The Culmination (17 page)

Jonas shakes his head again.

“Oh, yes, come on, you know it. ‘Crash into me with that thang, back it up and do it again.’ Ring a bell?”

“No. Sorry. You know I hate hip-hop.”

“Baby, I’m always singing it in the shower. I can’t get it out of my head. They play it at my spin class all the time.”

He shrugs.

“He just performed it on
Saturday Night Live
a few weeks ago. He’s that white-guy rapper everyone is calling ‘the new Eminem’? Except he can actually sing and he seems happy?”

Jonas shakes his head again.

“Oh my God, oh my effing God. Is he performing ‘Crash’ tonight?”

“I dunno. Josh said he’s here to perform with some Thai rap group—who knew such a thing existed? They did some sort of collaboration and now they’re promoting it.”

I squeal. “Oh, is it Thaitanium?”

“Is what titanium?”

“Is the Thai rap group he collaborated with called Thaitanium?”

Jonas laughs. “How the fuck do you know the name of a single Thai hip-hop group?”

“You’d be shocked at what’s rattling around in my head.”

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t ask the name of the Thai hip-hop group—no human other than you would ever ask the name of the Thai hip-hop group.”

My entire body is electrified. “This is so exciting. Oh my
effing
God.” I’m panting with excitement. “Come on, love. I know you’ve heard the song a thousand times.” I sing him the insanely awesome hook to “Crash” and Jonas shakes his head. “Come on. It’s on every commercial these days—oh, it’s on that commercial for Nike. You know that one with that famous basketball player?”

“You mean LeBron James?”

“Yes! It’s on that commercial with LeBron James.”

“Nope.”

My cheeks feel flushed. I’m a giddy fool. “Jonas, you seriously need to broaden your musical horizons.”

“This coming from the woman who owns every One Direction album.”

“Hey, don’t disrespect my One-D—I’m still heartbroken about Zayn leaving the group.”

He laughs.

“Okay, sexy-pants. New plan,” I say, my jaw setting with determination. “We’ll go back to the room, have some hot monkey sex—any which way you please, lord-god-master—”

“As usual.”

“Right. As usual. And then we’ll head out into the depraved Bangkokian night to party like Josh and Kat. What do you say?”

“I say, ‘Please, God, no.’”

“Jonas, my love.” I grab his hand across the table. “My darling, dearest love of my life. I would die for you. I’d give you my kidney. And, yes, I will most definitely bear your gorgeous babies in the very near future—but for the love of God I am
not
willing to hang out in a hotel room when we’ve been invited to hang out with the hottest hip-hop star on the entire planet
whose song is my frickin’ ringtone right now.
” I pull my phone out of my purse, scroll into my settings, and press play on my ringtone—and the catchy hook of “Crash” blares from my phone.

Jonas raises his eyebrows.

“
He’s. My. Ringtone. Jonas.
” I can only imagine how my eyes are bugging out of my head right now.

Jonas nods slowly. “Okay, baby. Looks like we’re going to a nightclub tonight.”

I squeal. “Thank you, Jonas. And thank you, Baby Jesus.”

Chapter 17

Sarah

It’s like someone decorated a Las Vegas nightclub with Asian décor and then threw it into a Thai-techno-hip-hop blender and pressed the button marked “high.” And then threw up. Holy moly, this place makes my head spin and my eyes glaze over. Or maybe it’s all the champagne coursing through my veins that’s making me feel this strange brand of motion sickness—because, holy hell, there’s a lot of champagne inside my body, people—or
maybe
it’s the fact that one of the biggest stars in pop music just walked up to me, politely asked if the seat next to me on the couch was taken, and promptly sat down when I mutely shook my head, my mouth agape.
Oh my effing God.

“I’m Will,” he says politely, putting out his hand.

I already knew the guy’s real name is William (thanks to some frantic research on my phone during the cab ride to the club), but I’m surprised he’s introducing himself to me that way instead of by his rapper moniker. According to Wikipedia, twenty-four-year-old William “2Real” Riley is a rapper, singer, songwriter, and musician who grew up in the surprisingly tough neighborhoods of Long Beach, California, heavily influenced by such varied artists as House of Pain, Sublime, Run D.M.C., the Beastie Boys, Johnny Cash, and, much to my surprise, Jonas’ all-time favorite band, Rx Bandits (also from Long Beach). But given the man’s unique and yet oh-so-catchy musical style, his unorthodox list of musical influences doesn’t surprise me at all.

