Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes with an incoming text and I pull back to see who it’s from.
“I hit the motherlode,” Henn writes. “All hands on deck!”
“Oh, shit. I gotta go, Jen,” I blurt, pressing the phone back into my ear. “Something really important just came up. Sorry. Gotta go.”
“What?”
“Look, Jen, I’m sorry about the other night at the party. Kat’s got a bit of a temper, it turns out.” The image of Kat stomping like a toddler down the hallway, dripping wet, barefoot, her incredible ass-cheeks hanging out of her black G-string, pops into my mind. “She put words into my mouth. I absolutely didn’t call you an airhead. That’s what I wanted to tell you—and also that I’m not at all interested in a relationship. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really gotta go.”
Thirty
Kat
I take a deep breath. I’ve got a full flock of butterflies flapping around in my stomach. Our Ocean’s Eleven crew is scheduled to meet at ten to head over to the Las Vegas branch of the FBI, Sarah’s report in hand, and by God, I’m determined to give Josh my application before then. I take another deep breath, turn up the volume on the Audra Mae and the Almighty Sound song I’m now officially addicted to (“The Real Thing”), thanks to Sarah, and place my hands on my keyboard. Here goes nothing.
“The following is my application to The Josh Faraday Club,” I type onto my screen. “All answers will be one hundred percent honest. (And bee tee dubs, some of this stuff is kind of personal, so please keep it in confidence.)”
Name?
“Katherine Ulla Morgan,” I write. “But everyone just calls me Kat.” I take a deep breath. I never tell anyone about this. I can’t believe I’m writing this. “I’m named after my dad’s mother Katherine and my mom’s Swedish grandmother Ulla. Pretty name, huh? Katherine Ulla Morgan. Yeah, it’s pretty until you realize my initials spell ‘KUM.’ Let me repeat that, in case you’re not understanding the full implication: my initials spell the word ‘KUM’ and I have four brothers. Which means that, in addition to being called Kat and Kitty Kat my whole life, I’ve also been called charming things like... wait for it... Kum Shot, Jizz, Splooge, Pecker-Snot, Man-Yogurt, Dick-Spit, Schlong-Juice, Jerk-Sauce, and, oh, so many more clever and classy things only boys would ever dream up.
“The only one of my brothers who’s never joined in on the semen-infused nicknaming is my oldest brother, Colby—and I’m pretty sure I know why. As family lore goes, my clueless mother had originally wanted to give Baby Colby her grandfather’s name as his middle name, but thanks to a family tradition on my dad’s side (whereby the first-born son is given the middle name of Edwin), Colby narrowly escaped being named Colby Ulysses Morgan. And so, perhaps in adherence to the philosophy ‘But for the grace of God go I’—a philosophy you’ve expressed a strong affinity for, too—Colby’s always stuck to calling me ‘Kumquat.’ (As a side note, my second oldest brother Ryan ultimately wound up with the dreaded ‘Ulysses’ moniker as his middle name, but being called ‘RUM’ and ‘Bacardi’ and... wait for it... ‘Captain Morgan’ hasn’t exactly scarred him for life.)
“So, there you have it. I’m KUM. What you choose to do with the truth about my name is entirely up to you. But be warned: if you’re suddenly feeling an irresistible urge to call me Cream-of-Sum-Yung-Guy or Baby-Gravy or Protein-Milkshake, you won’t be the first. There’s literally no semen-related name you could sling at me that I haven’t already been called a hundred times in the ‘comfort’ of my own home or in the hallways of middle school (where, for three long years, we were most unfortunately required to mark our full initials onto the hem of our P. E. shorts).
“Beginning in high school (when I thankfully was no longer required to display ‘KUM’ on my P. E. shorts anymore), I started lying and saying my middle name is Ella. And to this day, I never tell anyone the truth about my middle name, just in case they’re apt to put two and two together and start calling me Nut-Butter or Trouser-Juice or Man-Chowder or Spunk.
“Why, you might wonder, am I telling you of all people my KUM-tastic secret after all this time? I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that, judging by the way Sarah and Jonas have benefitted from playing the honesty-game right from the start, I’m eager to give the game a whirl, too. With you.”
Age?
“24,” I type.
Provide a brief physical description of yourself.
I stare at my computer screen for a moment. Josh is already quite familiar with almost every square inch of me—I mean, jeez, the man has seen me throw a tantrum in my underwear and shoved his fingers up my wahoo on a dance floor. But, still, I might as well answer the question.