Manwhore +1 (4 page)

Something called . . .

MALCOLM SAINT.

I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.

Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.

MALCOLM SAIN

MALCOLM SAI

MALCOLM SA

MALCOLM S

MALCOLM

Oh god.

I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.

On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.

Malcolm KPL Saint.

The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.

“Rachel!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.

“You’re up!” she calls.

I grab my notes that I also emailed her recently, then go and stand by Helen’s open door. She’s on the phone, signals for me to wait.

“Oh, absolutely! Dinner it is. I’ll bring my best game,” she assures, then she waves me in as she hangs up, beaming.

Well. She’s in a good mood today.

“Hey Helen,” I say. “Did you look at the story options I sent?”

“Yes, and the answer is no.” Her smile fades and she levels me a look. “You’re not writing that.” Sighing, she shuffles the papers on her desk. “Rachel, nobody wants to know about any
riot.
” She says the word
riot
like one would say
excrement
. “You have a lively, energetic voice!” she goes on. “Use it to bring happiness, not focus on what’s wrong in the world. Tell us what’s
right
. What’s the right thing to wear when dating a hot man? Use what happened with that hot ex of yours to teach girls how to date properly.”

“I’M SINGLE, HELEN—
hello
? Nobody wants dating advice from someone who screwed her only chance at . . .” I trail off and rub my temples. “Helen, you know I’m having a little problem.”

“That you can’t write?”

I wince.

It hurts because for twenty-something years, writing was all I wanted to do.

“Go on.” Helen points at the door. “Write me something on how to dress for the first date.”

“Helen . . .” I take a few steps forward instead. “Helen, we discussed this before. Remember? How very much I want to write about things that are wrong in the world, in Chicago. I want to write about the underprivileged, the violence in the streets, and while you promised me opportunities, you have given me zero. In fact, lately, the Sharpest Edge column is all about being single and dating in the city. I have no boyfriend and no dating life. I’m not interested in the dating life, especially after what happened. I keep wondering if maybe you gave me a story that impassioned me again . . . I’d hit my stride. In fact, I’m sure I would,” I plead.

“We can’t always write about what we want, we must think of others, and your audience,” she reminded me. “The loyal audience who’s followed you throughout your career is interested in
dating advice
from you. You dated a very physical and renowned man; don’t throw all that life experience away. Other opportunities will come, Rachel. We’re barely catching our first breath of fresh air. And I need you on more stable ground before we shift your direction again.”

“But weren’t we all about taking risks now in order to take us somewhere?”

“Nope. The owners don’t want more risks right now, while things are stabilizing. Now please. Can I get a break from this riot and safety talk for a few weeks? Can you do that for me?”

I force myself to nod, pursing my lips as I turn to leave. I try not to feel angry and frustrated, but when I come out and hear all the keyboards clacking and watch all my colleagues writing their stories, some with bored faces, some with happy or engrossed faces, I can’t help but ache to write something that gets to me so much, you could see it on
my
face too.

“Hey. You, there. With the golden hair, gorgeous body, but absolutely gloomy face,” Valentine calls from his cubicle as I walk by.

“Thanks,” I say.

He motions me forward to his computer and I end up standing behind him and bending over to peer at his screen.

And there’s Sin.

A video, which shows the power in even his smallest gestures. I’m melting when I hear him answer a question in some sort of interview about his opinion on the state of the oil prices.
Stupid,
stupid melting bones.

After we both watch for a moment, Valentine says, “Your ex.”

He’s not my ex
, I think sadly, wishing that even for a blink I’d have had the courage to wear that title.

“He really knows how to fill up a room. He’s keynote speaker this weekend at McCormick Place. I’m thinking of asking Helen to let me go. Unless you want to?” Val peers at me over his shoulder.

I shake my head, frustrated. Then shrug. Then nod. “I’d love to, but I couldn’t.”

Valentine’s eyes cloud over at that; I’m sure it’s because he remembers all the hate mail that came through the servers after Victoria’s article. “You need to get out more. Want to come clubbing with me and my current this weekend?”

“I’m going to camp out this weekend. But proceed living dangerously for me. I’ll find a way to bail you out of jail.”

He laughs as I go back to my corner and settle down in my chair. I’m determined to work past this glitch. I want this to be an excellent dating piece, one that can help every girl like me meet and attract the guy she wants.

Inhaling, I pop open my browser and search the dating forums. I mean to find out the most major concerns girls have when going out on a first date, for starters, but before I know it, I’m opening another tab. Then a press conference link. Then I plug in my earphones and hike up the volume and stare at Saint on the video.

He’s behind a podium erected outside. People are standing in the back—every chair is occupied. Most especially with businessmen. Though I spot a few fawning fangirls nearby too.

His hair moves a little with the wind. His voice comes through the speaker, low and deep. Even though he’s talking through a computer and not talking directly to me, my skin prickles in response. Stupid, stupid skin.

When the camera zooms in, I look into his eyes as he connects with the audience, and feel an ache. The look in his eyes as he talks to all those strangers, so much more personal than the wariness in his eyes when he looked at me yesterday.

But I think of how his eyes would burn so hot when he peeled his shirt off my body that I’d be in cinders by the time I lay naked and waiting for him to touch me . . .

And the way his eyes would glimmer with teasing, boyish hope as he looked at me when he asked and asked, patiently and ruthlessly, for me to be his girlfriend.

I hate that I will never, ever be his “little one” again.

I play the email roulette all day . . . and there’s nothing from him.

