Manwhore +1

by Katy Evans

  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.

  WAR

  Later that night he texts me, Free tomorrow?

  I answer this because I want him to tell me what’s going on: Depends on where we’re going or who’s asking. What’s going on? I’ve been anxious, waiting to hear something ever since he took off.

  But he ignores my question and instead answers: So it’s a no for everyone except me.

  Someone’s cocky! I write back with a laugh.

  Wear something comfortable.

  With a delighted sigh, I resign myself to the fact that my mystery man will remain a mystery on this night. Whatever he’s up to, I trust he knows what he’s doing, though.

  The next day he picks me up in BUG 2, and once he tells me we’re going to a polo match, I keep asking him to tell me what he is up to. But he just chucks my chin and says, calmly and unhurriedly, “Next week.”

  His calm makes me relax about it as he leads me into the grounds. He’s wearing skintight white riding pants that hug an ass as perfect as a baseball player’s and a navy blue polo that hugs his torso, riding boots up to an inch below his knees.

  Callan and Saint are playing, so Callan meets us and greets us before Saint leads me to a small, round white table with a perfect view of the field, kisses the corner of my mouth, and heads toward the stables.

  For hours I sip my mineral water and watch the match, the thundering hooves hitting the ground, shuddering the stands. My hair flying in the wind. All I need is a hat and I’m absolutely in Pretty Woman.

  I’m hooked on the game. Saint straddling a black thoroughbred horse, charging across the field, swinging a mallet in his hand, his muscles rippling, sweat glistening on his forehead. His horse has red ankle wraps on all four legs, and between the way it thunders down the field and the way Saint rides powerfully on it, I can’t see anything else.

  But I can hear the whispers of the ladies at the tables behind mine, about the guy on the black horse. Who is he?

  That’s Malcolm Saint, you dodo.

  Shh, his girlfriend’s right there!

  Carmichael’s on the white horse . . . do you see him?

  I smile privately to myself.

  Callan and Sin come over when the match is done. The tables behind me fall utterly quiet. They won 10 to 5, and I kiss Saint on the jaw and congratulate him and then I congratulate Callan.

  “Gotta golden swing, this man of yours,” he says as he pats Saint’s back and they drop into their seats. Then it’s “Hey, ladies,” as he greets the girls behind us.

  They titter.

  We stay talking for a while, my curiosity peaked about the polo game more than ever.

  “’Fess up, Saint. Does your horse have four names, like you?” I ask.

  “He only came with one.” His green eyes twinkle and his lips curl as he sips his water with a hand on the back of my chair. “He already had a track record when I purchased him at auction.” Then he adds, “Matrix.”

  “And Callan’s horse?”

  “Swear to god, Saint, if you poke fun at my girl again . . .”

  “His horse came with a name too.” Malcolm leans his head to me and laughs when Callan shoots him a deadly look. “Tinkerbell.”

  On Sunday, he surprises me by sending Claude to get some Garrett Popcorn—my favorite caramel that I love—and I chomp it down while we both sit and read in his comfy library. After I’ve licked my fingers good and clean and forced a few kernels past his lips, loving how he playfully tries to draw my finger into his mouth along with the popped corn, I curl up to his bare chest as he reads Michael Connelly while I read what stuck to me from his office bookshelf: an Agatha Christie, Destination Unknown.

  I keep getting up to change my book for a few other Agatha Christie offerings even as Saint flips his pages.

  Settling back down with a collection of Miss Marple stories, I peer into his book and make him share the page with me so I can skim through what he’s reading.

  “Why does he suspect his brother’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

  “Read it.” He tweaks my nose and tells me, “Get back to yours.”

  “I like yours better.”

  “No. You like distracting me better.”

  “That too.”

  We laugh, and I then determine to ignore him, so I pull up my book and shift on the long couch to set my feet on his lap. He takes one foot in his hand and holds his book with the other, reading for another half hour.

  Before long, he’s leaning over to peer at my book. “Where are you?” he asks, his voice gruff from not speaking for a while as he skims the page. “Ahhhhh.”
r />   I slap his shoulder with the book. “Don’t spoil it for me. What do you mean, ahhhh? Is he the bad guy? Tell me.”

  He chuckles low, then pries my book away, sets it aside, and we kiss, slow and easy. And I end up lying back as my body grows soft as cotton, him hard and strong above me, and we take a reading break to make love.

