The Infatuation (Josh and Kat #1 , The Club #5)(6)

By: Lauren Rowe


“Shit,” Jonas says. “Would have been nice to have something to trace.”

Jonas goes on to explain that he and Sarah came home from Belize to find Sarah’s and Kat’s apartments trashed and their computers stolen—which proves, according to Jonas, that The Club will stop at nothing, including physical violence, to keep both women from divulging the supposedly indisputable fact that The Club is actually nothing more than a global prostitution ring.

I don’t reply, partly because I’m simply trying to process Jonas’ reasoning, but also because Kat is so fucking hot, it’s hard for me to think straight in her presence.

I wonder if Kat’s got a boyfriend. Please, God, don’t let her have a boyfriend. Oh shit, what if she’s married? I glance at her finger. No wedding ring. Thank God. Does she live here in Seattle? Yeah, she must—Jonas said she and Sarah spied on Jonas and that other guy at their check-ins in town. Huh. If Kat lives here, the odds are slim she’s a model. I wonder what she does for a living, then. Does she—

Oh.

Jonas is staring at me like he expects me to say something. Shit. I have no idea what he’s been saying for the past few minutes.

“Huh,” I finally say, trying to look deep in thought. “Interesting.”

Jonas exhales a shaky breath, clearly containing some sort of rage at my response. But what the fuck does he expect? I can’t track each and every one of his ramblings under the best of circumstances, let alone when a woman like Kat is sitting fifteen feet away from me, looking at me like she’s thinking about sucking my dick.

And, anyway, it’s obvious to me Jonas is probably grossly misinterpreting the situation or, at the very least, overreacting to it (shocker!). Even if Sarah and Kat saw some chick wearing a yellow bracelet after she’d fucked Jonas a few nights earlier wearing a purple one, that doesn’t necessarily mean the sky is falling, does it? It could simply mean some women in The Club are assigned more than one color. Why is that such a fucking revelation? Some people have extremely varied tastes, after all.

Or maybe one of Jonas’ exes found out he’s been dating Sarah and went ballistic, trashing Sarah’s apartment in a fit of jealous rage (and then doing the same thing to Sarah’s best friend’s place, too)? Even if that seems like a far-fetched scenario, it’s probably no crazier an idea than some hitman coming after Sarah and Kat simply because they happened to observe some woman wearing two different colored bracelets.

Jonas is glaring at me again, obviously waiting for me to say something.

I clear my throat. “Wow,” I say. But he’s still waiting, and so are Sarah and Kat. “I’m not sure, bro,” I add. “I met some really great girls.” It’s a true statement—I honestly did meet some really great girls in The Club—but, nonetheless, even as I say it, I cringe at how douche-y it sounds.

I glance at Kat and, yep, she’s put off.

Oh, really? So she’s intrigued when she finds out I joined a high-priced sex club, but put off to learn I actually enjoyed my short time in it? Ha! This one’s a handful, I can already tell.

“How long was your membership, Josh?” Sarah asks.

“A month,” I reply.

“And you... completed your entire membership period... successfully?”

Oh my God. Sarah can barely get the words out. This girl really is adorable—and, yep, clearly, there’s not a kinky bone in her body. A total goody-two-shoes, through and through, which is funny considering she processed sex club applications for a living.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” I say, looking at Kat and smiling broadly. Maybe I shouldn’t smile, but I can’t help it—I’m enjoying how every little thing I say about The Club pulls an animated reaction from Kat of one kind or another.

Plus, shit, I’m just being honest here: My month in The Club was fucking awesome—just what the doctor ordered after Emma ripped my heart and stuck it into a blender. Fucking yourself back to happy truly shouldn’t be underrated, I gotta say—it was exactly what I needed at the time. Plus, in an unexpected twist, a handful of the women I hooked up with that month stayed with me in my hotel room for hours after we’d fucked and listened to me pour my guts out about my shattered heart. I normally never would have been such a blathering pussy-ass, of course—I’m not Jonas, for fuck’s sake—but I guess there was freedom in knowing I’d never see any of those women again. And so, I let my guard down completely and let it flow—and at the end of that whirlwind month of fucking and fantasy-fulfillment and unexpected gut-spilling, I actually felt like myself again, ready to move on and stop acting like a brokenhearted little pussy.