Josh & Kat: The Complete Trilogy
Lauren Rowe
Contents
Books by Lauren Rowe
Infatuation
1. Josh
2. Josh
3. Kat
4. Kat
5. Josh
6. Josh
7. Josh
8. Kat
9. Kat
10. Josh
11. Josh
12. Kat
13. Josh
14. Josh
15. Kat
16. Kat
17. Kat
18. Kat
19. Josh
20. Kat
21. Josh
22. Kat
23. Josh
24. Kat
25. Josh
26. Kat
27. Kat
28. Kat
29. Josh
30. Kat
31. Josh
32. Josh
33. Josh
34. Kat
35. Kat
36. Kat
37. Kat
38. Kat
39. Josh
40. Josh
41. Josh
Revelation
42. Kat
43. Kat
44. Josh
45. Kat
46. Kat
47. Kat
48. Kat
50. Kat
51. Josh
52. Kat
53. Josh
54. Kat
55. Josh
56. Josh
57. Josh
58. Kat
59. Kat
60. Kat
61. Josh
62. Josh
63. Josh
64. Kat
65. Kat
66. Kat
67. Kat
68. Josh
69. Josh
70. Josh
71. Kat
72. Kat
73. Kat
74. Josh
75. Josh
76. Kat
77. Kat
78. Josh
79. Kat
80. Josh
81. Josh
82. Kat
Consummation
83. Josh
84. Kat
85. Josh
86. Kat
87. Kat
88. Kat
89. Kat
90. Josh
91. Josh
92. Josh
93. Kat
94. Kat
95. Kat
96. Kat
97. Josh
98. Josh
99. Josh
100. Kat
101. Josh
102. Josh
103. Kat
104. Kat
105. Kat
106. Kat
107. Josh
108. Josh
109. Josh
110. Josh
111. Josh
112. Kat
113. Josh
114. Josh
115. Kat
116. Kat
117. Kat
118. Kat
119. Josh
120. Josh
121. Kat
122. Kat
123. Josh
124. Josh
125. Josh
126. Josh
127. Josh
Epilogue
Books by Lauren Rowe
Author Biography
The Club Trilogy Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe
Published by SoCoRo Publishing
Cover design © Letitia Hasser: RBA Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review
Books by Lauren Rowe
Standalone Novels
Smitten
Hate Love Duet
Falling Out Of Hate With You
Falling Into Love With You
The Reed Rivers Trilogy (to be read in order)
Bad Liar
Beautiful Liar
Beloved Liar
The Club Trilogy (to be read in order)
The Club: Obsession
The Club: Reclamation
The Club: Redemption
The Club: Culmination (A Full-Length Epilogue Book)
The Josh and Kat Trilogy (to be read in order)
Infatuation
Revelation
Consummation
The Morgan Brothers (a series of related standalones):
Hero
Captain
Mister Bodyguard
ROCKSTAR
The Misadventures Series (a series of unrelated standalones):
Misadventures on the Night Shift
Misadventures of a College Girl
Misadventures on the Rebound
Standalone Psychological Thriller/Dark Comedy
Countdown to Killing Kurtis
Short Stories
The Secret Note
Infatuation
One
Josh
Oh my fucking God. What’s wrong with Jonas this time? I’m so worried I’m jumping out of my skin. I look out the window of the limo, wracked with the same sense of dread I always feel when Jonas calls me with that barely contained panic in his voice. Of course, I dropped everything and immediately caught the next flight to Seattle, just like I always do—but this time, unlike every other time, I don’t have a clue what’s happened to freak Jonas out. And that, in turn, freaks me out.
“Hey,” I call up to the limo driver. “Can you change the channel to something a bit more mellow, please?” The song blaring in my ear is “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred, definitely not a song that’s gonna calm my jangling nerves.
“How’s this?” the driver says, switching to another station on the radio. The song playing now is “Mad World” by Tears for Fears.
“Yeah,” I say, smirking to myself. “Leave it here. Thanks.”
When I saw my brother’s incoming call on my phone earlier this evening, I figured Jonas had gotten back from his trip to Belize with the “most amazing girl ever,” the one and only Sarah Cruz, the magical, mystical unicorn he hacked into U Dub’s server to find, sight unseen, and that he was calling to slobber all over the phone about how “amazing” she is. But the minute I heard his voice, I knew he wasn’t calling to babble happily about his Belizian getaway with his new crush—I knew something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
“Are you okay? Is Sarah okay?” I asked him, my stomach twisting into knots.
