Manwhore
Page 107
She’s telling me I should do the same. She’s telling me I’m free to go out there and do something I love.
But what I love hates me.
Twitter:
Did you read your girlfriend’s article? @malcolmsaint
On his Instagram:
No way @malcolmsaint would give that bitch a second chance!!
And the feminist groups online:
Rachel Livingston, our hero! Revenge on the playboys! Want to play with our hearts? Beware the time you will find your own weakness. Revenge is sweet!
Later that week I find enough energy to get out of bed and go to work, and I’m immediately called into Helen’s office.
There’s tension between us. Helen was not happy when I sent over the article. She said, “It’s not what I asked for.”
“No,” I concurred.
Helen took it and printed it anyway.
Today, I’m surprised that she seems pleased to see me, genuinely pleased. “It’s a circus out there,” Helen tells me, waving me forward from behind her cluttered desk.
“I’m not online. Can you blame me?”
“No. But let me fill you in.” She signs to a chair across from her desk, but I remain standing. “Your boyfriend,” she begins with obvious glee, “pulled Vicky’s piece. It can’t be reposted without legal repercussions now.” She eyes me with a new gleam of respect and admiration, and adds, “In case you lost me when I said ‘your boyfriend’?”—she laughs happily—“Malcolm Saint canned any print editions of Victoria’s post—and it was removed from the blog.” She nods ever so slowly and somberly.
My eyes widen. “What?” I finally speak.
“Victoria’s article. Your boyfriend owns the rights. It can’t be published anymore—not without his say-so.”
“What? How?”
She shrugs, then leans back in her chair with a little creak of the wheels. “Seems like Saint doesn’t want it out there.”
Ohmigod, he made Victoria’s story go away? “If he canned Victoria’s, why not ours? Why didn’t he can mine?” Why didn’t he read mine?!
My heart is in a fist in my chest and so are my lungs.
“Guess he doesn’t hate you that much.” She shrugs casually, but stops herself when she seems to notice—finally notice—that I’m crushed. That my hair is a mess, my face is a mess, I’m a mess. “Maybe he does like you, Rachel,” she says softly. “I’m impressed, did you know? I’m not the only one who’s impressed. The world is impressed too. He hasn’t been seen . . . consorting with you-know-what types.” She taps a pencil absently on her desk, her eyes narrowed on me. “But he’s been skydiving daily. You’d think he has a death wish or has some serious mojo to get out of his system.”
I hardly hear her. I need to get away. From Edge, from her, from this office. “Is it all right if I work from home today, Helen?”
Though I sense her reluctance, she agrees. I go get my things from my desk, aching to my bones.
Saint skydiving.
Saint buying Victoria’s article.
Saint thinking I betrayed him.
Outside that afternoon, I stop when Edge stares back at me from a newsstand, one copy remaining on this side, a few on the other.
“You read that yet?” The man behind the newsstand whistles and laughs. “That reporter’s got her panties in a twist over the guy.”
I lift my head, prepared to scream at the man. Instead, I scan the picture of Saint that Helen used on the cover—those icy green eyes staring back at me. And yes, this man is right. I do have my panties in a twist over Saint. Not just my panties—my entire body. My entire life.
I miss him like nobody’s business.
I want to kiss him.
I want to squeeze him. With my arms. And my thighs. With my whole body until I BREAK or he breaks me, and that’s just fine, as long as he comes after me.
“Smart woman,” I finally whisper, emotion thickening my voice. “I think I’ll take him home with me.”
I buy the copy just because of Malcolm’s picture. Sharp tie, perfect collar, and that thick-lashed gaze, screaming to be warmed, that gets me. It’s a marvel how those eyes of green ice can so easily melt me.
I sit down on a bench with the magazine on my lap, brushing my fingertips over his eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if he will ever read what I wrote to him.
30
AFTER THE STORM
It’s over.
