Manwhore +1 (31 page)

The next day I get a delivery.

Inside is a box, and a note.

The crew found this in The Toy. She looked pretty lonely.

M

I open the box and pull out my R necklace, and beneath it, identical to the R, is an M.

I call his cell phone.

My heart is a melted ol’ mess by the time he answers. “My necklace has a tagalong,” I tell him somberly.

“That’s right,” he chuckles.

“What’s the M for?” Though my smile hurts on my face, I make myself sound genuinely confused as I stroke my fingertips over the M’s smooth lines. “Millionaire? Motherfucker? Manwhore?”

His laugh.

I get high listening to the deep rare sound. “Little one,” he chides with mocking disappointment. “The M stands for Malcolm.”

“Oh!
You. Malcolm
,” I tease. “I’m glad that’s been cleared up then.”

“That’s right,” he fairly purrs, and after a moment, he sounds deathly serious too. “It also stands for
mine
.”

I’m not sure if he can hear the way my breath catches in my throat as it gets caught in my windpipe, but I hope to god he doesn’t. This man is cocky enough as it is. So, like it’s no big deal, like I get a thousand gifts every day, I say, “Okay. I guess I’ll
try
not to lose it in my boyfriend’s yacht.”

“Lose it all you want; it’ll be just as quickly replaced.”

Though he issues it as a warning, I can hear the smile in his voice too. Noticing that Sandy, in the cubicle next to mine, is staring at me with a big dopey smile, I cup the speaker a little bit and swivel my chair around, giving her my back.

“Thank you . . . Malcolm.” There’s a peaceful silence between us. The kind that’s comfortable, not the kind that you need to fill with anything at all. I stroke the M again quietly, closing my eyes when he speaks.

“I’m thinking of you, Rachel.”

My voice softens when I admit, “I’m thinking of you too.”

I’m not sure what it is about him. If his effect on me is due to his rare ability to turn me inside out with just a glance, a word, an act, or if it’s because I never lived this, not in my teens, not until now.

I just never thought you could feel such delicious intimacy while miles apart, with nothing but each other’s voices as we each hold the receiver to our ears. I imagine him at his desk, leaning back all cocky, with one of his smiles on his face—the one where his lips are curled so lightly it can barely be a smile but yet it
is
. I’m warm inside as I tuck the phone closer to me as we talk a little. I ask about New York and tell him how frantic I was to find my necklace. I also notice the R is perfectly polished and realized he must’ve sent it to the jewelers who made the M so that the R looks just as new.

As new as
we
are. Him and me.

When we hang up, I go to the bathroom and slip them out of the box, then I brush my hair aside to expose my throat. I put on the R first, and then I take the M gently out of the box and latch it around the back of my neck. The letters nestle perfectly together near that crook between my collarbones. Strange, how breathless I feel when the M falls into place. I feel like he’s kissing that spot again. Permanently.

Letting my hair fall down my back again, I stare at the girl in the mirror—she’s not lost. She looks confident and a little flushed, a little breathless and a lot happy. The necklaces—sparkly, shiny-new and double—rest at her throat, and you can see in her gray eyes—gray eyes that almost look silver, because they’re gleaming to compete with the gold at her throat—that she happens to think that R + M have never looked so damn good together.

On Thursday I have an interview at
Wired
and I arrive a little late at
Edge
. As seems to be the new norm, my link to Malcolm is nothing anyone wants to touch. The interview didn’t go that well at all. There’s always someone in the company who knows Saint, is friends with Saint, or maybe even hates Saint—and they don’t want the infamous girlfriend in their newsroom.

They seem to prefer the news to come out of their newsrooms, not actually be
sitting
in their newsrooms.

We spend a dream weekend together. On Friday, Gina offers to sleep over at Wynn’s on Saturday and Sunday—Gina has gotten a makeup-artist complex (thank you, free samples that she gets at work), and Wynn has offered to be her test subject all weekend while her boyfriend, Emmett, visits his family—so I invite Sin over to make both my bed and me squeal.

I wake up with him two nights in a row, the second one with little sores on my body, in places he used to exhaustion. I don’t even mind the fact that neither of us is getting much sleep because my bed and I have never known such a good time.

“God, it’s morning already?” I groan, still refusing to move.

He disappears into the bathroom, and I pull the sheets back up to my chin, and I wonder, did I leave my sink clean or did I leave it messy? I think of Sin’s beautiful apartment—perfectly organized—and stress a little about what he may think of my girl chaos.

Then I realize if it’s messy, he’s already seen it yesterday. Relaxing back in bed, I hear him turn on my shower. He’s a far earlier riser than I am; he also gets to M4 usually before most of his employees do. I’m not yet late for work so I stay in bed and enjoy all my sore spots as he comes out with one of my towels hanging low on his hips.

I watch him slip his arms into his button-up shirt and then fasten it with sure, easy flicks of his fingers.

“Leaving for work,” I say dejectedly.

