Page 30 of Revelation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #2)

KAT

W hen I enter my apartment, my youngest brother, Dax, is on the couch, playing his guitar and singing a song I’ve never heard before. When he sees me, he sets down his guitar and lopes over to me, his lean muscles taut in his tight-fitting T-shirt.

“Jizz,” he says warmly, wrapping me in a big hug. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

I kiss his cheek. “Hey, baby brother,” I say. “Thanks for keeping my apartment safe and sound.”

“It was hard work, but somebody had to do it. Was Vegas a blast?”

“Yeah, it was amazing.”

“How much money did you lose?”

“Oh, not too much,” I say coyly. “So, hey, was that a new song you were just playing?”

“Yeah, I was just fine-tuning it. It’s not done yet.”

“Play me what you’ve got.” I lead him to the couch and we sit.

“Naw, I’ll play it for you when I’ve got it finished.”

“I won’t criticize it. Just play me what you got.”

His face lights up. “Well, if you insist.”

I laugh. “I do.”

Dax picks up his guitar and plays an up-tempo song about looking for love in the anonymous faces he passes on a busy city street—and his expressive voice and vulnerable lyrics transport me with every word and note.

“Wistful, hopeful, funny, romantic, and lonely all at the same time,” I say when he’s done. “I absolutely love it.”

“Yeah, but you love everything I write.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sincere. ”

He grins. “So, hey, I got your mail for you.” He slides a stack of mail on the coffee table toward me.

“Oh, thanks. I never thought I’d be gone so long.” I start rifling through the stack. “Bills, bills, bills. Credit card offers. Coupons. Catalogs. Doesn’t look like I missed—” I look up. Oh. I’m talking to myself. Dax isn’t in the room. I look back down at the stack of mail and continue sorting it.

I hear a thudding noise in the center of the room and look up just in time to see Dax straightening up from putting down a heavy-looking box. “This bad boy got delivered a couple hours ago,” he says. “From someone named J.W. Faraday.”

My skin pricks with goose bumps. “Oh, okay, thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual—but, oh my God, the size of that box sure looks familiar.

I pop up off the couch, intending to shoo Dax away, because, oh my God, if that box contains what I think it does, there’d better not be any markings on the outside to give it away.

“And, of course, I already opened the box for you, sis,” Dax continues, “just to be super-duper helpful.”

A weird screech of anxiety escapes my throat.

Dax chuckles. “Whoever this J.W. Faraday guy is, he’s awfully generous—and somewhat of a perv, too, it seems.”

“You opened it?” I blurt angrily.

“Of course, I did. I’d never make my sister open a big ol’ box all by herself with her own two fragile hands.

I’m a gentleman .” He opens the already-cut flaps of the box with a wide smile and pulls out a humongous assortment of dildo-attachments, all packaged together in a clear plastic bag.

“So many dicks to choose from, Jizz. I don’t know how you’ll decide.

” He places the dildos on my coffee table with a wide smile.

“Oh my God,” I say, my cheeks burning. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. But Dax isn’t done with me. He reaches inside the box, pulls out the main event, and places it carefully on the floor.

At the sight of my brand new Sybian, my face explodes with instant heat, both from excitement and embarrassment, but I force myself to remain calm. Dax might have no idea what a Sybian is, I tell myself—I’d certainly never heard of one before last week when Josh rented one for me .

“This is the first time I’m seeing a Sybian in person,” Dax says, standing over it with his hands on his hips.

I throw my hands over my face, completely mortified. I can’t believe my baby brother’s here to witness this gift from Josh. Nightmare.

“It’s really quite the feat of modern engineering,” he says.

I don’t reply.

Dax laughs. “So who the fuck is this guy, Jizz?”

I still don’t reply.

“Aw, come on. It’s just me.”

As I often do, I decide my best defense is a good offense. “I can’t believe you opened my personal stuff, Dax!” I yell, throwing my hands up in outrage.

But Dax completely ignores my outburst—a tactic I’ve seen him employ too many times to count (and a tactic I’ve copied and used to great success myself).

In fact, he’s smiling serenely at me. “I think Sybians cost like fifteen hundred bucks,” he says.

“Gosh, you must have done something awfully nice to J.W. Faraday to make him wanna send you such an expensive gift.”

I open my mouth to yell at him, but nothing comes out. I’m so freaking embarrassed, I can’t speak.

Dax bursts out laughing. “Oh, looks like I hit the nail on the head, huh? Well, whatever you did to the guy, you apparently did it very, very well.” He buckles over laughing.

“You’re so gross, Dax. Stop it.”

But he won’t stop laughing.

“Stop it.”

Nope. He’s thoroughly amused.

