Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
He pauses for a moment. “That’s two questions.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal: I’m gonna tell you the answer to these two questions and then this interrogation is officially done.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t only sleep with blondes. I’ve been with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, ethnicities, and hair colors, and I’ve enjoyed them all. In fact, I’ve enjoyed them all immensely.”
“Thanks. Little more info than I needed.”
“And, no, I don’t have some bizarre complex whereby I think sleeping with a beautiful blonde woman somehow transforms me into a sick fuck. Yes, I specifically requested blondes in The Club because The Club was about fantasy-fulfillment and escape from reality, and, call me unimaginative or trite, but when I shop at the fantasy store, at least for purposes of fulfilling the fantasies I specifically asked for in The Club, that’s what I want—a classic blonde. Why? I don’t know. It’s just the way I’m wired—I definitely have a type.” He makes a sound that emphatically signals he’s done talking.
“Thank you,” I say smoothly, scrolling through the photos again. “Yep, I’d agree you definitely have a type.” I snort. “Actually, they all look just like...” I abruptly stop speaking. Holy shit.
There’s a long beat.
“Yeah, Kat,” Josh finally says. He lets out a loud puff of air. “They look just like you.”
He’s read my mind. I swallow hard.
“Less attractive versions of you, of course,” he continues softly. “They’re all wannabe-Kats. You’re what my brother refers to as the ‘divine original.’”
I’m tingling all over. “The ‘divine original’?” I breathe. “What’s that?”
He lets out a long groan. “I can’t believe I just said that. It’s this Plato-thing Jonas is always babbling about. Forget I ever said it—I wanna gouge my eyes out every time my brother mentions it and now it’s me who’s saying it. Gah.”
I press my phone into my ear, my breathing shallow. “What does it mean, Josh?” I ask softly. “Whatever it means, it’s making me tingle all over.”
“It just means you’re the original template and everyone else is a knock-off.” He lets out a long sigh. “Like, you know, you’re the authentic Gucci bag and everyone else is one of those counterfeits they sell on the sidewalk in New York.”
I pause, letting that sink in. I’ve never been to New York, actually, but his metaphor is still perfectly understandable to me. “So does that mean I make you a sick fuck more than anyone else?”
He growls with exasperation. “You don’t make me a sick fuck—no one makes me a sick fuck. Someone I cared about once called me a sick fuck and I was pissed as hell about it when I named that folder, that’s all. I was, you know, flipping that person the bird when I named that folder.”
While Josh has been talking, I’ve been leafing through the photos. There’s one girl I keep going back to again and again. She’s not working the lens or trying to be sexy like the others—in fact, the woman is clearly put off by posing for the photo—and her shyness about the whole thing makes her all the more alluring. Suddenly, there’s no doubt in my mind this shy girl is the non-Clubber Josh photographed himself—and, if my Scooby Doo senses are right, she’s also the one who pissed him off by calling him a “sick fuck.”
“What about the shy one?” I ask.
“The shy one?”
“The one who looks mortified to be posing for a naked photo? She looks pretty divine-original-ish to me. Is she the one you photographed yourself?” I swallow hard. “Is she your ex-girlfriend?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Did she call you a sick fuck?”
“Click out of there, Kat,” he says softly, a stiffness overtaking his tone. “Interrogation over.”
My skin erupts in goose bumps. He’s not kidding around. Shoot. He sounds genuinely upset.
“Okay, I’m out,” I say, exiting the folder.
“I’m gonna go,” he says evenly. “Happy reading.”
“No, wait. Please, Josh. Wait.” The angry edge in his voice has made my chest tighten. Clearly, I’ve pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, Josh. Sometimes I take things too far. It’s a major flaw of mine.”
Josh chuckles despite himself.
I bite my lip, smiling into the phone. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Says the woman with a bomb strapped to her chest.” He lets out a long exhale. “Just read my goddamned application, okay? I can’t take it anymore. The anticipation’s killing me. Just read it and make your decision already.”
“My decision?”
He pauses. “Whether to sleep with me or not,” he finally says.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Well, a girl’s gotta know if she’s gonna wake up chained to a goat.”
“No, a donkey.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. A girl’s gotta know these things.”
“You never know what might happen with me. I’m kind of a sick fuck.”
“According to whom?”
He doesn’t reply.
“The Shy Girl?”
He pauses. “Yeah.”
“That’s Emma?”
“Yup.”
“Well, Josh, I haven’t even read your application yet, and I can already tell you Emma was full of shit.”