Manwhore: Chapter 6

I’m staring up at the ceiling of our apartment, terribly confused.

Did I make a mistake sending the elephant picture?

I let my excitement get the best of me and maybe crossed a professional line. I’ve heard nothing from him today, or from Dean or anyone. Now I don’t know what to do, but I know that tonight he’s got a posh gathering at the Ice Box. I need to get in somehow. His life seems perfectly compartmentalized; business on the one hand, and what about the other? If the man works hard, he’s got a reputation for partying just as hard, or—impossible, but yes—even harder.

The media loves to emphasize his whoring around, but can you blame him? He looks amazing, and walking next to him when we got to the auction, there wasn’t a single female eye that didn’t look at me and then crawl its way longingly up to his beautiful face. Can you blame him for partaking of what women offer when he’s such a young, healthy man?

Saint might think he’s giving us a puff piece, but he’s done more for Edge than anyone has lately—cooperating past what I’d have ever expected. He’s given me more time than anyone even half as important as he is has been willing to give to a struggling magazine like us.

I can tell he’s a hard boss, but my gut says he’s not an unfair one. Interface and the entire M4 conglomerate are examples of vision and ambition but not greed. From his phone calls alone I can tell he’s a remarkable businessman—as remarkable a businessman as they say he is a lover.

During the first interview in the car, when he thought about the Ice Box, who did he call? One of his boys? Roth or Carmichael?

Grabbing our apartment phone from next to the living room couch, I call Valentine, one of my coworkers, the one who’s in the social section—who knows everyone, and if not, knows about them well enough to lie about it. “Can you get me into Malcolm Saint’s Ice Box party tonight?”

“I can get you anything, woman. The real question is, what do I get in return?”

“Name the price . . . man.”

“Ah, I love my snarky Rache! Let me call you back.”

Minutes later, he calls me back and says, “You’re on the list.”

“With Gina, right?”

“Dude, I’m a rainmaker, not a miracle worker. You’re welcome. You owe me one.”

“And I’ll pay,” I happily promise—but Gina’s not that happy with the news.

“What do you mean I can’t go with you?” Gina complains when I tell her. “Wynn is going out, and I have to stay in on a Friday?”

“I’m sorry, Gina.” I wince as I frantically fish out some clothing options. “What if Valentine comes over?”

“Oh no.” She groans. “I don’t trust that man. He’s like the gossiping bald guy in Game of Thrones, playing everyone.” Then she starts texting. “Okay, I texted Valentine because he’s like the gossiping bald guy from Game of Thrones. We might get drinks once I send you off.”

I’m still in my terry robe, fresh out of a shower, with Gina and Wynn trying to help me find the perfect outfit, when there’s a knock. Wynn leaps to her feet as if lightning just struck. She rushes to the bathroom to fluff her curls, and then walks across the living room to answer the door.

Wynn flings the door open to reveal: Emmett, chef at an up-and-coming restaurant. Her latest man. Her scarf flaps in the breeze generated by the opening door, and Emmett grabs its edges and pulls her to him.

Tall and blond, he kisses her on the mouth, a kiss so perfect and movie-like, any minute now I expect the background music to blare.

I’ve never been pulled to a man like that. I’ve never been tossed in the air like an airplane, like Wynn was growing up, or kissed on the forehead by my dad every night, like Gina was.

Wynn has always been the softest of us three. She wants to marry, and is expert at using her femininity to get what she wants. What she always wants? A man. I haven’t wanted a man my whole life. I grew up wanting my dad to be alive, and all my wanting has been used up; that well has long since gone dry.

Gina watches them too, and the moment Wynn shuts the door behind her, we both stare at each other with a look that says, Are we missing out on something great because we grew too jaded?

Gina is the cynic among us. She dated a guy named Paul a couple of years ago in college. Paul is such a nice, unassuming name. You’d never think someone named Paul would be lying through his teeth when he said he loved you. You’d never imagine he’d have two other girlfriends with whom he discussed you. You’d never think that the first guy you fell in love with would make being single for the rest of your life something to look forward to.

Gina and I are both married to our jobs, and we both mean for it to stay like that. Gina works at a department store and she lives for her employee discount. I live for my column.

“You look nervous,” Gina says as I add some blush to my cheeks. “Relax, Rachel. He’s just a man, no matter how godly.”

“Don’t say that, I’m nervous enough as it is. Clubs were not even my scene when we were begging to be let in.”