I end up with two sentences for my dating article. Valentine and Sandy are hitting a nearby sandwich place and as we cross the building’s lobby, Valentine says, “Come with, Rachel.”

“I think I’ll just . . .” I shake my head. “I’m going to try to get some work done at home.”

“Bullshit,” he says as we hit the sidewalk.

Sandy stops him. “Let her go home, Val.”

“I worry about this girl. She’s been kind of blue lately.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m perfect,” I assure them as I flag a cab. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

V
alentine isn’t the only one “concerned.” So are my friends. And later that night, they insist on Girl Time.

Wynn was adamant we discuss this “job issue.” I assume Gina’s told her about the job offer on the table from Malcolm since nobody else knows about my other writing problem. Not even my friends. I just really dislike being the one knocked-out on the floor after life struck her out. I’m
trying
to get back to normal even though I don’t know what normal is anymore.

But at least one of the fixtures in my life is drinks with Wynn and Gina during the week. We sit at a high table near the windows. It’s comfortable.

Still, I’ve been refreshing my email like mad.

“I don’t know why you thought he’d want to talk to you about what happened so soon, it’s only been four weeks and what happened was kind of . . . well, it could take
years
,” Wynn says.

“Wow, Wynn,” I groan.

“Well, I’m being honest, Rachel!”

I toss back the rest of my cocktail. My mind flashes to his hand, reaching for my leg under the table . . .

Twinkling green eyes, teasing me until I can’t bear it . . .

I love my friends; we’ve been together forever. They call my mom “Mom” and know everything about me, but now as Wynn asks me to relate the “job issue” and Gina tells her all about it, I keep draining my cocktail in silence, sadder than I’m letting on. My friends know everything about me, but at the same time, they don’t know it all.

They don’t know that as I sit here I remember all the ways he used to tease me about how I play it safe. He used to tease me to come out of my box, that he’d catch me. But would he catch me now?

“It doesn’t matter why he took four weeks,” I cut in when Wynn and Gina keep arguing over why he took so long to contact me. “I just want him to talk to me. I want to know if I hurt him so I can make it better. I want a chance to explain, apologize.”

“You doubt you hurt him?” Wynn asks, aghast. “Emmett told me there’s no way he’d give you the time of day right now if you weren’t under his skin.”

“Interesting,” Gina says. Then, looking at me, “You’re not the only one haunted by Saint, do you think that you’re haunting him too?”

“I don’t want us to be ghosts for each other. I want us to go back to the way we were when he . . . trusted me.”

Wynn whistles admiringly. “You can get that man in bed, maybe he’ll reluctantly love you, but you won’t get his trust if his life depended on it now.”

I wince at the thought of that. “True, trust is important to him; if I can’t prove to him I’m trustworthy I’m doomed to be one of his four-night girls.”

“Did you get the impression he’d give you another chance?” Wynn asks.

I stay quiet.

“Rachel?”

“No, Wynn. He doesn’t want me anymore. But I need to apologize. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I just don’t know what to do.” I look at Wynn when my refill comes, frowning as I realize something. “So you and Emmett have been talking about it?”

“Um. Well, yes,” she says uncomfortably. “Everybody’s touched on it, you know? It was public.”

I press on, “Did Emmett have any advice for me?”

Wynn shrugs. “He doesn’t think a man like Saint would give you another chance. But then, he did offer you a job, so . . .”

“What does Emmett the
chef
know about a guy who literally owns Chicago?” Gina tells Wynn, rolling her eyes. “Plus Emmett’s a guy. He’s telling
you
this so that you, Wynn, don’t turn out to be a reporter and reveal that he wears pink undies and shit.”

“Gina.” Wynn scowls.

Gina grins, then turns to me. “Tahoe says—”

“
Tahoe
?” Wynn and I say in unified shock.

“Tahoe ROTH?” Wynn asks. “The oil tycoon and Saint’s
bestie
?”

“He’s not Saint’s
only
bestie, Callan Carmichael is too,” Gina specifies, then she cuts me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rache. I’m not supposed to talk to you about this. But he’s concerned and so am I. And . . . well, from what Tahoe told me, Saint’s pretty messed up. Colder than usual. Really withdrawn.”

I sit here listening, aching.

“He loves Saint as much as I love you,” Gina says, and when Wynn opens her mouth to ask about the obvious elephant in the room—her plus Tahoe—Gina holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care for Tahoe, but he hasn’t enjoyed your breakup any more than I enjoy watching you mope. He called me to ask what was up, ’cause of course Saint’s not talking and he says he hasn’t seen Saint like this since his mother died.”

Knowing what I know—that his mother was the only one who probably genuinely cared for Malcolm while he was growing up, how he felt he’d failed her, how he’d failed
himself
in failing her, how he’s been trying to fill up an empty hole ever since—Gina’s words wreck me.

Wynn chides, “Stop talking to Tahoe, he’s just using this as an excuse to have sex with you.”

“I know, right?” Gina laughs.

“So? Are you going to let him?” Wynn asks, curious.

“No! He’s gross. I mean, he’s
hot
, but his attitude is gross.”

I stare at my cocktail and wonder if I’m already getting drunk to the point where I’m getting emotional too easily.

I’ve cried so much I don’t even have to try. The kind of crying where the tears just spill. With no warning. With no effort. They just come. I cry at the thought of never being with him again. And I cry because I know I hurt this beautiful, ambitious, intelligent, generous, caring man. I used to rest my cheek where I could hear his heart. Now it’s locked behind iron doors and ten-foot walls that
I
put there.