The Consummation:Josh and Kat Part III (The Club Book 7)

By: Lauren Rowe

Chapter 1

Josh



I stumble out of Walmart (the only place open at eleven-forty-five that sells electronics) and cross the parking lot toward my waiting town car. I open the door of the black Sedan and hurl myself into the backseat. “Thanks for waiting, man,” I mumble.

“Did they have what you were looking for?” the driver asks.

I hold up a plastic Walmart bag containing my new purchases.

“Where to now?”

I give the guy the address of Kat’s apartment and he starts the engine.

As the car pulls out of the parking lot, I surreptitiously dig into my plastic bag and pull out one of my three Walmart-purchases: a bottle of Jack.

The driver’s eyes flicker at me in the rearview mirror, but, thankfully, the guy doesn’t say jack about my Jack. I lean back in my seat, the bottle of booze perched against my lips.

Man, I fucked up tonight. I had no idea not telling Kat about my upcoming move to Seattle would play out like fucking Armageddon. Watching Kat cry big ol’ soggy tears, especially on account of something I did (or, technically, didn’t do), ripped my heart the fuck out of my chest. Each tear that streamed down Kat’s beautiful face felt like a knife stabbing me in the heart.

“I would have been bursting at the seams to tell you if the situation were reversed,” Kat said in front of the karaoke bar, her eyes glistening. “You would have been the first person I would have called.”

Up until that moment, I’d been thinking my tempestuous little terrorist was simply overreacting—letting her emotions and temper run wild, as she’s been known to do a time or two. But the minute those daggers left Kat’s mouth, I knew they were cutting me so deep because they were the God’s truth—and that if Kat were to buy a house in L.A. and not bother to mention it to me, I’d be crushed.

Which is exactly how Kat seems to be feeling right now: crushed. In fact, it seems like Kat might be thinking she’s done with me for good, though that’s not what she said when I dropped her off at her apartment. All she said before slipping inside her place was that she “needed a couple days to think and regroup” so she could “figure out if she was overreacting or not”—but the look on Kat’s face as she closed her door made it clear she wasn’t even close to deciding she’d overreacted.

“Okay,” I said softly, even though all I wanted to do was plant a deep kiss on her mouth that would somehow erase her short-term memory from her brain. “Take your time,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few days.” And I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said that—I really wasn’t—I truly planned to leave her alone. I mean, shit, God knows groveling never has been my style. But, fuck me, after only an hour alone in my hotel room, drinking whiskey and staring at the Space Needle—not to mention getting my ass chewed by fucking Adele—I just couldn’t sit there like a flop-dick anymore. I had to do something to make her forgive me.

So I texted Kat a couple times, asking her to call me—but she didn’t respond. So I bit the bullet and called her—let the groveling begin!—but my call went straight to voicemail. So, finally, I tucked my dick and balls firmly between my legs and left Kat a rambling voicemail that can only be described as “vaginal.” But, still, I didn’t hear a goddamned peep from her. Which is when a panic started descending upon me, a thumping need to make Kat understand I’m genuinely crazy about her, addicted, insatiable. And that’s when I got my brilliant idea.

I pull my new portable CD player out of my Walmart bag and remove it from its packaging. It’s quite a bit smaller and way more modern looking than the old-school boom box I’d envisioned when I stumbled into the electronics aisle at Walmart, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, especially at just before midnight on a Friday night.

The sedan pulls up to the front of Kat’s apartment complex.

“Just park in the driveway,” I say to the driver. I hand him my phone. “Connect this to your stereo—I’ve got a song all cued up.”

“Huh?”

“Blast the song I’ve got cued up on my phone.”

The driver looks incredulous, not to mention annoyed. “It’s past midnight, sir. We can’t be blasting music in a residential area.”

I shove a couple hundred bucks at the guy. “Come on, man, I’ve got a girl to win back. I fucked up and now I gotta make her forgive me.”

The driver takes my cash. “The song’s cued up?”

“Yep. Just press play at my signal—and then blast the motherfucker at full volume, as high as your speakers will go.”

“Full volume? Sir, I really can’t—”

I throw a bunch more bills at the guy. “Just do it,” I bark. “I’ll handle any complaints.”

Without waiting for the driver’s reply, I stagger out of the car with my CD player in one hand and my brand new Walmart-issued trench coat in the other.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Was there an exact moment when I handed Kat my dick and balls, or did I give her my manhood in bite-sized pieces, the same way I fed her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the sex dungeon? Well, either way, the woman’s definitely got my crown jewels in a Ziploc baggie now.