Chapter 18: Manwhore +1: Chapter 18

It’s 9 p.m. And I’ve already called Mom, and told Gina I won’t be sleeping in, and am heading to his place. I find him striding out of his bedroom, recently showered and in a pair of jeans and slipping into a soft navy blue T-shirt.

God, I tremble at the sight of this man.

“How was it?” he asks.

“What? The car? The interview? My day?” I set his keys down on the coffee table along with the Tribune I brought.

“Let’s start with the interview. I already know the car’s good stuff.” He smiles, then cocks his head when he drops down beside me and I curl up against his side.

He kisses my jaw and gives a little cup to the swells of my breasts rising enticingly to press into my top. I kiss the tendon in his throat that I bit the night before, noticing a slight pink mark at the bottom of his neck, hidden under his shirt.

“Do you realize someone recently left you a hickey?”

I moan when he ducks his head, seizes a piece of skin, suckles and does the same.

“Now she’s wearing one to match,” he says wickedly.

I moan again as he sucks one more time. It feels so good I don’t want to talk, to eat, to do anything but fuck with him.

He nuzzles my ear. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got my hands all over you.”

“Sin, you’re making me self-conscious now . . .” I groan, and he smiles against me.

I drag my hands up his chest to his face. “I thought about you all day.”

His eyes darken. He brings me close, until I’m sitting over his thigh. “This is getting in my way,” he says in mischief, fingering the top button of my blouse but not removing it yet. I think he knows—we both know—if he takes it off, our talk is over. “So how was it?”

“Good.”

“Good?” he repeats, clearly not convinced.

“Not spectacular or anything. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

When he keeps giving me a that’s-just-bullshit look, I sigh.

“Not really good,” I finally admit. “But I love Bluekin. I love how they do things, how they don’t box themselves into a certain market, they’re read by young people, by old people, women, men . . . they’re open.”

“Who did you see there? Harkin?”

“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. “He said you’re friends with his boss.”

He nods and eases away, pours us drinks and comes back to pass me a glass.

“Where do you think I should go?” I ask him, taking a soft sip.

“You know where.” He smirks as he lowers back down on the couch next to me, his eyes twinkling but serious.

“Come on, I value your opinion.”

“Bluekin’s good,” he says, furrowing his brow in thought. “Buzz, Lokus, the Sun-Times, the Tribune, the Reader. I can get you into any of those. Maybe even RedEye too.”

“No. No string pulling. I need to do this on my own. What would you do if you were given something just that easily, hmm?” I dare.

“I’d take it and use it to go higher.” He lifts his eyebrows, challenging me. “You pull yourself up by your bootstraps or by whoever’s are closest, Rachel.”

“You say that because you have the biggest bootstraps and don’t need anyone to help you up.” I add, “I’m not even considering the mag where Victoria is.”

“Was.” He shrugs. “I can get you in there too.”

“Was? What’s she doing now?”

“Not messing with you.”

I gape at him, perplexed and amazed. “How do you even know all these people?”

“Fund-raisers. Benefits. Business. They like my wallet.” He winks at me and smirks a little. “Some even like me.” He lifts his wine to drink. “Still, don’t take me off your list,” he murmurs.

“Why?” I groan, then jokingly frown. “You want to keep tabs on me every hour of the day?”

Thoughtfully but intensely, he runs the back of a finger down my jaw. “M4 is the only place I know without a doubt you’ll work on what you want.”

Before I even know what I’m doing, I cup his hard jaw.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving Edge.” I think of my friends for a moment, especially Valentine and Sandy. “Maybe this purchase will be good for them?”

He laughs softly, then stands to refill his glass. As though he needs some space on his own, he remains staring out the window, cradling it in his palm, the stem between two fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly.

“Not really.”

A gazillion city lights flicker outside, and there’s this space that is as dark and serene as the sky, which is the lake. Will he ever take me there again? To our little spot where nothing else matters—nothing?

He turns to look at me after a moment, his eyebrows slanting low over his eyes. “What’s so awful about working for me, Rachel?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to.” I scowl.

He scowls back.

This is what I’ve wanted. To write what I want. He’s giving me that. He’s giving me all that. And I’m afraid to take it. That taking it would mean, eventually, that I’d lose what I most want: the possibility of having a long-term relationship with him.

I can’t. I don’t even want to be tempted.

“Malcolm, I promise you, I won’t be there when your father takes over. I won’t be there.”

He clenches his jaw. His silence is heavy, thoughtful.

My frown deepens. “I’m promising I won’t be there. Malcolm, I won’t be there.” I look at him. “Don’t you believe my promise? Is it because you don’t think promises are worth a damn or because you don’t believe in me?”

He narrows his eyes. “Can you blame me for not jumping to believe in your promises?”

That strikes me, and it hurts.

“Are we in a relationship beyond working each other out of our systems, or am I just along for some kind of four? Four weeks? Four months?”

I remember what has been said about him and maybe it’s haunting me. Maybe Saint’s reputation is still haunting me, and my own feelings of not being up to such a powerhouse like him.

“We’re taking it one step at a time,” he says measuredly.

I chew on my lip.

When I don’t look ecstatic about it, he narrows his eyes. “Is that not enough for you, Rachel?”

No. Because I love you, I think brokenly.

“You’ve taught me to be greedy. I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Do you expect me to go work for you knowing that in five months you could be parading around with dozens of women, none of them me?” I challenge, slowly coming to my feet. “I have pride too. I can’t compartmentalize with you, I just can’t. I know you want to protect me. But I needed to believe that I can find something on my own. I want your respect, like I respect you. I need . . .”

I pause when a little bit of my emotions start getting too riled up.

“I guess I just need you to believe I can find something on my own too.”

Eerily silent, Saint seems to be trying to figure out how to tread into this, and I realize this conversation is going to go nowhere fast.

Fuck, I’m tired. He’s temperamental about this job issue.

We’re fighting already? On day two?

“You know what? This is a topic we’re not seeing eye to eye on, and I’m tired. I’m just going home.”

“Fuck,” I hear him say, smashing a palm into the wall, but I just ride down the elevator and hail a cab home, proud and misty-eyed and needing time to think about what I’ll do to make a living while still fighting to try to have a relationship with Sin.