Page 11 of Revelation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #2)

KAT

I crawl into bed with my laptop and sigh with happiness. Yeehaw, I’m finally gonna read Josh’s application, without even the possibility of an interruption.

After Henn took my photo downstairs (after we’d finally located a simple white wall to use as a backdrop), the three of us briefly talked to Jonas, who told us the meeting with the feds is going down later today at one o’clock Washington time.

“You three need to be ready to transfer the money as early as one thirty Washington time,” Jonas warned during our call. “I doubt we’ll be asked to do it that quickly—I’m guessing the meeting with the feds will take hours—but you have to be at the ready, just in case.”

“Sure thing, bro,” Josh said. “No problemo .”

After we hung up from our call with Jonas, I suddenly felt like I was gonna melt onto the floor with exhaustion. “I’m gonna get into my jammies, get nice and cozy in my bed, and do some reading before I drift off to sleep,” I told Josh and Henn. “Nighty-night, boys.”

“Okay, Kitty Kat,” Henn said. “I’ve got everything I need now. See you in the morning.” And off he went.

“How ’bout I come to your room with you?” Josh offered, pulling me into him.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m going in alone. It’s finally time for me to find out what kind of perverted-sick-fuck-goat-fucker you really are, Joshua William Faraday. No distractions.”

Josh pressed himself into me. “Aw, come on, PG. I’ll lie next to you in bed while you read. That way I can answer any questions you might have. ”

“No way, Playboy,” I replied.

“I’ll massage your feet while you read.”

I paused, considering. I really love a good foot massage. “No,” I finally said. “No more distractions. Nighty-night.”

And now, here I am. Finally. Sitting in bed in my tank top and undies with my computer on my lap, a huge smile on my face and an Avicii song blaring through my speakers (“Addicted to You,” featuring vocals by my new obsession, Audra Mae).

I quickly check my phone. I’ve been horrible about replying to texts and emails since coming to Sin City.

This whole trip has been like entering some sort of Twilight-Zone-alternate-dimension.

I scroll through my texts. I’ve got a text from my mom, asking me to call her so she can “hear my voice.” No rush there.

And a text from my oldest brother, Colby, (addressing me as Kumquat), asking me if I’ve gambled away next month’s rent yet and telling me to call Mom so she can “hear my voice.”

There’s a text from my baby brother, Dax, (addressing me as Jizz), informing me he used the extra key to my apartment to “hang out” in my place for a few days and, oh yeah, by the way, oops, he ate all my food.

I’ve got a text from Hannah at work, telling me she misses her lunch buddy and asking me to call her whenever. I wince. Hannah’s really picked up my slack at work while I’ve been gone. I owe her big-time.

I’ve got a text from Sarah from an hour ago, telling me she and Jonas landed in Washington D.C. and are set to meet at FBI headquarters later this afternoon. “Oh muh guh,” Sarah wrote. “I’m crapping my pants. But Jonas is cool as a cucumber about the whole thing so he’s keeping me sane.”

I smile at that last sentence. Jonas is keeping Sarah sane? Gotta love those two.

“Go get ’em, girl,” I reply to Sarah’s text. “You’re gonna blow all those fancy G-men away. The Vegas branch of our crew is standing by.”

And, finally, there’s a text from Josh from five minutes ago: “Hey, PG. Do me a favor and text me the minute you’re done reading my application,” he writes. “You don’t have to tell me what you think about it. Just tell me when you’ve read it or else I won’t be able to fall asleep. ”

“Will do,” I reply. “I’m about to start reading now.”

His reply is instantaneous. “Just keep an open mind,” he writes. “Just remember when I wrote that thing, I was really upset.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t sweat it, PB. How bad can it be?”

“Um... ” he writes.

I’ve got a pit in my stomach. “I’ll text you when I’m done,” I write.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I grab my laptop, find the email with Josh’s application attached, snuggle into my soft, white pillows, happily listening to Avicii and Audra Mae serenade me, and begin reading:

Name?

“Joshua William Faraday,” he writes. And, yet again, the sight of his full name sends a shiver down my spine. “Sexy man,” I say out loud in my empty hotel room.

