Manwhore +1

by Katy Evans

  When his green eyes flash protectively, his eyebrows slant over his eyes, and he opens his mouth, I lift my fingers and press them to his lips.

  “He stepped off the elevator before I could go in. He said you won’t win, and then I rode upstairs. That was all. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s big on insults but that’s all the game he’s got.”

  Still frowning, he takes my wrist and lowers my hand. His voice is low and deadly. “He went to Edge.”

  I nod and lace my fingers through his, somehow wanting to calm him. “Probably meeting with the Clarks.”

  “Funny,” he says with perfectly moderated anger, “because the Clarks are kissing my feet right now for starting the price war.”

  “But they need that second buyer for the price to rise, don’t they?” I say.

  He shrugs off his jacket and walks over to the corner chair, tossing it over the armrest before he unknots and pulls off his tie. “Even without any assurance of you staying, my father’s ego won’t stand backing down to me. Like he said, he doesn’t want me to win.” His lips curl as if he’s savoring the fight.

  He shoves the tie into his jacket pocket and stands there, in that white men’s shirt, looking at me as if making sure that I’m all right, and my heart is quivering when I add, “You’re bidding on Edge.”

  “M4 is.”

  “M4 is you, Saint. You’re bidding on Edge? Why?”

  “I’m not bidding on Edge. I’m bidding on you.”

  My entire body resonates with shock and emotion at his words, the violently tender expression on his face. I drop my gaze. “It hurts to think that you’re doing this for me.”

  “Don’t say that. You have no idea what you’ve done for me.”

  He holds my face in one hand as the other gently cups the back of my neck. His eyes are like daggers of heat and truth, ruthlessness and loyalty as he peers down at me, his lashes halfway over his eyes.

  “Do you know what I’d do for you?” A huskiness enters his voice as he circles my chin with his thumb. “You’re the only heaven I will ever know, Rachel”—he looks into my eyes—“and if you were a hell, I’d sin my whole life just to stay with you.” His eyes are intense one second, and the next, they’re smiling down at me as he scans my face and adds, “I would kill for this one . . . ear.” He takes it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs it playfully, and when I finally smile, his expression becomes sober again, his voice low and smooth as steel. “My father won’t touch you, Rachel. He won’t play with you, threaten you, so much as breathe on you.”

  “Saint,” I protest, “I don’t want him to touch you.”

  As if that’s inconsequential, he kicks his shoes off, settles down on my bed in his shirt and slacks, and opens his arms. I go there. And he asks, very plainly, “Do you want me to buy you Edge?”

  “What?”

  Ohmigod. Saint did not just ask me this!

  But he did. He did.

  “You said . . .” I clear my throat, shaking the daze off. “You once said you didn’t see your money going there. You don’t believe in Edge.”

  “But I believe in you.” He watches me. “I’m not bidding on it for myself. I’m either giving you your magazine back, or draining the demon who spawned me of every last drop for daring to attempt to toy with you.” A ruthless gleam appears in his eyes, his voice dropping. “If you want it, I won’t back down until I break him and Edge is yours. Yours to do what you want with, your platform.” He studies me in both silence and appreciation, his eyes missing no detail. “Is Edge what you want?”

  I’m struggling to control my emotions, stumped by his continued generosity to me. “I love Edge,” I admit, “but I want . . . I want to be somewhere with potential and that doesn’t remind me of what I almost gave up for it. Somewhere with freedom. I’d love for my friends to have jobs, of course. Have a way to earn more, work more. Maybe I want something more, I’m . . .”

  He looks at me—both patient and expectant—as if he’s still waiting for more.

  “Malcolm, back down,” I finish.

  “Do you or don’t you want Edge? Tell me.” He tilts my face up so those keen eyes absorb every inch of my expression.

  “No,” I hear myself say, painfully realizing this is true. “I don’t. I hadn’t realized until now how much I want a fresh start. Edge is in my past now. I want . . . I want the best for my friends but maybe we each have to find our own way . . .”

  “I’ll make sure your friends don’t lack for opportunities.”

