a person,” I answer smoothly, like I always do.

I don’t give a shit how “honest” I said I’d be with her—I don’t bare my soul about that particular tattoo to anyone, and certainly not to a woman I’m interested in.

If Emma taught me anything, it’s that laying myself completely bare to a woman is a colossally bad idea.

“It’s a reference to the phrase, ‘But for the grace of God go I,’” I continue.

“It’s just a simple way of reminding myself to be humble and not take anything for granted—something I regularly need to be reminded of, it seems.”

She absorbs that for a moment. “No ex-girlfriend tattoo anywhere?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve got ex-girlfriends, though, right?”

“Sure.”

“Anything that lasted more than a month?”

I scoff. “My longest relationship lasted three years. ”

“Wow. What was her name?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Emma.”

She squints. “You don’t have a current girlfriend, right?”

“I already told you I fucked Jen in New York last week. I wouldn’t have done that if I had a current girlfriend—and I most certainly wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

She smiles. “Just checking.”

I squeeze her hand. “I’m not a cheater,” I say.

She nods. “Good to know.” She touches the tips of my fingers. “Okay, so no to girlfriend tattoos; yes to dragons. How about YOLO wrapped in barbed wire?”

“Oh, great idea for my next drunken mistake.”

She laughs. “Please don’t.”

“What do you care? You’re not the one who’s gonna have to look at it for the rest of your life.”

There’s an awkward pause. That came out kinda weird.

Shit. Now I feel like I should say, “Unless, of course, it turns out you are the one who’s gonna have to look at it for the rest of your life.

” But then that would be an even weirder thing to say.

Shit. I look out the car window, my mind racing.

When it comes to Kat, I keep finding myself saying shit I shouldn’t say and having thoughts I never, ever have.

“So what’s the deal with the dragon on your arm?” she asks, thankfully filling the awkward silence.

I clear my throat. “Ah. That was my very first drunken tattoo, though certainly not my last. I’m kinda known for drunken tattoos, actually. It’s sort of a thing with me and my friends.”

She laughs. “Can’t wait to see your collection up close some time.”

“Oh, you will.”

My heart is pounding in my ears.

“So what’s the deal with the dragon?” she asks.

“Ah, the dragon. I’d love to tell you I got it for some profound and intellectual reason—dragons have all sorts of meaning and symbolism, especially in Asia—but since you and I have agreed to play the honesty-game, I’ll tell you the truth: I stumbled into a tattoo parlor in Bangkok, drunk and high as a kite, and thought, ‘Dude. A dragon would be so rad.’”

She laughs.

“Reed got a tattoo that night, too—but not a dragon. His is way, way cooler than mine, actually—which isn’t surprising, since he’s way cooler than me.”

“Reed was in Bangkok with you?”

“Yeah. After my first year of college, I traveled the whole summer with Jonas, all over the place, and for a short bit of our trip, some of my buddies joined us.”

“You like to travel?” she asks.

“I love it. You?”

“I haven’t done a lot of it, but I’ve loved it when I’ve gotten the chance. My parents took the whole family to Mexico for their anniversary when I was a teenager. And then we went on a Caribbean cruise for Christmas a couple years later. That was super fun.”

I make a face.

“You don’t like the Caribbean?”

“I don’t like cruises—unless, you know, you’re talking about a private yacht. That’s the only way to travel by sea.”

She scoffs. “Oh, well. Who doesn’t demand a private yacht when traveling by sea? Duh.”

I cringe.

“It’s not like I have stock in a cruise line or anything,” she sniffs.

“I was just saying I was happy to get to go somewhere out of the country, that’s all, like most normal people would be.

And, by the way, my dad’s a pharmacist and my mom has her own little interior designer company, so it was a really big deal for them to take five kids on a week-long cruise. ”

I feel my cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was really snobby and out-of-touch of me to say. Sometimes my inner douchebag oozes out. Please forgive me.”

