Chapter 28: Manwhore +1: Chapter 28

When I text, Hey Sin. I’m having a tough week. Is it ok if I skip the benefit? he calls me in record time.

“Hey. You all right?” Behind his voice, there are noises and clinking forks in the background. I probably caught him at a business lunch.

“I’m okay. But tonight . . . I want to stay in. Come by later or tomorrow?”

“I’ll come by tonight. You all right?”

It’s the second time he’s asked. He’s too sharp not to know.

“I will be,” I promise. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Hang tight, I’ll be by later.”

“I’ll leave a key under the mat.”

I’m not expecting him until after midnight, so while I wait, I lie around in his dress shirt and my white purple-lettered “Peace” socks, eating popcorn with Gina, exhausted after telling her about my day and trying to tune out with a little bit of TV, when Saint arrives only a little past 8 p.m. He seems to have come straight from work, still in his business suit, exuding testosterone, and I notice the first thing he notices are the R and M necklaces on my throat.

He looks bigger right now. Harder. And like something I want to hold on to so much, I feel dizzy.

Dizzy and . . . safe.

For the first time today, I feel safe.

“Sin . . . I . . .” I signal down at myself, and as I do, his eyes move over me and heat up every inch they cover. “I’m not dressed, I was staying in.”

“I’m staying in with you.” He shuts the door. “Hey, Gina.”

“Oh, groan. Are you guys gonna . . .” Gina sets down the popcorn bowl on the table and trails off delicately, looking from one, to the other, for an answer.

Neither Malcolm nor I bite.

Then, plainly, she growls, “Do I have to leave?”

Yes! my body screams. But I can’t make her leave for us to fool around; that’s just bad friend etiquette. “It’s fine, Gina.”

“I’ll be in my room. Bye, Saint.” She heads over and shuts the door, and I glare at him playfully.

“I told you to go to the benefit and come after,” I chide.

“Ahh. See . . . I’m good at giving orders, but unfortunately I don’t follow them well.”

He takes off his jacket, jerks off his tie, unbuttons the two shirt buttons near his throat, then settles down on my couch and I’m not sure if I’m the one who presses up into him or he’s the one who grabs me close, but we kiss a little, softly but with tongue.

“What’s going on?” he murmurs when he eases back to investigate my features with that keen gaze of his.

I caress the arm he’s got curled around me with my fingers, and the muscles of his forearm buzz with strength beneath the sleeve.

“I gave my two weeks’ notice today at Edge.”

A part of me listens to my own voice as if from a tunnel.

I’m jobless.

I know that Malcolm can help me and has offered his support but I desperately want to do this on my own.

Especially now.

Already my relationship with Saint is complicated enough. First, his natural playboy tendencies, my own inexperience in regards to relationships, the social media hanging on our every move, and even, maybe, what happened between us. Working for him, I’d be completely dependent on him and I’m too scared. I’m more scared of that than of being jobless right this moment.

He watches me with clear, observant green eyes as the words sink in. “You gave your two weeks’ notice. Did you get a call back?”

“I’d have told you if I had,” I assure him.

For a moment he only studies me. He looks at my face unhurriedly, feature by feature, the tensing of his jaw the only sign of frustration. “You gave your two weeks’ notice without having anything lined up?” He tips my face back and regards me in puzzlement. “Are you coming with me?”

“Yes, I don’t have anything yet. And . . . no. Please understand.”

His eyebrows are still slanted low over his nose. I’m sure he’s wondering why I jumped the gun and quit all of a sudden, so I search for the right words, but there’s just no other way to say it than plainly.

“Today Mr. Clark offered me a bonus to stay along with a guarantee that my friends would be able to stay as well.”

His voice is feather soft. “He threatened you?”

His thumb caresses my chin where he holds my face securely upward to meet his gaze. A ruthless gleam appears in his eyes, the kind of gleam that makes him exactly who he is. Ruthless, unstoppable. I’m afraid to see it right now, when all I want is peace.