  Later, he orders home delivery for us and we read some more while we wait. I study the look on his face as he turns the pages of his book. So intellectual today.

  Once again, as I have over the entire weekend, I try to wheedle out what he talked to his lawyers about only for him to simply say, “Next week,” without even lifting his eyes from his book.

  I sigh and reluctantly let it go, cuddling against him, Saint automatically raising his arm around me as I do.

  Holy crap. It’s scary, how much I like it here.

  With these arms, who needs red slippers to come home?

  I arrive, exhausted and satisfied plus a million, at work at nine on the dot on Monday. Before I enter the elevator, a man with the most intimidating vibe, the harshest look on his face, and the biggest group of minions around him steps out.

  I start when he looks at me.

  Noel Saint. Like he crawled out from the internet and the endless harsh photos of him there ended up right here.

  Right in this building.

  Shock paralyzes me for a moment. Tall and dark-haired . . . he’s almost as beautiful as Malcolm. But there is nothing even remotely playful about this man.

  Where Malcolm’s presence buzzes with energy, Noel Saint feels like a bomb about to explode right now when he sets his eyes— completely unlike Malcolm’s— on me.

  “You,” he says. In the most contemptuous tone I’ve ever heard.

  He steps over to me and, out of self-preservation, I step around as one of the young production interns boards the elevator.

  “Are you coming?” she asks, holding the door open, like she’s offering me a lifeline.

  I hurry inside and Noel Saint turns to stare at me, and I stare back at him unflinchingly. Inside me, a ball of pure loathing starts burning in my belly, and I shoot him a look more hateful than the one he is sending my way. More hateful than I’ve ever given anyone in my life.

  And he says, with a sneer, “He won’t win,” before the doors roll shut.

  A morgue-like silence settles in the elevator.

  “Whoa. Who was that?” the intern asks, blue eyes wide in concern.

  I look at her, wishing I could remember her name so this would be less awkward. “My . . . boyfriend’s father.”

  “Oh wow.” She pats my shoulder regretfully, and I exhale shakily.

  Was he here visiting the Clarks?

  He didn’t look too pleased.

  Did he find out I’m not on board with his asshole blackmail plan?

  He seemed so beyond mad, I can’t believe anyone would get this riled up about anything, much less a measly employee leaving her job.

  I’m still feeling a ton of dread sitting like a brick in my stomach as I step out cautiously on my floor and look for any signs of gloom and doom.

  And I’m surprised that there’s not. In fact, everything is normal, on Red Bull. Almost too much noise. Too many laughs.

  I head to my desk.

  “Rachel, Helen wants to see you immediately! And then report back to me,” Valentine instructs with a very wide smile when he spots me.

  I walk to Helen’s office, glad to see Valentine looking happy, wondering if maybe he found a new job. Helen waves me in and I immediately start, “I am very firm on my decision, Helen—”

  “Are you really? Because the entire office is thrilled!”

  When I only stand there in growing confusion, she adds, “As you know, Noel Saint has offered for Edge.” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “But . . . your boyfriend didn’t seem to like that.”

  I inhale painfully. “I know.”

  “In any case, there’s a bidding war going on.” She nods. “Noel Saint versus M4.” She eyes me. “Malcolm’s taking on his father for Edge.”

  I’m pretty sure the world just stopped turning.

  “Did you hear?”

  HEART. FUCKING. ATTACK.

  “He’s upping the ante.”

  Half in anticipation, half in dread, I ask, “Who’s winning?”

  “I don’t know but . . . I’m rooting for your boy.” She finishes that with a mile-wide smile. “You know that love letter you wrote to him?” she asks as I head to the door in a complete state of shock and confusion. She winks. “This might just be Saint’s reply.”

  Me: a woman of words.

  Him: a man of action.

  Shit. I cannot, cannot, let him buy Edge. Not because he’d be my boss, that’s not even an issue anymore. But because I won’t let him throw his money away into something he’s never believed in. I won’t let him be reckless because of me.

  “Edge isn’t worth what they’re offering for it,” I tell Helen. “You know that.”

  “They’re not paying for Edge now. They’ve got a long-standing rivalry and they’re going to do this to the end. Your boyfriend’s father wants Edge with you in it, your boyfriend is not letting him take you on.”