  “You will?” My eyes widen, and I grip his shoulders. “Then back down.”

  “Not yet.” He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “We still have a way to go.”

  “How high are you raising the price? What if Satan backs down and leaves you as the purchaser?”

  “He won’t back down. He’s been wanting to go head to head for years. He wants to show me who has the deepest pocket and after I’m done with him it will undoubtedly continue to be mine.” God, his smirks are killing me.

  I laugh, then groan. “Malcolm, you’re too bloodthirsty. Back down now.”

  “Once your two weeks are up, when he can’t touch you,” he calmly assures.

  “Malcolm,” I groan.

  He laughs and pulls me close, staring into my eyes. “Don’t you trust me? Take that leap, Rachel.”

  I sound a little scared when I ask, “Are you going to catch me?”

  “It wouldn’t be a leap if you knew that for sure, it’d be a step. In steps, you go by facts, you leap on faith.”

  In me, I read in his gaze. And in you.

  I nod, breathless under his touch, the look of complete ruthlessness and determination I see. “Okay. But . . . back down please.”

  “Rachel, I will.”

  “Promise me.”

  He laughs tenderly over my concern, but then he falls sober, extremely so. “You want me to promise?” he asks softly.

  I remember he doesn’t make promises. So I bite my tongue and say nothing.

  Then he leans forward, slowly, achingly slow, “I promise you,” he suddenly rasps out, with a firm nod, “I do. I promise you.” He seizes my face to look at me and kisses the corner of my lips. “The moment you’ve stepped out of Edge for the last time, you come to me. Whatever I’m doing, you come to me. I want you to always come to me.”

  I’m still reeling as I nod, and then I just lie there in his arms—Malcolm mentally planning his strategy, and me, learning to trust.

  THE FINAL LEAP

  My last day at Edge, I cry. My friends cry, and Helen, she sucks it up. Valentine brings a pie and tells me, “I’m still rooting for Malcolm.”

  “Don’t, Val,” I whisper. “What’s happening shouldn’t be happening. I’m not staying . . . Edge and I are done. Wouldn’t you like to start new?” I glance at Sandy, who’s also at my cubicle eating pie. “Maybe start up something like Bluekin, edgier, where we can all maybe own shares of our start-up—motivating us to really make a killing for it.”

  Valentine looks around, then says, “Dude, I can’t forgo my salary for months while we try to get the online thing going.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And Sandy barely makes rent. She can’t afford to freelance while also working on our own website, just hoping it’s a success.”

  “Let’s at least think about it. Maybe talk about it a little more. If you’re let go by . . . well, if Noel Saint lets you go or proves impossible to work for, please don’t just take shit from him. Move onward—to something better. Even if it doesn’t seem like that at first. It’s scary, I know. Hell, I’m still scared but I also know I want something more.”

  “You? Not playing it safe? I’m . . . stunned, frankly.” Val nods admiringly.

  “I can’t play it safe now. I’m taking a leap and if I find something good, I’d love you guys with me. I can’t have this guilt of you guys losing your jobs because I left—”

  “Hey, it’s not you who’d can us, it’s th
at asshole.”

  “Still—”

  “Rachel, get out of here. Go and get a life. A different one. One where you can look back and all this,” he spreads his arms to encompass the newsroom, “was just a part of it. A big part, but only one part.”

  I really had hoped Valentine would consider us maybe striking out together, giving ourselves a platform for our stories. I really wish they weren’t so understanding and kind, and so hard to leave. I really wish Helen had been an asshole all the time, so I could walk away with my box of things without tears in my eyes. But of course that’s not the case. It never really is, in real life.

  So I do sniffle—a lot—and give out more hugs than I’ve given out in a while, and then I walk out of Edge and dump my box of things outside, keeping only the portrait of my mother I used to have on my desk and a little pen that I got at a motivational conference that says GO FOR IT, and so I am.

  Without a call.

  Without a text.

  Without any kind of forewarning . . .

  I head to M4.

  Saint asked me to come to him, but the truth is, I need to. I just need to look at him and be inspired by all that strength of his and maybe, I just need to hear him tell me everything will be all right.