“Nobody will know it’s not your scene. Just make sure to look the part.”

We both look at the three options I’ve set out.

Considering he’s seen me in my coveralls and then dressed in a suit, I want to give a completely different message with whatever I wear tonight. His parties are known to be decadent—and I don’t want to wear clothes that say I’m a working girl. I want to look like someone who parties with his crowd. I want to look seductive, modern, edgy so the last thing he’ll remember if he sees me tonight is that I’m the same woman interviewing him for an Interface article.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Option 1: a cute white skirt with a flimsy white top; option 2: red, knee-length, very tight dress; option 3: black bandage dress.”

“Men love women in white,” Gina says. “It’s that devil in them that can’t resist. Saint’s devil is the wildest of them all. They love red too.”

“But black is foolproof,” I say. “I don’t want to scream out, ‘I haven’t had sex in a while.’ I don’t want to say, ‘Come hither.’ I just want to be there and say, ‘Here I am.’ ”

She nods approvingly, so I go into the bathroom, slide on my black lace undergarments and the dress, and come out barefoot to slip on my heels.

Gina drops the magazine she was reading as we take in my appearance in the full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door.

I’m tall and trim, my breasts small but firm and perky. My skin is milky apricot and my hair platinum blonde, from my mom’s Scandinavian heritage. For some reason people compliment the curves of my shoulders and neck, so the low-cut dress shows them off. It emphasizes my slenderness, my slim hips and small waist, the black material heightening the translucence of my face and neck. My hair gleams like silvery gold. My eyes are gray with flecks of blue. The dress hugs me in all the right places.

“Like off a catwalk,” Gina assures from the bed, nodding.

“Definitely better than I looked when I met him in my sneakers,” I counter.

I run a brush over my hair, then blow-dry it for a few minutes. When I’m done, I expel a breath as I meet my stare in the mirror. “Ready or not, Rachel.”

“Of course you’re ready!” Gina woots.

I laugh and turn to look at her, wishing she could come. My absolute best friend. She’s my adopted sister in my heart. I held her hand when Paul broke her. I passed the Kleenex. I swore I’d never let anyone break her heart again. I swore I’d be with her to the end, and I wouldn’t let anyone break mine. I promised we’d be happy and single, because who needed a guy? And we both ate ice cream and repeated that mantra all the time. And already I feel that I’m going to the club tonight, an angel without my wing.

“Go get it,” she tells me with that singular excitement of hers.

I swallow and grab my bag and try to tell myself that I can do this. That I want to do this. That when—not if, when—I write this exposé, I will finally silence every doubt in my head of whether I can bring it to the table when it’s most needed.

I look very different from the girl Saint met in his office. But I don’t feel any different. My nerves are frayed to the edges as I give my name to a bouncer at the entrance and I’m allowed into the club, every part of me snug and tight in my dress as my black heels hit the floor.

Whereas M4 was all museum-like, the Ice Box is pure dark decadence. Ice sculptures sit on pedestals around the room. Cages with body-painted dancers hang from the ceiling. A bar with white and blue lights stretches from one wall to another.

Strobe lights flash across the space as I get jostled by the crowd. The bass thumps as the Mr. Probz song “Waves” plays for the dancing crowd. Drinks are flowing on shiny silver trays, and the drinks are so adorned—by fruits, olives, salt glitter, or colorful liquid swirls—they’re like artworks. This isn’t a normal swanky club. It’s the rich boys’ club, and everywhere you look are beautiful people wearing beautiful things.

“I met him! God! When he said hi I thought I’d faint . . . !”

My nerves eat at me as I hear that, because I know for sure they’re talking about him. Trying to breathe, I wind deeper into the club, wishing for Gina so bad I ache. The room is packed with women, some clearly on the hunt, others already paired with someone, a few hanging out with their friends. I breathe slowly, in and out, telling myself I can do this. It’s just a club. I can have some fun. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out to a club, and never to a club like this, but it doesn’t matter. I can interview people, and if I’m lucky, I can do more than that.

After scanning the area and trying to find the best spy spots, I go to the top level, and that’s when I get the best look at what’s happening downstairs in the most crowded corner.

And speak of the devil. My heart stops a beat when I see that dark head of his, and that loathed, burning knot in my stomach squeezes with a vengeance. I swear, no one in my life has ever made me this nervous.

He sits with his arms stretched out behind him, a wineglass and two women vying for his attention as he chats with his friends. His masculine face is illuminated in certain angles when the lights flash—his beauty unprecedented.

