Page 69 of Revelation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #2)

Whitney’s sitting in her private jet, a scarf wrapped demurely around her head, looking out the airplane window at Kevin standing out on the tarmac, his arm in a sling.

Why is Kevin’s arm in a sling? Because he took a bullet for Whitney.

Because he loves her. And she loves him, too.

But the horrible tragedy is that, despite their love, even though he took a freaking bullet for her, they simply can’t be together.

And they both know it. Because they’re from different worlds, after all.

And life isn’t always fair, motherfucker.

But the injustice of it all only makes their love more intense—harder to give up.

Whitney yells to the pilot to stop.

The jet engines abruptly stop and the airplane-steps come down. Whitney runs out of the private plane to Kevin and throws her arms around him. They kiss passionately.

And the most gigantic ugly cry ever released in the history of ugly cries leaves my mouth. “Josh!” I sob, throwing my head back onto the throw pillow on my couch. “Jooooossssshhhhhh!”

Oh, I talked such a good game in front of the karaoke bar, didn’t I? “From here on out,” I said, “we’re gonna do things Josh-Faraday-style. The future doesn’t exist. There are no expectations, no commitments.”

But I was full of shit.

I love him. With all my heart and soul. I don’t want anyone but him.

I know he’s ‘crazy about me.’ And that he’s done a million amazing things for me, just like Richard did for Julia in Pretty Woman.

Yes, just like Julia, I’ve been showered with gifts and money and offers to help me in countless ways—and, I suppose, for most women, all of that would be more than enough.

But I’m not most women. I’m just like Julia—I want it all.

I want a commitment. I want true love. I want a knight in shining armor on a white horse.

Goddammit, I want more than florebblaaaaah. And I simply can’t pretend I don’t.

I clutch my stomach and put the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I’ve been scarfing down onto the coffee table.

I’m so worked up about all this, I feel physically ill.

Queasy. And my nipples are sore, too, by the way, which is really weird.

I know Josh pinched my nipples pretty hard yesterday when he fucked me in the bathroom at The Pine Box, but did he really pinch them that hard? Jeez. They still hurt.

Whitney’s glowing face appears onscreen in close-up, her teeth a spectacular shade of computer-paper-white, her mocha skin flawless.

She begins singing The Song—the most famous song in the world.

Oh, God, she’s an angel. My beautiful Whitney.

And I’m a sobbing mess. Again .

This song was written for Josh and me and no one else.

I love him and he doesn’t love me back. He’s crazy about me, sure—addicted to me.

But he can’t promise me tomorrow, he says.

Which is a telltale sign he’s not in love with me.

Because when you love someone, you’re willing to promise forever, even though you intellectually know you can’t make that promise.

You don’t not promise forever to the one you love simply because we’re objectively mortal—you promise it, regardless, and hope forever turns out to be more than fifty-two days.

No one knows what life might bring or what might happen two months from now, I get that, but the point is that when you’re in love, you’re stupid enough to think you can promise forever.

You wanna believe it so badly, you’re willing to tell that little white lie.

And if you’re not willing to tell it, well then, that’s the surest way to know you’re not really in love, after all.

Whitney’s done singing.

I grab the remote control, and just that sudden movement makes my stomach flip over violently, almost like I’m gonna barf. But that’s ridiculous. I hardly drank a drop tonight.

Out of nowhere, my body dry heaves .

What the hell? I cock my head to the side, totally perplexed. What the heck was that? My body heaves again—only this time, holy shit, fluid has gushed into my mouth.

I sprint off the couch into the bathroom, my palm clamped over my mouth, and only semi-make it to the toilet before another, violent heave makes me vomit up every drop of fluid and Cherry Garcia in my stomach, not to mention the chicken wings and guacamole I ate at the bar.

Oh, jeez. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

What the hell? I barely drank tonight.

I barf again.

Damn, I feel horrible.

Were the chicken wings bad? I wonder if anyone else is feeling sick, too?

I rinse out my mouth and clean the barf off the toilet seat and floor and shuffle back to my couch.

Damn, my nipples are hurting.

I can’t imagine bad chicken wings would make my nipples extra sensitive.

I begin to nestle back onto the couch and grab the remote, but then all of a sudden, I sit up, tilting my head like a cockatiel. An alarming thought just skittered across my brain like a cockroach after the kitchen lights have been turned on.

No.

It couldn’t be that .

I took a pregnancy test ten days ago and it was negative—and I haven’t missed any pills since then. Have I? I don’t think so. I didn’t take them at the exact same time every day like you’re supposed to, granted, but close enough.

I sprint back into my bathroom. The box of pregnancy tests I bought the other day had three pee-sticks in it, and I’ve only used one.

I pull out one of the unused pee-sticks, sit on the toilet, and pee on it, my heart racing. There’s no effing way. That would be ridiculous. Unthinkable. I just quit my job with medical benefits today . Ha! No. God doesn’t have that mean a sense of humor.

I sit and stare at the stick, waiting. One line means I’m in the clear. Two lines means I’m fucked six ways from Sunday .

I sit and wait.

I thought it was weird I almost barfed in the sex dungeon, but when I Googled “vomiting from intense orgasm,” the Internet was littered with countless women who’d experienced the exact same thing. So I didn’t sweat it.

“Don’t you dare let me catch either of you ever making an accidental Faraday with a woman unworthy of our name or I’ll get the last laugh on that gold digger’s ass and disown the fuck out of you faster than she can demand a paternity test.” That’s what Josh said his father told him when he was barely a teenager.

The faintest second pink line begins to appear on the pee stick and my eyes pop out of my head.

“No,” I say out loud. “Go away. Go away!”

The line is getting darker.

“No,” I say, pulling at my hair. “Please, God, no.”

This has to be a mistake. A false positive.

Yes, that’s what it is. A false positive.

Of course. I run into the living room and grab my laptop.

I Google “false positive pregnancy test” and it turns out there’s no such thing, basically—except in cases of certain medication (no), defective test (maybe?), or, rarely, certain kinds of cancer.

Is it wrong to be wishing I have cancer right now?

Okay, maybe the test was defective. That’s my only hope.

I drink a couple glasses of water and sit on the couch, Googling like a madwoman for at least thirty minutes, trying to find a reasonable explanation for those two pink lines that doesn’t involve a little Faraday growing inside me, and when I feel the tiniest hint of pee in my bladder, I run back into the bathroom and pee on the third pee-stick.

I would never try to trap you, I assured Josh. I’m a millionaire now, Josh—I don’t need your stinkin’ Faraday money.

Oh, I know you’d never do that to me, he assured me. Of course, not .

I look up at the ceiling, another massive wave of nausea slamming into me.

Within a minute, a second pink line appears on the new pee-stick. I stare at the two positive pregnancy tests lined up on my counter, my eyes bugging out of my head, my recent conversation with Josh echoing in my head. Oh God, Josh is gonna shit. He’s gonna kill me, and then he’s gonna shit .

And then he’s gonna call me a gold digger.

And then he’s gonna run away, his arms flailing.

And then he’s gonna shit again.

My heart is aching.

This is a complete disaster.

Worst-case scenario.

“Shit,” I say out loud.

I amble into my living room in a daze, clutching the two positive pregnancy tests.

I sit down on my couch, my eyes wide, my head spinning.

“Shit,” I say again.

From the minute I laid eyes on Josh, I felt like I’d hopped aboard a bullet train.

Well, it looks like our train just jumped the tracks.

And now there’s only one possible outcome.

Crash.

TO BE CONTINUED…