  I’m leaving the old me behind at Edge.

  I’m leaving all my mistakes.

  I’m leaving the scared girl behind.

  This is me taking the leap.

  And I need to know that he won’t let his father goad him any farther, that he won’t be acquiring Edge.

  Because Malcolm Saint has done enough for me.

  I’d let him do anything else now, I realize, because I trust him—he can love me, protect me, help me—but not go to war over me.

  At reception, the ladies are surprised to see me—but I can tell they’ve seen the social media. They know I’m the “girlfriend” now.

  “Miss Livingston, what a surprise,” one says. “I’m sure Mr. Saint will be pleased—if you’ll let me ring you up?”

  I thank her and then head up in the elevator. Breathe, Rachel.

  Catherine is already on her feet when I get off, also a bit flustered by the surprise visit. “He’s with some of his board, if you’ll just take a seat for a moment.” I smile weakly and grip the M in my fist, tugging it and rubbing it against the R.

  As I wait, I listen to his four assistants take calls and type on their keyboards. I smooth my skirt down my thighs when the door to his office opens and a pack of businessmen emerge.

  They’re all screaming confidence and power. “Good day, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Thompson,” Catherine calls to the businessmen as they head to the elevators.

  And then I hear his voice from within the room. It’s so deep—familiar—I feel it like a low hum, vibrating in the deepest part of my body.

  “He should’ve known if he wanted to play hardball, I’d be game. I’d strike a home run before he even realized he made a mistake throwing a ball my way,” he says decidedly to the man with him. Then he spots me and lifts his eyebrows and the ruthless smile he’s wearing—the one directed at the person he means to crush—starts to fade when he sees me sitting here, my eyes maybe a little red as I struggle not to show how crestfallen I feel.

  “We’ll settle this once and for all tomorrow at two,” he tells the businessman in a lower voice.

  The man nods and leaves. My gaze is caught—my heart is frozen—as Saint slowly stalks forward. Directly toward me. He takes me gently by the arm as I stand, and leads me to his office, and I know by his gentle but firm grip that he knows I’m not okay.

  Inside his office, he pulls me into his arms, tells me, “Breathe.”

  I grip his tie and nod.

  “You came to me,” he groans then, in my ear, as if that thought undoes him.

  “Always,” I whisper, still gripping his tie.

  “Mr. Saint,” his intercom beeps. “Your one o’clock just arrived?”

  I watch him walk with that confident stride of his to his desk as I try to hold myself together. With a press of a finger, he tells her, “Reschedule. I’m going to need an hour.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t, really. I’m all right. I just came to let you know . . . I’m out. I leapt.”

  I spread my arms out and turn to stare out his window, not sure how I feel about my next words. Scared? Hopeful?

  “I’m a free agent.”

  “Then turn around and look at me, Rachel,” he whispers.

  Hearing the raw emotion in his voice, I turn.

  Holding my gaze with fierce intensity, he lifts the phone on his desk and dials a number. “We back down,” he says, and then, he hangs up, very slowly. Click.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I admit. “I just wanted to . . .”

  “Know that I kept my promise,” he finishes.

  “Yes, but . . . no. I wanted to see you, Saint. I always want to see you when I’m happiest, or saddest, or . . . I just always want to see you.”

  I watch a dozen emotions skid through his eyes. “I’m here for you, Rachel.”

  “I know,” I say. And for the first time I believe it, 100 percent.

  Maybe no man has ever been there for me before. No father, brother, boyfriend, and now, I believe Malcolm Saint is here for me because he wants to be. My chest hurts with love.

  “So you just backed out?”

  “That’s right.” He shrugs dismissively. “There’s a binding agreement running through the auction, legally binding the winner to go through with the purchase. The bragging rights will cost him a fortune.”

  My body’s shaking. I didn’t realize, in my haste to come here, that when I dumped my old stuff outside of Edge, I also dumped my sweater. Really Livingston?! The air-conditioning is blasting as high as these top business corporations always keep it. I’m shivering so much the last part of what I say is through clenched teeth.

