Manwhore: Chapter 15

What did that even mean?

I don’t want to be unsafe. It’s the last goal of my existence. I’ve always liked that I have never been reckless.

On Friday, I pour myself mindlessly into a piece Helen wanted for the week. I can’t think; I can’t stop to think or I’ll start to drown in my own fears and confusions. I tell myself to stay detached and keep my eyes on the prize, and that’s all a sensible reporter would do. And I am sensible. At least, I was for the twenty-three years before I met Malcolm Saint.

I’m typing furiously when my phone buzzes and I peer absently at the screen, only to have a heart attack when I see the word I saved him under in my contacts. SIN.

Meet me tonight at the Tunnel?

What is my heart doing right now? It’s doing cartwheels in my chest. I’ve become this girl, this ridiculous girl. The Tunnel is a hot spot known for its dark and winding rooms, its loud music. Hardly anyone comes out sober or unmussed from the Tunnel. Rachel, you can’t go with Saint to the Tunnel unless you’re totally prepared to get your libido in check, and you’ve been doing a lousy job of that.

“So are you ready?”

I lower my phone when Victoria tries to peer over the top of my cubicle. “Ready?” I repeat. “For what?”

“Don’t you remember? Your beauty day! Getting you prepped this weekend to work.”

“I . . . ah. Right. How could I forget? The clichéd makeover. Normal girl gets her hair cut, gets the guy, lalalalalala,” I say as I grab my things.

“Yes.” She laughs.

I get my phone and close the file I had open on my computer with a few too many links—but never enough—featuring what Malcolm did this week. In all the pictures there were girls too, but he looked detached. He didn’t look like he was having fun, but then, he’s hard to read.

Once I close up my computer, I follow Victoria to the elevators and we head to a spa. Pedicure, manicure, a trim.

“Highlights.”

“I’m platinum blonde, Vicky, it doesn’t get lighter.”

“Slightly lighter streaks and slightly darker ones give light to your hair.”

“I’ll take the haircut, but I won’t be enslaved by hair color until my hair turns gray. It’s a tip I learned from my mother.”

“What Saint likes is a good ol’ easy woman. He’s not used to working for it—it’s always available to him, and that’s how he probably likes it. Though he really did seem thoroughly hooked on you, Rachel.”

My phone buzzes. I stare at the caller ID, my body once again getting into the action. SIN. Flushing just at the thought of him, I tuck the phone aside and watch my toes get a nice pink coat of paint.

“After the toes, full-on bikini wax,” Victoria announces from her seat next to mine.

I wonder whether she could speak a little louder so that not only the entire spa but the outside world as well could hear.

I lean forward and drop my voice. “No thanks.”

“Um. Hello? Not a question.”

I laugh. “Girl, I’ve got it perfectly maintained. Leave it!”

“All right.” She slaps down the magazine she’d been reading and sets it aside. “But guys like Saint like Brazilians.” She smiles secretively. “And of course, all those gorgeous girls from Brazil too.” She chooses a new magazine and continues in her role of advisor, like she’s an expert on him. “Womanizers like all girls; it’s part of their charm. They’re perfect specimens, and we can’t help but be drawn to that.” She smiles. “You know that earthiness about you, that gentle fierceness—he can be drawn to that. I saw that he was drawn to that. Under that drive, you’re sweeter and more gentle, and he’s more like fire, more forceful, more ambitious. Saint plays around but he’s hard—as everybody who’s done business with him knows.”

My phone vibrates, and this time it’s a call. SIN.

Force and fire.

Hard.

I want to answer. I want to hear his voice.

I also want to not want these things.

I swear, if the knot in my stomach gets any tighter, I’m going to implode.

I’m staring at my phone when another text pops up.

What does a man need to do to get you to say yes?

Chewing on my inner cheek, I stare at my phone for what feels like forever. Yes! Yes! YES! But also NO. We cannot. NO. NO. NO.