“Yeah, I’m okay. The trip was incredible—Sarah’s incredible,” Jonas replied. But before I could exhale with any kind of relief, he said something that sent me reeling: “It’s The Club, Josh. It’s total bullshit—a fucking scam. I think Sarah’s in danger—like, maybe serious danger.”
What the fuck? I couldn’t process what that statement could possibly mean.
Mad World, indeed.
It’s been well over three hours since Jonas called and said those bizarre words, and I still haven’t figured out what the fuck he meant by them. The Club’s a scam? Well, no, it isn’t, Jonas. I happen to know through my own personal experience it’s one hundred percent not a scam. I can personally attest that I filled out my application, paid my money, and got exactly what I asked for, to the letter, in multiple cities, over the course of one very awesome and cathartic month. So what’s the fucking scam?
The more likely scenario is that Jonas didn’t get what he asked for because, whatever it was, it was literally impossible to
deliver. Knowing him, he probably asked for something only some magical combination of the circus, the philosophy department at Yale, and American Ninja Warrior could have delivered. And that’s what he thinks of as a scam? Maybe this is a wanton case of “it’s not them, it’s you.”
Shit. When I told Jonas about The Club in the first place, I should have told him, “Dude, when you fill out your application, less is more. Just go for the big one or two things you’re dying for and leave it at that. You can only do so much in one month, trust me—don’t get too ambitious.” I shake my head. Jonas is so fucking bad with women, I swear to God—and he always has been. They fall all over themselves the minute they see him, of course—everywhere he goes women practically throw their panties at him. But then he opens his fucking mouth and starts quoting fucking Plato and talking in riddles and looking like a fucking serial killer and they run away, screaming in bloody terror. (God only knows how he tricked this Sarah girl into sticking around for so long. Hell, maybe she has a thing for Plato, too, for all I know.)
But for the sake of argument, let’s say The Club is some kind of scam (which it’s not); how the fuck could that possibly mean this new girl of Jonas’ is in some kind of danger—let alone “serious” danger? I can’t wrap my brain around any of it. The only thing I can think is that Jonas must have met Sarah in The Club? But that makes no sense. When I asked Jonas about his membership not too long ago, he said he’d applied but had gotten hopelessly distracted by his quest to get laid by his mystery law student.
I’m just so fucking confused. I look out the window of the limo, listening to the song for a long minute.
Frankly, I’m really worried that all this rambling is a sign that Jonas is having some sort of psychotic break again. And if that’s what’s really going on, why now? As far as I know, my brother’s been in full beast mode lately. I mean, shit, just last week when we negotiated the acquisition of all those rock-climbing gyms, he was in tiptop form, kicking ass and taking names like the beast he is. He was a sight to see, actually—he sure out-beasted me by a fucking mile. Of course, he couldn’t stop talking about this Sarah chick the whole three days I was with him—which is so unlike him, at first I wasn’t sure if he was punking me—but I didn’t see that as any cause for alarm. In fact, I was happy for him.
But now, I’m wondering if his obsession with her was a sign that things weren’t completely right in his head.
Actually, I was a tad bit worried when he called me in the first place, barking at me to find some random girl who’d sent him an email. (Any time Jonas gets ultra-obsessed about something, it’s usually not a good sign for his mental health.) But, much to my relief and surprise, the magical, mystical Sarah Cruz turned out to be well worth his effort, a truly fantastic girl. The minute I met her during our mutual limo ride to the airport, I thought, Now here’s a girl who’s gonna bring out the very best in my brother. She’s absolutely adorable. And I can certainly understand the physical attraction, too, I don’t mind admitting.
So what the fuck happened in the four days between that limo ride and today that made Jonas’ wheels fall off his cart?
Downtown Seattle is whizzing past me outside my car window.
I exhale and shake my head.
I’m so fucking worried right now, I can’t think straight. I just wish I understood what’s going on with Jonas. And The Club. And Sarah? I shake my head again. What the fuck did Jonas mean she might be in serious danger?
My phone buzzes with a text and I look down.
“Hey, Josh!” the text says. “Loooooooooooong time no see. How ya doing, baby? LOL!”
