Manwhore +1
Page 51
“Yes, but I want to work my way up.”
Something akin to admiration appears on his face. “Okay then. Well.” He claps his hands and rubs them, as if that’s that. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for your time.” Feeling a little sinking sensation in my gut, I sense this is goodbye. I pump his hand effusively and smile anyway.
It’s a smile that leaves me the moment I exit the building. Sighing, I lean against the exterior. I groan and shake my head because I don’t think it went well at all. I sense they believe that I’ll start here and then be lured into the Interface news arm.
Will they all be afraid of Malcolm reaching out to scoop me up under his wing?
Crossing the street, I go buy a copy of the Chicago Tribune from the nearby newsstand and carry it back into the underground parking lot, tuck it into the front passenger seat of Saint’s Bug, and when I slide into the front seat, I set my forehead on the wheel and sigh.
Okay, Rachel, it’s just one interview. One. And not the only one.
I absently run my hand over the dashboard, enjoying the smooth luxury of all the sleek black leather and chrome.
The next interview will go better.
It has to.
I turn on the engine, the loud, rumbling roar scaring another little laugh out of me as the seat starts vibrating. God, if Sin’s car doesn’t look good, smell good, and feel great. And isn’t it great the man upstairs didn’t see me in this, or he’d never even given me a chance to walk in the door.
I don’t have the same luck in keeping the Bug out of sight at Edge, though. Our underground parking lot is minuscule and limited to purchased spots, and since I don’t find any parking, I have to call Valentine. “Val, I brought a car.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Well, I brought one. Please, please let me borrow your space? I can’t leave this car out there at the mercy of the elements, it’s . . . you’ll understand, I promise.”
“You, woman, are in debt to me,” he declares, and hangs up.
He comes out, grumbling as he gets into his car and pulls it out of the garage, and I park with care—triple-checking all my mirrors. Then do the same when I open the car doors and slide outside.
Valentine comes running back into the parking garage. He gapes. “WHA—!” He cuts himself off with a breath.
“I didn’t mean to bring this,” I promise, lifting my hands when he levels accusing eyes at me. “Otis is sick, I planned to take a cab to my interview, he said, ‘Here.’ And when I left he said, ‘Drive it like you stole it—but don’t get caught.’ I’m nervous driving it. If someone scratches it I’ll die.”
“What—I cannot—” He’s shaking his head and having a combustion. “Dude, it’s a fucking BUGATTI! It’s worth like two-point-three million dollars!”
“Hush, it’s hard enough to drive it carefully without knowing that. It’s responsive and energetic. You touch the pedal and the bastard just goes.”
“?’Cause it’s a V-sixteen engine and like twelve hundred horsepower. You . . . Bugattis shouldn’t even be driven by women, dude, this is rude!”
“Bug off, you’re gay, Val, you’re like half woman.”
“Holy shit, let’s see it inside!”
My excitement from holding Malcolm Saint’s key in my hand comes back when I let Valentine open the car and peer inside. “Dude, holy shit! This sends a message—he’s so pussy-whipped, man. Did people see you take this out?”
My lips curl. “A tiger doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep. He doesn’t care what people think.”
Valentine drools and moans and rubs it for a while. Then, “Where did you interview?”
“Bluekin.” My face crumples a little as I lock Malcolm’s baby and we head to the elevators. “I can’t stay here, Valentine. Saint’s father is taking over, and my loyalty is elsewhere now.”
“I know, Rache, I can’t sleep, I tell you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do either, but I should probably start looking too. Everyone says Noel Saint’s a fucking asshole. The only one who can take him on is his son and they say Saint is done with him—rightly so. A man’s got to move forward, not stay with those who want to bring him to the pits.”
Completely unlike Valentine, he suddenly looks crestfallen. He sighs. “When new owners take over it’s like everyone will be canned, they like to start fresh, bring in their new blood, take care of any little mafias inside, purge it all. If you hear of anything where you’re going . . .”
