Manwhore +1 (3 page)

But a world without him is nothing now.

“Rachel, though
Edge
has been getting good press attention since . . .” She throws me an apologetic look because she knows I don’t like remembering the
article
, then adds, “But how long will that attention last?
Edge
is still hanging by threads.” She sips her coffee. “And Interface is
Interface
. It’s not going anywhere but up. M4, Rachel, it’s like . . . huge. None of us have ever dreamed of working there. It hires, like, geniuses from all over the country.”

“I know,” I whisper.

So why does Saint want
me
on board? He can get anyone he wants. In any capacity.

“I bet Wynn would say for you to take it. We need her advice; she’s the only one in a relationship.”

“Gina, I said
I love you
to a guy for the first time in my life. I would never, as long as I live, choose for him to be my
boss
.” I add, pained, “And Saint doesn’t get involved with his employees.”

Her eyes cloud over with worry. “And you want him more than the job.”

I’m so ashamed of saying yes, because I don’t deserve it. Not even to want it. But I duck my head and nod.

I have a hole in me. So huge and empty, every pleasure in my life feels like nothing without him.

Gina rereads the letter, shakes her head, folds it, and hands it back to me. And all the while I’m still at M4. At the top floor, inside that marble, chrome, and glass office. And I can still smell him in my nose. My brain synapses won’t quit firing off, replaying the scene in his office. Every word he said. Every word I had hoped he’d say that he did
not
say. Every shade of green that I’ve seen in his eyes lost to me—except for this new cold shade of green that I had never seen.

I remember his gaze on my profile as Merrick interviewed me. I remember his voice. I remember what it feels like to stand close to him.

I remember how he exhaled when I left, as if he’d just engaged in some sort of physical battle.

And how his eyes latched on to me after that. Roping me in.

As Gina and I walk back home, I am so grateful I didn’t tell my mother I was seeing
him
today. She’d have raised her hopes on my behalf and I’d hate to dash them now. I tuck the papers back into my bag, and when we finally walk into our small but cozy two-bedroom apartment, I go to my room, shut the door, drop onto the bed and pull out the papers again.

It’s just your regular offer. I scan every page now and it lists the benefits, a salary that I do not deserve and is usually what much more experienced, award-winning columnists make . . . but then I hit a spot that really affects me.

Saint’s signature, on the bottom of the contract.

I hold my breath and stroke his signature a little bit. There’s an energy on it, like a stamp, somehow making the document feel heavy.

Crawling under my bed, I pull out my shoebox where I keep little things I treasure. A gold R necklace my mother gave me. On impulse I put on the necklace to remind myself of who I am. Daughter, woman, girl, human. I shift some of the birthday cards from Wynn and Gina aside. And find a note. The note that was once attached to the most beautiful flower arrangement that arrived in my office.

I take the ivory-colored card and open it . . . and read.

It was the first time I saw his handwriting. He signed the message,
A friend who thinks of you, M.

Still dressed, I curl up on my bed and stare at it.

My friend.

No. My assignment, the story that I thought I’d wanted, the city’s playboy who became my friend who became my lover who became my love.

Now he wants to be my boss, and I want him more than ever.

I
’m lying in bed and he’s dropping delicious, shivery kisses all along the back of my ear. I’m breathless as I absorb the feel of his tanned skin against mine, the strength of his muscles, the ripples of his abs against my tummy. Oh god. I can’t take him. I want to eat him with kisses and I want him to eat me back, every inch of me, I don’t even know where I want him to start.

He takes my hands and pins them to his shoulders, leaning over to buzz my mouth with his. “Open, Rachel,” he murmurs, and his green eyes, his green eyes are looking at me in the dark.

“Are you real?” I breathe, my heart in my throat, my lungs working madly in my chest.

He’s looking down at me so familiarly, I’m not sure if this is a dream or a memory as he drags his fingers up my arms, sinuously, and I close my eyes. Oh god,
Sin.
He feels so good. I murmur his name and shakily trail my hands up the hard planes of his chest. God, he feels so real. So excellently real. He feels just like he used to feel, moves like he used to move, kisses like he used to, takes control of me like he used to.

He pins me with his weight and I struggle to get closer, wiggling and arching and shivering, his long, strong body stretched out on top of mine.

I close my fingers around his shoulders like he seems to want me to do as he circles his hands around my waist now and continues to set slow, tingly kisses on my neck, and need slams into my midsection, my skin screaming while I burn. I want. Want his hands all over me, his touch covering me, head to toe. His mouth. Oh, please.

“Malcolm, please now, please now . . . inside . . . now,” I hear myself beg.

He’s not in any hurry. He never is. He curls my legs around his hips, kissing his way up to my mouth. It’s been forever since I felt this, his lips at the corner of my mouth. I feel my eyes well with tears. Every inch of him is missed by every inch of me. One second I’m rocking my hips in silent plea, the next he’s driving inside me.

It’s the sound that wakes me. A soft mewling sound that I make. A sound of absolute pleasure, such absolute pleasure it borders on pain. I’m soaked in sweat when I bolt upright in my bed. I look around, shakily wiping the wetness on one side of my face, but no. He’s not back in my bed. I’m still crying at night, my body’s still aching for his at night.

I wrap my arms around my legs and put my cheek on my knee, exhaling as I try to push the part-dream, part-memory out of my mind. I go into the bathroom, splash my face, look into my eyes and I’m still the lost girl in the elevator. When did I become this girl? I’m not this girl, I think in frustration as I stamp out to my room.

