Chapter 6: Manwhore +1: Chapter 6

I wake up in the middle of the night to hear the soft buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Feeling for it in the dark, I tap it awake and my heart pumps when I see the message icon and then the name “Saint” on it.

Wings flap against the walls of my stomach.

Rachel,

Thursday at 2:15 works for me, I trust we can wrap this up before my 2:30.

M

Oh god, he answered me himself.

A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.

Was he out?

Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.

My man @malcolmsaint has a new babe crying for his attention

My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.

A new babe?

I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs. And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.

I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.

I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.

Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Saint’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.

I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.

Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.

I think of Malcolm and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.