The Revelation(7)By: Lauren Rowe
Josh sighs. “Hey, can I just come up there? I thought I wanted to stay as far away as possible while you were reading my application, but all of a sudden I’d rather just sit next to you while you read it and watch your facial expressions.”
My heart leaps. “Are you by any chance planning to distract me again, Joshua William Faraday?”
I smile broadly into the phone. “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “Get your YOLO’d-ass up here, Playboy. We’ll read the damned thing together, line by perverted line—and maybe, if you’re extra nice to me, I’ll let you distract me again.”
I can hear his smile again.
“I’ll be right there,” he says.
The minute Josh and I hang up from our call, I scroll through his blonde-girl “Sick Fuck” folder again, this time more slowly than before. These are some spectacularly gorgeous women here—and he thinks I’m some sort of ‘ideal form’ of all of them? Surely, he’s just flattering me. I mean, come on.
I stop scrolling.
I recognize one of the women in the folder. I think she’s a well-known model—like, literally on Victoria’s Secret ads and the covers of fashion magazines. Yep, I’m sure of it. Her name is Bridgette something. Is she the ‘bisexual supermodel’ Josh said he turned down? She’s gotta be the second non-Clubber in the folder.
I look at my watch. Gah. Josh should be here any minute. I click out of the “Sick Fuck” folder, intending to take a quick peek at his three photos before he arrives, but on a sudden impulse, I find myself dragging the entire “Sick Fuck” folder into the trashcan and pressing “Empty trash.” Oops. My finger must have slipped.
And now back to my actual mission. I click into the folder marked “Club Application Photos” and open the first of three images. It’s a headshot. Josh is smiling and looking as charismatic and confident as ever. Oh man, those eyes. I could sit and stare at them all day long. He’s gorgeous.
I click on the next photo. It’s classic Josh Faraday. He’s in a perfectly tailored, blue designer suit, looking like an ad for Hugo Boss or cologne. Yummy.
I click on the third photo and... ka-boom. My ovaries explode like two little nuclear bombs. Josh is completely nude in this third shot, every inch of his ripped and muscled—and erect—body on full display—and, oh my fuck, the shit-eating grin on his face is so unapologetic, it instantly makes my blood boil with desire. Holy crappola, as Sarah would say, I’m short-circuiting at the sight of him.
Without even thinking about it, I click into Josh’s email account, address an email to myself attaching Josh’s smoking-hot-bad-boy-with-a-gigantic-boner-selfie, and press send. Zowie, as Sarah also likes to say, that sucker’s definitely gonna inspire countless future orgasms.
Hey, as long as I’m sending myself stuff from Josh’s computer, I figure I might as well send myself his application, too, right? That way, if he distracts me again when he gets up here, I’ll be able to read it later from the comfort of my own bed.
Just as I press “send” on my second email to myself, a notification message flashes across the upper right corner of Josh’s screen: he’s got an email from someone named “Jennifer LeMonde” with the subject line “Hey, Cutie!”
My stomach clenches.
My lip snarls involuntarily.
Oh, God, I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t. But show me a woman in my exact shoes who wouldn’t read that goddamned email and I’ll show you a woman with no pulse or vagina—or, at the very least, no balls.