Something akin to admiration appears on his face. “Okay then. Well.” He claps his hands and rubs them, as if that’s that. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for your time.” Feeling a little sinking sensation in my gut, I sense this is goodbye. I pump his hand effusively and smile anyway.
It’s a smile that leaves me the moment I exit the building. Sighing, I lean against the exterior. I groan and shake my head because I don’t think it went well at all. I sense they believe that I’ll start here and then be lured into the Interface news arm.
Will they all be afraid of Malcolm reaching out to scoop me up under his wing?
Crossing the street, I go buy a copy of the Chicago Tribune from the nearby newsstand and carry it back into the underground parking lot, tuck it into the front passenger seat of Saint’s Bug, and when I slide into the front seat, I set my forehead on the wheel and sigh.
Okay, Rachel, it’s just one interview. One. And not the only one.
I absently run my hand over the dashboard, enjoying the smooth luxury of all the sleek black leather and chrome.
The next interview will go better.
It has to.
I turn on the engine, the loud, rumbling roar scaring another little laugh out of me as the seat starts vibrating. God, if Sin’s car doesn’t look good, smell good, and feel great. And isn’t it great the man upstairs didn’t see me in this, or he’d never even given me a chance to walk in the door.
I don’t have the same luck in keeping the Bug out of sight at Edge, though. Our underground parking lot is minuscule and limited to purchased spots, and since I don’t find any parking, I have to call Valentine. “Val, I brought a car.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Well, I brought one. Please, please let me borrow your space? I can’t leave this car out there at the mercy of the elements, it’s . . . you’ll understand, I promise.”
“You, woman, are in debt to me,” he declares, and hangs up.
He comes out, grumbling as he gets into his car and pulls it out of the garage, and I park with care—triple-checking all my mirrors. Then do the same when I open the car doors and slide outside.
Valentine comes running back into the parking garage. He gapes. “WHA—!” He cuts himself off with a breath.
“I didn’t mean to bring this,” I promise, lifting my hands when he levels accusing eyes at me. “Otis is sick, I planned to take a cab to my interview, he said, ‘Here.’ And when I left he said, ‘Drive it like you stole it—but don’t get caught.’ I’m nervous driving it. If someone scratches it I’ll die.”
“What—I cannot—” He’s shaking his head and having a combustion. “Dude, it’s a fucking BUGATTI! It’s worth like two-point-three million dollars!”
“Hush, it’s hard enough to drive it carefully without knowing that. It’s responsive and energetic. You touch the pedal and the bastard just goes.”
“?’Cause it’s a V-sixteen engine and like twelve hundred horsepower. You . . . Bugattis shouldn’t even be driven by women, dude, this is rude!”
“Bug off, you’re gay, Val, you’re like half woman.”
“Holy shit, let’s see it inside!”
My excitement from holding Malcolm Saint’s key in my hand comes back when I let Valentine open the car and peer inside. “Dude, holy shit! This sends a message—he’s so pussy-whipped, man. Did people see you take this out?”
My lips curl. “A tiger doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep. He doesn’t care what people think.”
Valentine drools and moans and rubs it for a while. Then, “Where did you interview?”
“Bluekin.” My face crumples a little as I lock Malcolm’s baby and we head to the elevators. “I can’t stay here, Valentine. Saint’s father is taking over, and my loyalty is elsewhere now.”
“I know, Rache, I can’t sleep, I tell you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do either, but I should probably start looking too. Everyone says Noel Saint’s a fucking asshole. The only one who can take him on is his son and they say Saint is done with him—rightly so. A man’s got to move forward, not stay with those who want to bring him to the pits.”
Completely unlike Valentine, he suddenly looks crestfallen. He sighs. “When new owners take over it’s like everyone will be canned, they like to start fresh, bring in their new blood, take care of any little mafias inside, purge it all. If you hear of anything where you’re going . . .”