  “But I quit, Helen.”

  “If Saint wins, you’ll come back,” she says assuredly.

  When I step out of the office, nobody is working. At all. They’re all leaning in groups around their cubicles and when I come out, they hoot.

  “Hey, we’re Team Malcolm!” Valentine calls.

  “Team Malcolm!” Sandy says.

  “TEAM MALCOLM!” the chants begin around the office.

  “Guys . . .” I start, groaning.

  Fuck. I laugh nervously, and go back to my seat and text him. SAINT! Edge is in an uproar?!

  We’ll talk later.

  What? Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint!!! I reply.

  Later.

  Please tell me you know what you’re doing.

  You shouldn’t even have to ask.

  God I LOVE you! I want to text. You’re unpredictable and you drive me crazy and I love you. But the next time I say it, it will be looking into his green eyes, and that’s that.

  I sigh at that and then sit at my computer, look up Noel Saint’s image, and give him the finger.

  “Take that from us at Edge. Asshole.”

  He promised to come over after work. I shut the door, breathe, and look at all my things. Almost everything I love is within these walls.

  I’m safe, right? The water feels a little rocky but it’s not going to turn my boat.

  I grab my laptop and head to my room. It’s my baby. It’s the one thing I’d take in the event of a fire. It’s who I talk to, my laptop. And it’s who talks to me.

  It’s all I need to work, really. It can feed me, feed my mother, as long as I have the will.

  I can leave Edge and while I still have my laptop, there’s still hope for me.

  But Saint is out for blood and it’s all because of me.

  I search for this bidding war online as I wait for him.

  His social media is quiet. But I see a couple of articles posted yesterday and today that catch my eye.

  M4 stock dropped more than 5% after hours . . .

  Shareholders are deciding to sell after Saint’s decision to invest in Tahoe Roth’s oil well, not the only bad business decision he’s made in the past quarter . . .

  Rumors about entering a bidding war for Edge have sent the stock plummeting even further . . .

  Sources say M4 Chief Executive Officer Malcolm Saint’s head is just not in the right place after his involvement with columnist Rachel Livingston, who exposed the universally loved magnate only recently in an article for a local magazine . . .

  I click the links and stare at the pictures. We’re out having dinner together, in one. In another, he’s getting into his car. In another, he’s standing in a sea of men, looking detached and somehow . . . alone. Thoughtful.

&
nbsp; I swear. In all the articles about him online, few of them tell you how Saint is actually generous. How come no one writes about that? Or writes about the bad side of his fame? What it might be like for a person so exposed to the world, someone continually judged—even by his girlfriend. Someone who can’t help but see skewed mirrors of himself thrust up by the media. Does he see himself as the media sees him? Or what other people see?

  The Malcolm Saint you hear about in the news is reckless and intense—he doesn’t save a close friend’s business. The Saint in the media wouldn’t buy a mural to support a cause that I believed in, he wouldn’t come to my campout. The Saint in the media wouldn’t offer me a job regardless of what happened between us, just to keep me away from someone he knows could do me harm.

  The Saint in the media is a powerful legend, but my boyfriend is a mysterious, thrilling man who I want to peel open and then kiss all the way inside to whatever wounds made him.

  I think of his father. How frustrated Saint has been, trying to get me out of Edge and into M4. Suddenly I understand his position.

  Would I want my boyfriend in harm’s way? No. Just knowing M4 is taking a hit because of some allegedly bad business calls—partly because of me—I want to comfort Saint. I want to take my measly thousand-dollar savings and go buy the three shares in M4 I could afford, just to show him I believe in him.

  I just want to hear him reassure me that he won’t throw his hard-earned money on a lost cause, on revenge on his father, on revenge for me, on saving all my colleagues.

  He’s a man who’s been asked for many things by people who want to use him. I want him to know all I want is his support and his love. He doesn’t have to save everybody to prove himself to me. He doesn’t have to prove anything to his dad anymore. He is Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint, intense, relentless and ambitious, ten times more powerful than any other man in Chicago, capable of building a thousand Edges from scratch, and his father can go straight to hell.

  When Malcolm arrives at my apartment late, I charge over to him, take his hand while Gina keeps watching TV, and lead him to my room.

  “I saw him today. Noel,” I say, knowing by instinct he’ll want every detail of our encounter.