But she’s not done with me yet. “I guess you better get another tattoo to remind yourself to be humble, huh? Because the ‘Grace’ one doesn’t seem to be doing the trick.”

There’s a really long pause, during which I feel like my tongue is literally tied into knots along with my stomach.

She looks out the window of the cab, apparently gathering herself, her cheeks bursting with color, and I stare at her profile, marveling at her beauty.

How is it possible she keeps getting more and more attractive to me?

Usually, a beautiful woman like Kat becomes less and less physically attractive the more I get to know her.

I mean, with someone like Kat, you’d think there’d be only one way to go from here, right?

But, nope, I’m more and more drawn to her with each passing minute.

“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “I’m a total douchebag sometimes. I know this about myself. Please always call me on it. So few people in my life do.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Obviously.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means: that you will obviously call me on my shit. No more, no less. That’s all it means.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, that’s true. I will.”

“Jesus. You’re insane.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I can’t even blame you for being out of touch, honestly. I mean, how are you supposed to know what’s normal? Just look at your effing shoes, for crying out loud. How much did those things cost?”

I look down at my shoes.

“More than a thousand bucks?” she asks.

I flash her an annoyed look.

“I thought so.” She shakes her head. “You never stood a chance.”

“Again, you lick my balls and punch ’em at the same time.”

She laughs.

For a moment, we look out the window at the rat-haired horror shows dragging their sorry asses down The Strip in the pre-dawn light.

“Oh, look at that poor girl,” I say pointing to a young woman who unintentionally looks like an extra in the Thriller video.

“Poor baby,” Kat says. “Doing the Walk of Shame in Vegas is like reaching the Super Bowl in the sport.” She shakes her head. “I’ve done the walk of shame a time or two myself—but never in Vegas. I’ve got my standards, for crying out loud.”

I laugh.

“To be honest, it always pisses me off that people say women are doing a ‘walk of shame,’ but they never say that about guys. I mean it takes two to tango, right?”

“Absolutely.” I look out the window. “I’ve definitely done my share of shame-walking.” I scoff. “I’ve done my share of everything, actually. I was a bit out of control for a while.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore.”

“Was The Club part of your out-of-control phase?” she asks.

Goddammit. I hate that she knows about The Club.

There’s no other circumstance in which a woman I’m interested in would know about that.

“No,” I say. “The Club was just a short vacation from my adult responsibilities. I did that way after my out-of-control phase. It was just a blip. No more or less.”

“And now it’s over—the blip, I mean?”

“Yeah, now it’s over.”

“Until the next blip.”

I don’t reply—but she’s pegged me right. Surely, another blip’s coming at some point. When your brother is Jonas—and you’re his only lifeline—losing your shit for more than a blip here or there just isn’t an option.

“Tell me the story of why you got your ‘grace’ tattoo,” she says. “Were you drunk and high in Thailand for that one, too?”

I look out the window of the cab. “No, I got that particular tattoo in L.A. when I was stone-cold sober,” I say.

“I was twenty-three and recently out of school—it took me a little while to graduate—and I decided it was time to stop throwing my life away on total and complete bullshit and start living a life that my...” I swallow hard.

“That I could be proud of.” I shrug. “I decided to start living up to my name. So I decided to open a satellite office of Faraday & Sons and stop destroying myself, and the rest is history.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah, I opened the L.A. office about the time Jonas took over the main Seattle office.”

“No, I mean, did you stop destroying yourself? Did you start living a life you could be proud of?”

“Oh.” I run my hand through my hair. “Mostly. A few slip-ups now and again over the years.” I look into her gorgeous blue eyes. “But, yeah. By and large. ”

Another long pause.

“Isn’t Thailand one of those countries where they could put you in jail and throw away the key if you get caught with drugs?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You said you were drunk and high as a kite in Thailand.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well. I thought I was invincible back then. Or maybe I didn’t care if I wasn’t. Actually, it’s funny you say that. I’ve got a pretty hairy story about that night. I’ll tell it to you some time, maybe.”