I chuckle in surprise. Now there’s a name I never expected (or particularly wanted) to see on my phone again: Jennifer LeMonde. I admit I was dazzled by the girl’s pedigree (and slamming body) when we dated for four or five months when I was twenty-three—chalk that up to youth and being stoned out of my mind half the time—but once the initial heat and the novelty of her Grammy-winning daddy and Oscar-winning mommy wore off, not to mention the weed, I quickly realized Jen was very likely the least interesting girl in the world. And that’s when I decided once and for all to pull my shit together and lay off the weed and fulfill my family obligations in earnest. And I’ve stayed on track ever since, other than during the occasional short vacations of total debauchery I’ve allowed myself over the years (which I’m not sorry about, by the way). Honestly, my little sojourns into hedonism have helped me stay the course, something I’ve been bound and determined to do, not just for me, but for Jonas, too. I mean, let’s face it, Jonas and I can’t both be on the verge of a nervous breakdown at all times, and Jonas long ago called dibs on that role.
“Hey, Jen,” I type. “It’s been a long time. What’s up?”
“Have you seen what’s going on with Isabel lately? OMG!”
“Yeah. Hard to miss. Good for her. I’m thrilled for her,” I type.
I’m being sincere. From what I remember of Isabel from seven years ago, she’s a really sweet girl. I’m honestly thrilled all her dreams of stardom are coming true.
“The studio rented Isabel a freaking castle in San Tropez all next week to celebrate her movie opening at number one!” Jen writes. “Dude. It’s literally a castle! Made me remember that time our whole group partied together in Cannes—remember that? Or, actually, come to think of it, you probably don’t! LOL!!!!” She adds a whole bunch of wineglass emojis and a marijuana-leaf emoji and a smiley face wearing sunglasses. “So, anyhoo, Isabel’s getting a huge group together to party in the castle in France (did I mention it’s a freaking castle???!!!! OMFG!!!!) and she wanted to know if maybe you and Reed wanna join us for a mini-reunion? It’ll be just like old times! LOL!” She adds what appears to be a dancing cat, a reference I’m not sure I understand.
I stare at my phone for a moment, shaking my head. I’m not even remotely tempted. “Sorry. I’m in Seattle for a family emergency,” I write. “Gonna be tied up here for a while helping my brother. Plus, I’m an old man nowadays, Jen. You wouldn’t even recognize me. I’m practically chasing damn kids off my lawn. Been working pretty hard building my family’s business since you last saw me. But, hey, feel free to contact Reed directly to ask him if he’s interested. I’ll send you his number. And please tell Isabel congrats on all her success for me,” I continue. “I’m genuinely thrilled for her. Just saw she won some People’s Choice Award or something? Ha! Awesome. She’s America’s Sweetheart.”
“I know! She totally is! LOL! She’s blowing up! She’s gonna do Jimmy Fallon in NYC when she gets back from France! OMFG! Can you believe it? She’s so excited.”
“Saw her face plastered on a billboard on my way to LAX today. She looks great. Tell her nice boob job, btw. Her surgeon did excellent work. Unless that’s photoshop?”
“Not photoshop. The real fake deal. Brand new, actually. She’ll be geeked you noticed. Did you notice her nose, too? (The polite answer is no. Haha!)”
“She looks great, top to bottom. Tell her I said so. But she was always beautiful.”
“Aw, come on, Josh. You’re making me remember what a sweetheart you are. I wanna see you soooooo bad! Are you sure you can’t swing it? Pwetty pwease? I’ll make sure you have a REALLY good time.” She adds a winking emoji.
I smirk. This is patently ridiculous. Jennifer LeMonde can’t possibly give a rat’s ass about me, any more than I give one about her. We dated for, what, five months when we were in our early twenties. Not exactly a soul connection. Obviously, this is more about Isabel pining for Reed like she always has than about Jen and me. My guess is Isabel asked Jen to lure Reed to France by any means necessary, including using me as bait.
When I don’t immediately reply to Jen’s last text, she sends another one right on its heels. “What if I promise not to wear my bikini top the entire time we’re there? ‘When in France,’ right? I remember how much you loooooved my pretty titties.” She adds a bikini emoji and a pair of lips. “And they’re still all-natural, baby!” W
inking emoji.
“Sorry. Can’t. Family emergency, like I say,” I write. But what I’m thinking is, I’m thirty fucking years old, Jen. You really think I’m gonna travel halfway around the world just to see a pair of tits (even if they are, admittedly, the most perfect pair of tits I’ve ever seen)?