Okay. Breathing. Do I want him to know I’m here or not?

A watery sensation seems to spread down my limbs as I force myself to go downstairs. I wend my way to the ladies’ room and worm through the throng of bodies toward a wide mirror above a set of modernist floating sinks. A group of women primp and preen themselves while I look at all of our reflections. To my right, a woman pouts her red lips, and to my left, her friend pouts her pink ones. Me? I’m still me, but I look extravagant, like I was born here. I look very different than the young girl in coveralls he met. Will he even recognize me like this?

“You going to the after-party?” Red Lips asks Pink Lips as they retouch their lipsticks.

“No key yet.”

“Lookie lookie.” Red Lips waves a key card in the air.

There’s squealing in the room, and she tucks the key into her bra. “Mine!”

“So there’s an after-party?” I ask them.

“At Saint’s penthouse,” one says, nodding.

“How do you get invited to this party?”

“A hundred keys are distributed during the evening.”

A sudden thought of stealing the very key she’s just tucked into her bra flickers through my mind. I mean, it’s just a key. It couldn’t possibly be a felony.

“Babe,” she tells me, “stop giving my key the eye! I’ve been waiting three years to get a key like this. Go and work your ass out there if you want one. Only the finest asses make it.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning to look at my ass in the mirror questioningly. Gina says I’ve got a great ass. It’s perky and the perfect handful, some would say. But would Saint say that?

I sigh and lean against the wall, then I spot all the little writings on an open stall door. I narrow my eyes, forcing my focus.

Malcolm for my baby-daddy

I sucked Saint’s cock

Tahoe rammed me right here

Callan licks cunt like a caveman

I head back into the noise and try to find a good spot for spying when I see him again. The two women won’t leave his side, and now my stomach for some reason feels jumpy, annoying me. One of the blondes takes a shot from the waiter, licks the rim, and then adds salt.

Saint edges back and watches her with an expression of casual boredom, but his lips are curled, as if he’s having some fun.

I’m so engrossed in watching—a little too fascinated and a little bit disgusted—I don’t realize a guard has walked up to me until he’s right in my face. He signals to the back of the room—to where Saint’s best friends are now watching me. Saint isn’t even looking my way. Oh no, he’s too busy being entertained, still wearing that almost-bored smile. Maybe they need to take their tops off to get him excited.

All three men fit in perfectly with the lavish surroundings, but I can’t look at the other two. Only at Malcolm. Malcolm’s dark good looks blend with the shadows, like Hades in his own little corner of hell.

Suddenly he laughs at something one of the blondes does and he turns a little, his eyes landing straight on me—and stopping there.

I feel his stare like a hit of adrenaline. I want to look away, but I can’t, I feel trapped. I don’t know if I made this up, but I could’ve sworn his chest jerked as if he sucked in a breath.

Does he recognize me?

Do I want him to?

Suddenly the atmosphere is so heavy I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like rocks and I really can’t breathe. As he rakes me in one fast, complete sweep of his eyes that makes my stomach quiver nervously, he takes me in, from my pumps up to my long blonde hair, and I become aware of my dress hugging the tops of my thighs, my hips, my abdomen, my breasts, and even my ass. Oh god. I force myself to follow the guard in his direction, every step accelerating my heartbeat. In that black suit and without a tie, the top button of his shirt open and his hair a bit rumpled, Saint is the embodiment of luxurious decadence and sin. He is Sin Itself, and I feel like an absolute . . . virgin.

He stretches his long legs out before him, his stare fixed on mine without any seeming inclination to move away.

“Mr. Saint.” The guard clears his throat. “The gentlemen had me summon her.”

Although his smile doesn’t waver, the look on his face is completely remote and unreadable.

“Here she is, gentlemen,” the guard then tells the other two—the blond and the copper-haired man looking at me like I’m lunch.

“Tahoe,” the blond says.

“Callan,” the copper-haired man says.

Saint merely pats the blondes on the butt and sends them on their way, then he reaches out to take my elbow in a somehow instinctive gesture that brings me a strange sense of comfort. I don’t know anybody else here, so when he tugs me to his side, I sit next to him on the edge of the long booth.

And that’s when he leans his dark head over to me and murmurs, “Malcolm.” His voice is so deep and rumbling I shiver.

“Rachel,” I lamely offer.

He raises his eyebrow and stares at me. What are you doing here, Rachel? he seems to ask.