“No, no, it was nice.” Curling my hand around the hand holding me, I give it a reassuring squeeze. “They were grateful and wanted me to stay, but . . . your father wants me to stay. He wants to assure the Clarks if I stay, he won’t can my colleagues. Malcolm, I wasn’t going to let him get to you.”

There’s a darkness roiling in the depths of his gaze. He stands and eases his hands into his pockets. The move is casual, but the energy surrounding Saint all of a sudden is so intimidating I don’t know what to say.

A long silence stretches.

“Sin, I can start up freelancing . . .” I point at my laptop, trying to sound positive. “I’ve spent all day scouring my favorite magazines to figure out what it is I like about them and I made a list. I like those who deal with people. Not things or cars. Not with the trendiest clothes. What gets me are the pieces that talk about a living thing, our strengths and weaknesses, our wins and its losses. That’s what I could have done with Edge—pieces for the modern reader.” I look at him. “I research how other freelancers have started. Usually with capital, and it takes years to build a steady income. I could maybe do it.”

He walks to my living-room window. He stares out for a long moment. His back literally looks like a rock wall. “You can do anything you want to.”

I don’t want him to feel like I’m throwing his generous offer in his face, but I’m a little panicked wondering if he does.

Unless this is about something else entirely. Like his dick father.

“Well, what do you think about me freelancing for this one blog . . . ?” I try to turn my computer so he can stare at the blog, but he’s not interested.

He turns, but he’s looking just at me, directly and narrowly. “Why do you think Edge is not hitting its market?”

Exhaling, I close my laptop and shift on the couch so I can face him fully.

It’s a good question.

“Edge is a bit too broad for a magazine of our size. It needs to find a niche and offer things in that context that no one else does. Helen has been onto that for a while, but the owners have always shot her down whenever she’s tried to direct a tighter focus. Every single one of my colleagues that remains is very good at what they do. If only Edge were steered more clearly and precisely.”

He makes no comment, but he’s folded one arm and is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His lips are curled, as if my answer pleased him intensely.

Frowning, I tell him, “What do you think your father’s plans for it are?”

“Absorb it into his other companies, take it apart; keep only what he wants.” He starts walking around, still frowning in thought. “I don’t believe for a moment his main interest is Edge.”

Something in his stride is too controlled, too deliberate, the look in his eyes too shuttered, cool as fucking ice, as if that very ice is running through his blood.

I can almost hear him thinking; the energy around him almost shooting sparks.

I know enough about this man to know that he’s a genius at self-control. That he’s methodical, that he thinks through his every action—that though he has a temper, he rules it, it does not rule him. He doesn’t display anything on the outside, but I know that temper is tightly under control right now, and whatever is causing him to turn glacial inside, I’m almost scared on their behalf.

As if he reads my mind, he lifts his head and stares at me across the room, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “If my father wants Edge, he’s going to pay dearly for it. Regardless of whether you’re no longer employed at Edge, his pride won’t let him back out now.”

“Back out from what? Buying? Malcolm, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me.” Eyes suddenly growing hot when he looks at me, he comes over and takes me by the chin again. “Do you trust me?”

With his free hand, he reaches out for his jacket. The energy shifts in the room as he puts it on, every cell in my body is aware. Danger, it screams.

When Saint frowns down at me and puts on his jacket, I feel like he’s suiting up for war. I don’t like it.

“Malcolm,” I call when he heads for the door without an answer.

His voice is rough but completely uncompromising. “Do you trust me, Rachel?”

Entranced by the war-like gleam in his eyes, I nod.

He swings open the door. “Then don’t look into anything just yet. See how things play out first.”

God, this man. “Are you leaving for the benefit?”

“No. I’m visiting my lawyers.”

“Lawyers see you at this hour? It’s eight p.m.”

He shoots me an obvious look and I roll my eyes. “Of course they do!” I laugh and groan at his high-handedness.

“Trust me.”

“Malcolm, didn’t you hear me? I quit!”

He closes the door.