Manwhore +1 (34 page)

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.

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
Edge
s 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.

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.

M
y 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 that 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.