I’m wondering what to say, when Tahoe lifts his drink and drains it. “You’re up past your bedtime.” The Texan oil baby. Oozing charm, drawling out the words.

I don’t know why, but I’m acutely aware of the position of Saint’s body in relation to mine. He just straightened fully in the booth and somehow shifted so that his arm is very noticeably stretched out behind me.

“Like they say, no rest for the wicked,” I answer Tahoe with an extra-wide smile, my heart pounding over Saint’s nearness.

Suddenly I can smell him. Just him. Among all the mingled scents in the room, it’s Saint somehow in my lungs, in every breath. He radiates a vitality that draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me but something in his presence, so close to me, soothes me too.

“Apparently there’s a dress code—Saint had to drop his tail and horns at the door,” Callan jokes as a waiter sets a drink before me.

“Oh yes.” I tug the hem of my skirt self-consciously. “I had to drop half my dress.”

“Did you now?” Tahoe asks.

“T.”

One word, one letter, from Malcolm.

“Yeah, Saint?” Tahoe returns, lifting his eyebrows.

“Dibs.”

I almost spit out the drink. I cough and slam my hand to my chest, and Saint calmly reaches out to take my drink from my hand and sets it aside. “Okay?” he asks, ducking his head and peering into my face.

I give one last cough and squeeze my eyes shut and nod, and when I open my eyes, Saint is the only thing I see. I find him staring at me in such a penetrating way I can feel the stare in my bones.

“Did you just get in to the party, Rachel?” he asks.

As he waits for my reply, he reaches for my cocktail and extends the glass out to me. His wrist is thick and looks so strong, so golden, his skin smooth, his arm dusted with a little bit of hair as I cautiously take it from him, our fingers brushing.

Tahoe reaches into his coat pocket and waves whatever he extracts in the air. “Saint! May I?”

Excitement leaps in my chest when I realize it’s a key!

“Not happening, that’s not her scene,” Malcolm murmurs beside me.

“Aw! Come on, let me give her a key. She’s a dime, man,” Tahoe drawls.

I’m so disbelieving that I’m not even breathing as Malcolm slowly stands. I follow him up, staring into his face in confusion.

“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I demand. I feel like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m dizzy. Confused. And unexpectedly hurt.

For the first time since we met, he looks at me like he’s actually losing his temper . . . with me. He leans closer and puts his lips against my ear. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look laden with warning and walks away, blending into the crowd.

Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless. “That’s a first,” Tahoe mumbles and heads away.

I feel myself burn in humiliation and confusion. Worse is that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around the day before walks over to me.

“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive you,” he says, hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge man with a bald head and no expression. A second later, he’s opening the door of the Rolls for me.

Seriously?

Did Saint call him just now and ask him to escort me home?

Aware of people staring and seeing me being led to Saint’s car, I climb into the back of the Rolls and murmur my thanks simply because it’s not this man’s fault.

The car smells new and expensive and like him. A bottle of wine and water bottles ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is just right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands over my dress and look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?

I feel as if he pulled the rug from under me and reminded me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody ruthless.

I can’t take the heat in the back of my ears and on my cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window. Focus, Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the details about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but ride here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.

At about 11:55 p.m. I tiptoe into the apartment, wincing when the door shuts a little louder than I’d planned. I go to the kitchen to get myself some water and Gina pads out, her hair a tangle. “Hey,” I say apologetically. She frowns and squints in the lamplight. “Sorry, G, I didn’t mean to wake you. Get back to bed.”

“How was the party?”

“Okay,” I can only say. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning.”

She rubs her eyelids. “Urgh, it’s too late or early. Yeah. We watched Game of Thrones.”

She pads back to her room and I go into mine, take off my makeup, then strip out of my dress. As I look for my Northwestern T-shirt, I spy the vacant spot where his shirt used to be in my closet and I stare at it. I should be glad it’s not here, but instead its absence makes me ache worse, because I can’t even remember if I made up the times he was nice to me. Slamming my closet door shut, I slide into bed in my boy briefs, bringing my notepad with me, forcing myself to write. One word, at least. Just one, because blocking out this evening will not further my goals in any way. I write:

Territorial

And then I Google, simply because I still can’t believe he said . . .

Dibs: A claim / rights

Yes. It means exactly what I thought it did.

Frowning, I settle back in bed and stare at the ceiling. Livingston, so what? He didn’t like seeing you at his club party—you’re a reporter. Did you expect he would? Do you know what this means? All this means is that you need to dig deeper !