I go back to bed and cover myself with the sheets all the way to my neck, rolling my cheek into the pillow and punching it as I stare unseeingly in the direction of my window. A stream of streetlight filters inside. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the sounds of the city outside. I wonder where he is right now.

You’re fucking haunting me, Sin.

You’re fucking haunting my every second.

I can’t sleep, can’t think of anything but the way I feel when I stand close to you. When you look at me. When we’re in the same room.

The way you were in your office . . . I couldn’t
read
you. I couldn’t
read
you and it’s killing me.

Turning on the light, I lose a battle I’ve been waging with myself for a whole month.

I go get my laptop and boot it up in the darkness, then I do something I haven’t done in a while. Gina had forbidden me to. I had forbidden myself, for survival. And sanity. I haven’t checked in so long it’s not even coming up in my browser. But now I brave Saint’s social media and brace myself for what I find as I skim through. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Or maybe I do. I’m looking for anything,
anything
that links me to him.

Hey @MalcolmSaint I’m Leyla, Danis’ friend ;)

@MalcolmSaint Hey bro meet us at Raze

@malcolmsaint is better off without that bitch who betrayed him

Marry me @malcolmsaint!

@Malcolmsaint I’ll be your slut and I’ll mud wrestle your lying bitch ex to the death, if need be!

@MalcolmSaint are you going to forgive your girlfriend? PLS forgive her, you look beautiful together!

Speaking of bitches @MalcolmSaint should know

@malcolmsaint please tell me you told your exgirlfriend to go fuck herself! YOU DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER YOU DESERVE A PRINCESS

Interface wall:

Bro! Call us when you’re in town, there’s someone we’d like you to meet

And then, there’s the picture of a woman blowing him a kiss.

I scowl over her protruding nipples, clearly visible in her wet designer top.

Then, I scroll over his tagged pictures and find one of him. Him flipping off the reporter who asks him about my betrayal, a pair of cool aviators shading his eyes, his jaw as tough as a granite slab.

God help me. Now that I’ve started looking I can’t seem to stop. On a famous local vlog, I find this:

“Indeed there has been speculation on whether his daredevil attitude for the past month has anything to do with the recent breakup with journalist Rachel Livingston, what is rumored to be his first relationship ever. Livingston, who had been investigating Saint when they met, had a huge fallout with the tycoon when her investigation leaked and her own version published shortly after on
Edge
. Rumors of whether M4 is integrating a news section into their Interface media website were abuzz when Livingston was spotted back at M4 . . .”

“In the meantime Saint himself has been skydiving, and, according to a witness, taking over businesses at a speed that has been alarming to the members of his board . . .”

And on Facebook:

#TBT ThrowbackThursday: remember this picture? We had bets going on how long it’d last but nobody bet on it lasting as long as it did! I know it seems she played you but we know better than that, nobody plays as hard as you do—hope you used her good!

I stare at my computer screen. I’m suddenly sick with dread wondering what
he’s
read too. Is this how he thinks of me? A bitch? I’m a bitch and a slut, who “whored” myself into his bed for information? I’m stunned to realize that even when I poured my heart into my article—it was, like Helen says, a love letter to him—the words I wrote didn’t matter. My actions trumped it all.

Saint values truth and loyalty.

I can’t take it.

I open up an email and search through the several emails of his I’ve got.

Even if it’s suicidal.

Even if he’s the most unobtainable thing in the world, placed so far off, I’d need a satellite to hoist me up high enough to snatch him. He’s my own personal moon . . .

In End the Violence, I’m always waiting to see what I can do to help those who’ve been exposed to loss. I always seem to be waiting to see if my mom’s health is stable. Waiting for the right story.

I don’t want to wait anymore.

I don’t want to wait for the story, wait for the right time, wait for the muse, wait to forget him, wait to be wanted by him, wait to see if time will be on my side and help me fix things with him.

With all the nerves in the world but a determination to match it, I select his M4 email. The early one we used to use when I started to interview him. I have no idea who will read this email, but I keep it business and type out a message, knowing that keeping it simple is the best chance I’ve got.

Mr. Saint,

I’m writing to let you know how much I appreciate your offer. I’d like to discuss it further with you. Would you please let me know if there’s any convenient time I could stop by your office? I will adjust my schedule to yours.

Thank you,

Rachel

I
’m running on three hours of sleep, but I’m determined to make something good out of my day the next morning. I even smile at a few strangers as I get out of the cab, take the building elevators, and walk into
Edge
. I chitchat with a few colleagues as we get coffee, call my mother to say good morning, answer a few emails from my sources.

But there’s that tiny little buzz still in my body.

I still stare at green eyes whenever I stare at . . . anything, really.

I see a full mouth.

A full mouth, smiling in the way he used to smile at me.

I exhale slowly, do my best to push the thought of yesterday aside, and stare at my computer screen.

My very blank, very white computer screen.

Keyboards are clacking, reporters talking over their cubicle walls.
Edge
has been doing a little better after my love letter to Saint. The job cuts have stopped, two new journalists have been hired, and although there are only a dozen of us, we still somehow manage to make noise. Oh boy, do we make noise. We’re the specialists of making every event of the day seem more monumental than it is. It’s our job to hunt for news, after all. Create stories.

Write something¸ Rachel.

Inhaling, I put my fingers on my keys and force myself to write one word. And one word becomes two and then, my fingers pause. I’m out of juice. Out of ideas. Empty.

I read what I wrote.

MALCOLM SAINT

It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.