“You could come with me?” His brows raise in humor, and there’s the devil’s twinkle in his eye. “I sense you want to come. Again.”

“Malcolm.” I can’t believe this man. “I’m liquid, and look at you. You look ready to tackle a dragon. I’m tired thanks to you. And you want me to come to M4 with you? What? To work for you? Think of what your investors will think if you hire your girlfriend.”

“They revere me. They’ll know I believe she’s a word goddess and they’ll trust my judgment.”

“No. I mean yes, I’m all that, but no, I’m not going to work for you.”

He looks down at me with undisguised delight. “You’re a cocky one, aren’t you?”

“Me? Cocky? Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint . . . did
you
just hear yourself talk about how revered you are?”

“No, Rachel,” he purrs arrogantly as he buckles his designer belt around his lean waist, “I was too busy looking at the way you’re looking at
me
now.”

He comes over to drop on the side of the bed, edges my little R necklace aside along with the M, then he leans his dark head in, and his lips replace the necklaces as he presses them hotly into my skin.

Gone mush, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tell him, in his ear, “I really, really like the things you do to me, Sin.”

His voice husks out when he sets a kiss on my chin, and then, satisfyingly, gives me one on the mouth. “Not as much as I like doing them to you.”

He reaches for the tie I had taken off him and left on my nightstand as he comes to his feet. “I won’t pressure you. This is the last time I put this out there. Take as long as you’d like to reply. Look as long as you want, Rachel. You have a job at Interface.”

Considering how difficult it’s been to get an actual callback, mainly because of my relationship to him, his words give me a brain orgasm—some much-needed relief on that front.

“I’m truly grateful for it, Saint. But the media has a picnic with me as the main course already. I’d never get respect if my boyfriend got me my job.”

“I didn’t get it, your skills got it, I simply want the best. I want what I want. Come to Interface with me.”

He knots his tie and slips into his jacket, looking at me expectantly.

“I would,” I quietly say,
if I didn’t care so much
. “But no. It has to stay separate.”

He waits a moment without a word, and then urges, “Let me make some calls for you, little one.”

“Sin!” I laugh, then sober up. My heart is near exploding right now. “Thank you. But I have to be sure I’m being hired for the right reasons.”

“You will be.”

“With a call from you, I’d be hired if I were a duck!”

“God, you’re stubborn, Livingston.”

“You’re worse, Saint.”

When he finally nods in understanding, I think I love him just a little more than I did just a second ago. He’s a man used to getting his way, so my position can’t be easy for him. Having his kind of power but wielding it carefully because he respects my wishes to stay independent means so much.

“And you, Mr. Saint,” I get to my feet and smooth a hand over his tie, going up on tiptoes to kiss his hard jaw, “go get the moon.”

After this weekend, I’m officially the president of Saintaholics by the time I’m finally at work. Helen asks me to go with her to the offices of the Clarks, the family who has owned
Edge
since its inception.

We head up the elevators, down a carpeted expanse, and into an office that is as quiet as a church and the complete opposite of the bustling newsroom below.

Seated at a long table are the Clarks. Mr. Clark is in a light blue suit and a black shirt, and is topped by a full head of white hair. Mrs. Clark is in a light yellow sundress, her dyed black hair wrapped in a tidy little bun.

They usher us to take a seat and I tensely follow to sit down next to Helen, right across from the Clarks.

“Rachel, we’ve been extremely appreciative of your loyalty to
Edge
since bringing you on board. Your contributions have been and continue to be invaluable,” Mr. Clark says.

“Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Clark.”

“The reason we asked to see you today is because, as you may have been hearing, we have a very interested buyer for the company and we’re keen on selling, for personal reasons. However, this buyer is very explicit that his interest in
Edge
is exclusively tied to whether you remain with it. We’ve asked for his assurance that our loyal employees will be kept on when his management takes over, and he won’t make that guarantee unless
you
guarantee to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, I wasn’t planning on staying. Also for personal reasons.”

“I see.” Mr. Clark rubs his chin, exchanging a worried glance with his wife.

When nobody speaks, some kind of switch goes off in my chest, triggering a bomb countdown.
Tick, tock, tick, tock
 . . .

I ask, suddenly concerned, “Are you implying some of my colleagues will be let go if I don’t stay?”

I’m gripping the armrests as I wait for an answer.

Tick, tock, tick, tock . . .

“Well, yes. Everyone would likely be let go,” Mrs. Clark responds, looking pained as I stiffen in my seat. “We’ve tried to secure some positions but the buyer has been very firm. Rachel, please consider staying at
Edge
. We can tell the new owner would be very interested in growing your career, and your colleagues would be able to remain.”

And kaboom.

Ka-fucking-
boom.

“Mrs. Clark!” I gasp from the blow, then shake my head, stupefied. “I have a
very
powerful reason for leaving. I
beg
you not to allow my colleagues to be fired. Some of them have been here through every lean time, working hard to see the magazine through. Everyone depends on their salaries.”