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)
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?)