“Nice to meet you, Will,” I say in a trembling voice, shaking his hand. “I’m Sarah Faraday.” So far, I’ve managed to keep myself from shrieking with glee. I think I have, anyway. Did I just shriek with glee? Oh shit. I clear my throat. “My brother-in-law is Reed’s friend from college—Josh Faraday?”

“Oh yeah,” Will says. “Josh Faraday.” He chuckles like he’s remembering something amusing. “I love that guy. He recently did me a huge favor.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone say Josh Faraday did them a huge favor, I’d have a stack of dollar bills higher than my head.”

“So you’re Josh’s sister?”

“No, his sister-
in-law
,” I say. “My husband is Josh’s twin brother.” I point at Jonas, who’s standing about fifteen feet away, chatting with Reed. We’re in a special VIP balcony overlooking the noisy club. “That’s my husband right there. Jonas Faraday.” Even after all this time, I still swoon every time I get to use the words “Jonas” and “my husband” in the same sentence.

There’s a pause as Mr. Hip Hop sizes up Jonas and then looks back at me. “He looks a lot like his brother.”

“Yeah, they’re twins—fraternal—but, trust me, their personalities are really different,” I say. There’s a pause in the conversation, during which the full force of this surreal situation slams into me:
I’m chatting with the guy on my frickin’ ringtone right now
. “You were awesome on
Saturday Night Live
,” I blurt, unable to contain my excitement any longer. “I love your music.”

“Thank you,” he replies. His mouth stops moving. Conversation has ceased. I feel like throwing my arms around his neck and sobbing, “You’re so awesome!” But I refrain.

Okay. Well. Clearly, his curt reply to my compliment indicates I should move on from flattery, or maybe even shut my mouth altogether and let the poor man move along to grace another fan with his sparkling presence, but my mouth apparently can’t control itself. “‘Crash’ is my ringtone right now,” I blurt, pulling out my phone like I’m poised to prove it. “I absolutely love it. Did you write it?”

“Yeah, I did. Well, with another guy—a friend of mine. We co-wrote it.”

“Wow. That’s so cool. It’s such a great song. So clever. There’s nothing else like it. No wonder it’s a smash hit. I bet you’re gonna win a Grammy. I know all the words by heart.” Oh God, someone put a gag on me. I’m a babbling fool. “They play ‘Crash’ in my spin class all the time,” I continue, probably cementing this poor man’s desire to hurl himself off the balcony. “I lip synch the words as I pedal.” I’m mortified to find myself making a pedaling motion by way of demonstration as I talk about spin class. “I guess you could say I’m a ‘spin-rapper.’” Oh dear God, no. That was just plain stupid. Someone help me. “A world-class spin-rapper,” I continue. Oh jeez. No. It’s time for me to use my seat as a flotation device.

Will leans his ear to my mouth, obviously thinking he misheard me due to the blaring music. “You’re a world-class
what
? Did you just say you’re a world-class
badminton
player?”

I burst out laughing. “No, although that would have been a way cooler thing to say. I said I’m a world-class
spin-rapper
—because I rap all the words to your song during
spin-class
.” I roll my eyes. “Basically, Will, I’m just a total and complete dork. Ignore me. I fall back on humor when I get excited or nervous—and I’m currently both.”

“Why are you nervous?”

I motion to him, like “duh.”

“Yeah, but I’m as big a dork as you are. Trust me.”

“Impossible.”

“I am. Ask me anything. You’ll see.”

“Really? Anything?”

He nods.

“Well, hmm. Okay. I am curious about something.” I grin. “You’re experiencing astronomical success right now—the kind of success most artists can only dream about. Has the reality of your success measured up to the fantasy of it? I mean, has any part of your success struck you as a surprise or maybe even a disappointment?”

He raises his eyebrows. “So we’re done with flattery and small talk, then?”

