Manwhore Page 5

  “That’s your pitch?” he asks, as if not amused.

  “No, I’m just getting started,” I say, pride pricked. “Elephants are lucky. I bet if you save this elephant today, its luck will save you one day.”

  “I’m absolutely unsavable, Miss Livingston—but let’s get the elephant.” He hands me the numbered paddle so I can do the bidding, then sits there on his phone, answering emails while I keep on lifting the stick.

  I start freaking out as the price rises. “Saint—”

  “Keep going until she’s yours.”

  “She’s yours,” I amend.

  He shrugs. “If it makes you feel better.”

  We save the elephant named Rosie, and now she’ll have a home for life. He also retrieved the stick from me and bid on each of the other animals, enough to get their prices up and make the others pay out their asses. He didn’t say he’d do this—I observed by the fourth animal he was bidding on them all, pushing everyone to their limits until he was satisfied.

  It’s as if the world is his playground. I’m awed, and also a little frightened.

  Saint could crush the magazine. . . .

  I just saw a calmly ruthless side of him I hope to never see opposing me.

  On our way back, he’s on the phone speaking in another language, and I’m trying not to notice how the sound of his voice caressing the foreign tones makes me shift in my seat. I write down notes on my phone to email to myself, especially the one that’s most on my mind.

  He takes no prisoners. He pushed the prices up as far as they’d go. Why? He challenges his peers and his peers don’t like it——> How many enemies does he have?

  I start blushing when I think of the way he seems to enjoy teasing me, and I exhale and look at him as he talks to someone I’m pretty sure is Tahoe Roth. He’s different with his friends. More at ease, less intense. I think of his business calls, of his actions today.

  He’s driven and relentless—absolutely unquenchable.

  When we drop him off at M4, where the shiny BUG 3 waits for him with someone standing by with the keys, he says good night. I thank him for today and then sit there tortured, wondering if that was my last interview.

  When I get home I wonder how I’m going to get him to see me again. I feel restless even thinking this is over. I wonder if I will look too desperate if I ask for another interview. Maybe I’ll just keep in touch and then reach out later in the week.

  Opening my Interface inbox and starting a new message, I search for the auction and find a beautiful elephant picture. I add a caption saying, You really know how to treat a gal; my hero, and then I write a message:

  Mr. Saint, I not only enjoyed learning about Interface but I am sleeping so much better knowing that Rosie is, too.

  I stare at the words and wonder if I’m going a little too far. I’m teasing him a little because he teased me today. I want to appeal to his human side so he can share a little more with me, but I don’t want him to feel I’m being unprofessional. I ask Gina what she thinks of me sending an elephant picture.

  “What’s an elephant got to do with anything?”

  I decide it’s something only he will get, so I gather my courage and send it. Then I groan. Really? I’m not even sure he’ll laugh, what kind of moods he has. I end up checking compulsively for messages, and as I wait for a reply, I divert my energies into reading his interviews. I read and read, interested not really in the questions but in the answers, and more than that, in each tiny white space in between the words of his answers, as if any word he didn’t say will help me get to know him better.

  Still no reply to my message hours later.

  There’s usually peace in my bedroom, but I seem to have sent it off with the elephant picture. I toss and turn all night.

  6

  CLUB

  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?

&nbsp
; 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.