There’s a long beat.

“Josh, I know what happened to your parents,” she says. “Sarah told me. I’m really sorry.”

I’m stunned. I had no idea Kat knew about my parents. What the fuck? She knows about The Club and my parents? Fuck.

“It was a long time ago,” I respond stiffly.

She doesn’t press me, thankfully, but she’s clearly looking at me with sympathy in her eyes. Shit. I don’t have any desire to be the Poor Little Rich Boy in anyone’s eyes, least of all Kat’s.

“No worries,” I add. I squeeze her hand to reassure her and she squeezes back.

Our taxi pulls up in front of our hotel and I help Kat out of the car. She’s pretty wobbly.

“You okay?” I ask, holding her arm.

“I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Just a little car sick, I think. I’ll be fine once I eat something.”

We walk toward the front doors of our mammoth hotel.

“Do you need to put on some dry undies before we eat? My briefs are still wet—I think my dick is getting chafed.”

“Oh, well, we don’t want that,” she says. “Yeah, I could use a change, too. Let’s run up to our rooms and meet at that Americana restaurant on the far side of the casino in fifteen.”

“You aren’t gonna pass out on your bed and not come back down, are you?” I ask.

“Not a chance. I’m the Party Girl, remember? I’m a machine.”

“Atta girl,” I say. “But I’d better walk you up to your room, just to make sure you get there safely.”

“You mean so you can have sex with me,” she says coyly, batting her eyelashes. “I know your game, Playboy. ”

“Kat, I’m not gonna fuck you for the first time at six in the morning after a long-ass night of partying when you’re obviously drunk off your ass and, no offense, look like road kill.”

She scowls at me.

“Oh, wait, scratch all that. I forgot we’re playing the honesty-game here. The truth is I’d totally fuck you, despite all that, for sure—but I’m most definitely not gonna fuck you ’til you’ve dropped your ridiculous demands.”

She makes a “good luck with that” face.

“Hey, you’re the one who made The Rules, PG. I’m merely enforcing them.”

She pauses, considering something. “Well, how about this? What if we fuck without any kissing?” she asks. “Would that be a loophole?”

I laugh. The woman’s trying to find a loophole from her own bullshit?

Clearly, she’s a heartbeat away from caving completely.

“You’re not in any shape to negotiate on the bet, PG.

You made your demands, and now you have to live with them.

The only way out now is to concede. There’s no middle ground. ”

She scowls yet again.

I suppress the urge to laugh out loud at her expression. She’s such a bullshitter, this girl. She wants me so bad, she’s about to pull her hair out. Time to turn up the heat.

“Plus, I happen to like kissing when I fuck,” I say nonchalantly. “I like it a lot. Every variety of it.”

She stops walking abruptly and puts her arms out like she’s trying to balance herself on a log.

Oh man, she’s drunk. Her eyes are half-mast. Her hair’s matted against her head. Her eye makeup is smudged. And she’s still fucking gorgeous.

“Look, here’s the thing you’re obviously not getting about me, Party Girl: I’ve been exercising superhuman patience my whole fucking life.

You think you’re gonna wear me down? Nothing fucking wears me down—I’ve got the patience of a fucking saint.

I’ve been the fixer my whole life—and nothing ruffles me.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s a time and place for everything—including fucking the one and only Party Girl with a Hyphen—and until the right time for that bit of awesomeness presents itself, I’ll just wait and be patient, let you drip down your thighs ’til you’re begging me for it. ”

She’s speechless.

I can’t suppress my laughter anymore. She’s too fucking cute. “Come on, PG. Let me get you to your room to change.” I grab her limp arm and usher her toward the hotel again, but after three more steps, she stops short and hunches over.

“Kat?”

She nods and puts her hand to her mouth. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She takes two more steps and stops again, grabbing her stomach.

“Kat?” I grab her shoulders? “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I think I just need to—”

Without warning, she bends over and barfs—all over the sidewalk—and all over my two-thousand-dollar shoes.