“Oh my God.” I wince. “Not what you meant by ‘ask me anything’?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I figured you’d ask me how I come up with my raps or what’s my favorite song on my new album—all the usual bullshit I could answer in my sleep. Little did I know, I sat down next to fucking Oprah.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” I cringe. “I’m so bad at small talk, especially when I’m drunk. Please forgive me. I told you—I’m a dork.” I shake my head like I’m erasing an Etch-A-Sketch board. “Rewind. So, Will, how do you come up with your raps? What’s your favorite song on your new album?”

He laughs again. “No, no. You got me backwards. I
hate
small talk. I
hate
it. We’re good.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to pull out my small talk—not since before I met Jonas. My husband doesn’t do small talk. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

“How long you been married?”

“Two years.”

“Still a newlywed.”

I smile broadly. “These two years have flown by. It feels like just yesterday we were saying ‘I do.’”

“So, does the reality of marriage live up to the fantasy of it? Or is there some part that’s struck you as a disappointment?”

I laugh and sip my drink.

“No, I’m actually asking you the question. Straight up. How’s marriage working out for you?”

“Oh, you’re being serious?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were just turning the tables on me—being a smart-ass.”

“Well, yeah. I’m being a smart-ass—that’s what I do when I’m nervous and excited.” He smirks.

I grin at him. There’s no wonder why this man is a star. He’s got charisma oozing out his pores. “Well, sir, that’s an easy question to answer: The reality of being married to the sublimely beautiful Jonas Faraday
far
exceeds any fantasy of marriage I’ve ever had. There hasn’t been a single disappointment, ever. He’s my perfect match and I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” I lean my drunken head closer to Will’s to make sure he hears me over the music in the club. Oh, he’s wearing a nice cologne. “I’m actually addicted to my hunky-monkey husband, if you wanna know the truth,” I say. I feel my cheeks color with heat for an instant as I think about just how much Jonas turns me on. “That boy is pure
magic
.”

Will’s face lights up. Clearly, whatever expression I’ve got on my face has just transferred to his. “Wow,” he says.

I nod and sip my drink again. “Yup. Wow. Jonas is my fantasy come to life. True dat.” Oh, God. I cringe at myself.

But Will doesn’t seem fazed by my horrific lack of street cred. “I’ve never heard a woman talk about her man like that before.”

“Never?”

“Not even close.”

“Well, then, I feel sorry for whatever woman you’ve been talking to.”

“Actually, mainly, that woman would be my girlfriend—my ex-girlfriend now—so you should feel sorry for
me
, not her.” He swigs his drink.

“Oh.” I wince. “Sorry.”

“Eh, no worries. It’s for the best. My schedule can’t fit in a girlfriend now, anyway.” He shrugs and takes another huge gulp of his drink.

“What’s her name?”

“Carmen.” A huge smile breaks out across his handsome face. He motions to me like he’s answering an unspoken question. “Yeah, I’ve always had a thing for the brown girls.”

I blush.

“You
are
Latina, right?”

“
Sí
.
Colombiana.
”

“Yeah, I figured.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve definitely got a type—and you’re it. Just my luck you’re married.” He smiles and swigs his drink yet again.

“Thank you. I’m flattered. But, yes, I’m very, very,
very
married.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that fact pretty damned clear.” He chuckles.

“If you want me to move so you can talk to someone else—you know, a brown girl who’ll actually sleep with you tonight, I won’t be the least bit offended. I promise.”

He laughs. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good—I’m enjoying talking to Oprah two-point-oh.”

“Ha! You might not feel that way when I ask my next question. I gotta make you cry or the whole interview’s a bust.”

He laughs again. “Shoot. I can take it.”

“What happened with Carmen? Was your relationship a casualty of your astronomical success, you think? Or was it unraveling before then?”

He laughs. “Boom. Ain’t no such thing as small talk with Oprah.”

I shrug. “I warned you. I suck at small talk.”

“Are you gonna ask me about my childhood next?”

I put on my Oprah voice. “Will, what was your most traumatizing childhood experience? And how has it shaped you into the person you are today?”

He pretends to break into a sob and we both laugh.

I clap my hands together like my work here is done.

He takes another swig of his drink. “You really should ask people questions for a living—you’re good at it.”

“I actually just took the bar exam back home in Seattle.”

“An attorney?” He shakes his head. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I’ve always liked asking questions—you know, investigating things. Trying to figure things out. I’m a curious girl, especially when I’m drunk.” I raise my drink and he clinks it.

“Curious, huh?”