“You had absolutely no business opening that box.” I march over to him in a huff and punch him in the shoulder. “Did the label on the package say ‘David Jackson Morgan’? No , it didn’t.”

He scoffs. “Close enough—it was stamped ‘Personal & Confidential.’ Hell, the damn thing might as well have said, ‘Open me, Dax.’”

I can’t help but smile broadly, even through my pissiness. That’s my line, of course. Dax and I have always shared a brain.

Dax shrugs. “Seriously, a guy can’t see a big ol’ box sent to his sister , addressed to ‘Katherine Ulla Morgan,’ no less, and marked ‘ Personal & Confidential ’ and not open it, for crying out loud. Gimme a break, Jizz—I’m but a man, not a saint.”

My irritation is softening. Goddamn my baby brother, I can never stay mad at him for long. “Just don’t tell everybody about this, okay? It’s really personal.”

He scoffs. “Of course not. I’d never tell any of our brothers about any of this.”

I laugh. “You tell them everything, Dax, especially Keane.”

“I don’t tell Peen everything. I only tell him about my music and girls—”

“Like I said, ‘everything.’”

“But I never tell him your stuff. Seriously, Jizz, I never do.” His eyes are earnest. “I swear.” He flashes me an adorable puppy-dog smile. “You aren’t really pissed at me for opening your box, are you?”

I roll my eyes. “No,” I say begrudgingly. “But never do it again.”

He crosses his heart. “The next time a guy with a lord-of-the-manor name sends a big box marked ‘personal & confidential’ to Katherine Ulla Morgan at your apartment, and I’m here all alone when the delivery comes, I swear to God I will not open it before you get home.

So who is this ‘J.W. Faraday’ chap?” he asks, saying Josh’s name with a Queen-Elizabeth-British accent. “Sounds like a guy with a butler.”

I plop down on the couch and Dax follows suit, settling himself right next to me. I grab his hand (something I’ve been doing ever since Mom brought him home from the hospital for the first time when I was four), and I lean my cheek against his strong shoulder.

“Joshua William Faraday,” I breathe, my heart skipping a beat as I say the words.

“So you know each other’s middle names, huh? Sounds serious, brah.”

I don’t reply. Dax is being flippant, I think—but his comment hits on the exact thing I can’t stop wondering: Is this thing with Josh something serious or are we having some sort of extended fling?

“Hey, by the way,” Dax says, “you’ll probably wanna read this.” He holds up a small sealed envelope. “It was inside the box.”

I snatch the envelope from him, hyperventilating. Oh, thank God, it’s still sealed.

“It pained me not to read it,” Dax says. “It really did. But I figure there are some lines even I shouldn’t cross, seeing as how you’re my sister and all.”

I tear open the envelope, pull out a typewritten note (taking great care to keep it out of Dax’s line of sight), and read as fast as my eyes can manage:

“My Dearest Party Girl with a Hyphen,” Josh’s note says.

“I hope you get lots and lots of enjoyment from your new toy. Please make use of it every day when I can’t be there personally to make you scream.

While you use it, I want you to imagine it’s me who’s fucking you, nice and slow, and whispering into your ear as I do about how amazing you feel, how dripping wet you are for me, and how much you turn me on. ”

Holy shitballs.

My breathing has suddenly become labored.

“Until we meet again,” Josh continues in his note, “I want you to use your new toy every time you feel even the slightest bit horny or lonely. (Because even when I can’t be with you in person, I’m determined to keep my hot-wired Party Girl with a Hyphen completely satisfied—wouldn’t want her feeling even remotely tempted to fuck Cameron Schulz again, now would I?)

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again very soon and making each and every one of your (highly detailed) sexual fantasies come true. Exclusively yours, Playboy.”

“Oh. My. God,” I say breathlessly. My crotch is exploding with arousal in my panties and I’m panting like a Pekingese running a hundred-yard dash.

“What does it say?” Dax asks.

I press the note against my chest. “It says, ‘It’s none of your frickin’ business, Dax Morgan.’”

“Aw, come on.”

“No way.”

He makes a wry face. “So what’s the status with you two—are you in a relationship or... ?”

“I have no freaking idea what our status is. Whatever we’re doing defies standard labeling.”

“The guy sends you a fifteen-hundred-dollar gift and you don’t know the status? That’s a lot of money to spend on a gift for some chick you’re just hanging out with.”

I shrug. “It’s hard to explain. ”

“Are you at least dating?”

I sigh. “Yeah. I think so. I mean we’ve both made it clear we’re really into each other. But I don’t know where things are headed—he gets really skittish the minute he feels like he’s being penned in. But on the other hand we agreed to be exclusive.”

“You’re exclusive? Well, then it’s way beyond dating.”