  “I know you said I could work at M4 but—”

  “But you’re right, it’s not ideal for us,” he quietly admits, eyes probing me in silence. “I won’t be holding you back, Rachel. Tying you down where you’re not happy.”

  My teeth chatter. “You know my reasons are because I want us . . . more. I’m going to start freelancing . . .” I stop talking when he crosses his office to a familiar, pristine white, smooth space on the wall.

  With a tap, he opens the hidden closet and takes out a jacket. “Here.”

  “I don’t . . .” He puts it over my shoulders and the brush of his fingers on the back of my neck triggers a tremor down my spine. “Saint, don’t,” I say. I’m afraid that his touch is going to make me crumble from the inside out.

  His eyes look liquid on me as he touches the R and the M necklace resting at the base of my throat. “What happened to Malcolm?” he teases me.

  I can see he’s trying to make me happy and it makes me love him all the more.

  “Malcolm,” I then say, with a smile. His eyes go liquid with heated tenderness as he takes my hand. “Come with me now.”

  “I’m sorry you had to butt heads with your father for me,” I tell him as we board the elevator.

  We stop one floor down, and Saint tells the pair of businessmen about to board, “Take the next one,” and they instantly retreat.

  He looks at me once we’re alone again. “You grew up without a father. In your mind, he would’ve cared for you, appreciated you, he would’ve talked to you. I had a father, but every time I threw a ball, he threw it farther just to show me how short my range was. Every time I built something, he smashed it in the simplest way he could, to show me all the flaws in my plans. Not all fathers lift you up. Some stick their foot out to trip you.” He speaks without inflection, as if it’s only a fact of life. “In the beginning, you try harder just to show him that you can. Then, you do it to prove to yourself that you can. Until there comes a day when you simply do things because you can. I’m not doing this for my father. I wasn’t backing Edge.”

  He opens a room on the eleventh floo
r. “I was backing you, Rachel.”

  I glance around at a dozen computers, high-tech equipment, the offices in the corners. It looks like a . . . newsroom.

  “This is where Interface started. Before we went corporate. When it was just an idea, the start.” He signals around, and as I take in the impressive room, I feel him eyeing me with a gaze that is both achingly gentle and silently contemplative. “So you see, it’s standing here . . . just waiting for another great idea. Another great start.”

  As I look at all of the high-tech computers and chrome desks, I have a déjà vu moment of the time he took me to the Interface building and kissed the fuck out of me.

  “You can take this floor. Yours,” he emphasizes. “I’ll fund your start. You can build your own team. Your board. You’ll make the choices. And you’ll give yourself the platform you need to write whatever it is you want to write.”

  He looks at me with a twinkle in his eye and hope, as if he wants to see me smile, as if he’s hoping this will be it.

  “You’d have more responsibilities than writing, true. But you’re smart, you can bring in your team. If you get stuck, I’m sure you’ll think of someone who can help you. You can build your own Bluekin. Even better.”

  His stare is so admiring and respectful and loving, I can’t breathe.

  Oh.

  God.

  Epic love. This is it. Want it or not. Do you take the leap? Do you take it?

  Saint did. He believes I can do something more than what I do—he believes he can give me freedom and help me build a platform to see me soar.

  My eyes water a little and I duck my head and try to wipe a tear. He reaches for me. He puts one hand on my face, forcing my gaze to stay on him.

  I feel a pull of heat in my belly.

  “Let me give you this.” His eyes are completely mine, but at the same time, they swallow me. I’ve never felt his energy so powerfully wrapped around mine. Have never seen such pure, undiluted, raw emotion in his eyes. My chest hurts.

  “You don’t know how much I admire you, Rachel.” His eyes glow with the force of his emotions. “How you care for others. For me. I appreciated your words before, but this . . .” He takes something out of his pocket, and I hold my breath when I recognize the magazine cover for the article I wrote. “This was very brave, Rachel. Putting yourself out there like that for me. This was a leap on its own. You’re right.” He lifts it up for me to see, then sets it aside on a nearby desk and starts coming forward. “It was our story, but not our entire story. It was only the beginning.”