With this application, you will be required to submit three separate forms of identification. The Club maintains a strict “No Aliases Policy” for admission. You may, however, use aliases during interactions with other Club members, at your discretion.

“OK,” he writes.

Age?

“29,” he writes.

Provide a brief physical description of yourself.

I scan his full response to this question again. But this time reading Josh’s words, my heart races and leaps: “I prefer not to talk about the meanings of my tattoos at length, so please tell whoever gets assigned to me not to ask about them.”

A wave of excitement washes through me. If that’s how Josh felt when he wrote those words, he certainly doesn’t seem to feel that way now—or, at least, not when it comes to me.

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.

Just for the heck of it, I click onto Josh’s naked-bad-boy-photo and stare at it for a moment. This man sends my pulse racing and my blood boiling in a way I’ve never felt before. Damn, boy—just like Audra Mae is singing in my ear right now—I’m absolutely addicted to him.

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

“Done,” he writes.

Sexual orientation? Please choose from the following options: Straight, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, other?

“Straight,” he writes.

Do any of your sexual fantasies include violence of any nature?

“Yes,” he writes.

Whoa. Holy shitballs. Not what I expected. I move quickly to the next section.

If so, please describe in detail. Please note that your inclination toward or fantasies about sexual violence, if any, will not, standing alone, preclude membership.

Indeed, we provide highly particularized services for members with a wide variety of proclivities.

In the interest of serving your needs to the fullest extent possible, please describe any and all sexual fantasies involving violence of any nature whatsoever.

“I have a sexual fantasy in which I come to the rescue of a woman who’s been bound and raped.”

Whoa again.

Are you a current practitioner of BDSM and/or does BDSM interest you? If so, describe in explicit detail.

“BDSM interests me insofar as it relates to fulfilling the fantasy described above.”

Payment and Membership Terms. Please choose from the following options: One Year Membership, $250,000 USD; Monthly Membership, $30,000 USD.

All payments are non-refundable. No exceptions.

Once you’ve made your selection regarding your membership plan, information for wiring the funds into an escrow account will be immediately forthcoming under separate cover.

Membership fees shall be transferred automatically out of escrow to The Club upon approval of your membership.

“I’m interested in a one-month membership, administered according to my exact specifications, described below. If additional payment beyond your usual monthly fee is required for you to deliver exactly what I’ve asked for (below), I’m open to further negotiation of your fee. Please advise.”

Oh my effing God. My heart is pounding forcefully in my ears. I can’t read Josh’s words fast enough.

Please provide a detailed explanation about what compelled you to seek membership in The Club.

“It’s pretty simple, actually: I’m joining The Club because I’m a sick fuck.

Or so I’ve been recently told by someone I loved and trusted with all my fucking heart.

Well, I might be a sick fuck, but at least I’m not a heartless liar.

I’m not the one who begged me to open up, pleaded with me to tell her the truth about my deepest desires and told me it was safe and she wouldn’t judge me, and then when I finally broke down and told her everything, called me a ‘sick fuck’ and said there’s something ‘deeply wrong with me’ and then cheated on me with a douchebag who wears a fucking ascot and says ‘bloody hell’ and rides polo ponies for fuck’s sake.

Motherfucking bastard asshole. After three years she couldn’t give me the courtesy of breaking up with me?

I had to hear she’d run off with that douche from a friend?

Ha! And this was all because of shit I merely fantasized about doing—I hadn’t even done any of it yet—and she ran away screaming (and right into that fucktard’s arms)?

“For three years, I tried my damnedest to fix her and love her and protect her as best I could. But it turns out she was too broken to be fixed and loved and protected—or at least too broken to be fixed by a ‘sick fuck’ like me. Well, if I’m gonna lose the only girl I’ve ever loved for simply fantasizing about doing some crazy shit, then I might as well fucking do all of it, huh?

Especially now that she’s gone for good, riding off into the sunset on a fucking polo pony.

Why should I suffer all the consequences of being a sick fuck without reaping all the rewards, too?

So let’s do this shit, motherfuckers. I’m ready, baby—as ready as a sick fuck can possibly be. ”