Finally I focus on the job, tell myself it’s a yes with an emotional and physical no attached, and answer:

I’ll meet you there

My hand is shaking as I tuck my phone away again and try to come back to the present. Spa. Makeover. Victoria. Oh yes, Victoria. Very interesting development here. I scrutinize her in confusion, then say, “From what you just told me, I’m starting to think you actually want me to succeed.”

To be honest, I don’t bother to hide my surprise because, well, I’ve been surprised by Victoria in a great way today.

“I do want you to succeed—why wouldn’t I? I love working at Edge. Where am I supposed to go?” A look of puzzlement crosses her face. “We all know we’re on our last breath. Nobody’s taking over. Our print run gets tinier by the second. Every one of us will end up without a job.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want that.” She sighs. “I want to be looked upon favorably by our bosses, but to be honest, I’m not sure what I’d do with Saint if I ever had him.”

“Oh, that boy just can’t be had.” I laugh lightly, but inside, this makes me sad. That Saint is so apart from the crowd may make it harder for him to feel like he “belongs” anywhere. That he will never belong to anyone at all.

“What do you mean, ‘he can’t be had’?”

“He just can’t be had, not in any way that matters to him. Nobody’s gotten more than just a tiny piece of Saint. Not his dad, not even his mother. No woman. Not his friends or his businesses. He spreads himself around, even in his interests. Nothing really claims him. He keeps that to himself, all that fire. He just gives you a glimpse of the spark.”

“Well”—she fans her face with her hands—“you already have a better grasp of him than I do!”

A little before 8 p.m., I enter my apartment, remembering I’d promised Victoria I’d wear a dress. “Try not to reveal too much. People always take their tops off for Saint. He might like wondering what’s underneath instead.”

“He won’t get to see it, so he can wonder to death,” I flippantly said.

But I’m surprised my tongue didn’t catch fire, because I don’t feel flippant. I feel anticipation of the kind that makes you concentrate on nothing. Makes you try to do ten things at once and fail at them all.

I haven’t seen him since he Frenched me outside my apartment right before the elevator doors closed.

By the time Gina gets home, I’ve got clothes strewn all over my room. I had texted her: Sin is at the Tunnel tonight and we’re going!

Whereas I’d been deliberating what to wear since before I even opened the door, she instantly storms inside and takes charge.

“What are you still doing in bra and panties? Get dressed! Wear that top that’s cool and modern in blue and white that says MY BOYFRIEND IS A SAILOR, just because you want to appear taken and like you didn’t try too hard.”

“Not try too hard? I spent four hours at a spa. I paid for my silly makeover.”

“Wear that top anyway that says your boyfriend is a sailor. If he wants in your pants, he’s going to loathe that.”

I pull the top out of my closet and eye it, my nerves skyrocketing as the seconds tick by. I decide maybe I will wear a skirt and the boyfriend top. Not as seductive as a dress but still, he can get an eyeful of long legs now that they’re slick and oiled up nicely. And why are you wanting to show him your long legs, Rachel?

“Is this a good idea, G?” I leap into my skirt.

“It’s a fucking great idea, it’s exactly what you wanted!”

“Um, no, it isn’t. I wanted research, but this is almost like a date.”

“No, it’s not. Saint doesn’t date. He just hooks up.”

God, I’m wishing he’ll drool for me.

I’m wishing that at least one night, one night in his existence, he will have a wet dream about me.

But I’m still so uncertain. I turn and ask Gina, “Is this all right? I’m treading such a fine line. . . .”

“Rachel, just remember he’s using you, you’re using him; you’re not in a relationship, nor will you ever be. Just do the job and don’t get involved.”

“Okay,” I quickly agree, just to get her to stop saying the word using.

I gulp back a ball of nerves the size of a lemon and as bitter as the peel, then grab my bag and tell myself that I can do this, that I want to do this, that I want to do this more than I want to do him.