There wasn’t rain or thunder when we ended. We just ended like we began. There were no flashes of illumination that told me I would fall in love, that I would meet the one man who would challenge me, drive me crazy. Now it’s ended, my project done. Completed.
But what I love hates me.
Twitter:
Did you read your girlfriend’s article? @malcolmsaint
On his Instagram:
No way @malcolmsaint would give that bitch a second chance!!
And the feminist groups online:
Rachel Livingston, our hero! Revenge on the playboys! Want to play with our hearts? Beware the time you will find your own weakness. Revenge is sweet!
Later that week I find enough energy to get out of bed and go to work, and I’m immediately called into Helen’s office.
There’s tension between us. Helen was not happy when I sent over the article. She said, “It’s not what I asked for.”
“No,” I concurred.
Helen took it and printed it anyway.
Today, I’m surprised that she seems pleased to see me, genuinely pleased. “It’s a circus out there,” Helen tells me, waving me forward from behind her cluttered desk.
“I’m not online. Can you blame me?”
“No. But let me fill you in.” She signs to a chair across from her desk, but I remain standing. “Your boyfriend,” she begins with obvious glee, “pulled Vicky’s piece. It can’t be reposted without legal repercussions now.” She eyes me with a new gleam of respect and admiration, and adds, “In case you lost me when I said ‘your boyfriend’?”—she laughs happily—“Malcolm Saint canned any print editions of Victoria’s post—and it was removed from the blog.” She nods ever so slowly and somberly.
My eyes widen. “What?” I finally speak.
“Victoria’s article. Your boyfriend owns the rights. It can’t be published anymore—not without his say-so.”
“What? How?”
She shrugs, then leans back in her chair with a little creak of the wheels. “Seems like Saint doesn’t want it out there.”
Ohmigod, he made Victoria’s story go away? “If he canned Victoria’s, why not ours? Why didn’t he can mine?” Why didn’t he read mine?!
My heart is in a fist in my chest and so are my lungs.
“Guess he doesn’t hate you that much.” She shrugs casually, but stops herself when she seems to notice—finally notice—that I’m crushed. That my hair is a mess, my face is a mess, I’m a mess. “Maybe he does like you, Rachel,” she says softly. “I’m impressed, did you know? I’m not the only one who’s impressed. The world is impressed too. He hasn’t been seen . . . consorting with you-know-what types.” She taps a pencil absently on her desk, her eyes narrowed on me. “But he’s been skydiving daily. You’d think he has a death wish or has some serious mojo to get out of his system.”
I hardly hear her. I need to get away. From Edge, from her, from this office. “Is it all right if I work from home today, Helen?”
Though I sense her reluctance, she agrees. I go get my things from my desk, aching to my bones.
Saint skydiving.
Saint buying Victoria’s article.
Saint thinking I betrayed him.
Outside that afternoon, I stop when Edge stares back at me from a newsstand, one copy remaining on this side, a few on the other.
“You read that yet?” The man behind the newsstand whistles and laughs. “That reporter’s got her panties in a twist over the guy.”
I lift my head, prepared to scream at the man. Instead, I scan the picture of Saint that Helen used on the cover—those icy green eyes staring back at me. And yes, this man is right. I do have my panties in a twist over Saint. Not just my panties—my entire body. My entire life.
I miss him like nobody’s business.
I want to kiss him.
I want to squeeze him. With my arms. And my thighs. With my whole body until I BREAK or he breaks me, and that’s just fine, as long as he comes after me.
“Smart woman,” I finally whisper, emotion thickening my voice. “I think I’ll take him home with me.”
I buy the copy just because of Malcolm’s picture. Sharp tie, perfect collar, and that thick-lashed gaze, screaming to be warmed, that gets me. It’s a marvel how those eyes of green ice can so easily melt me.
I sit down on a bench with the magazine on my lap, brushing my fingertips over his eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if he will ever read what I wrote to him.
30
AFTER THE STORM
It’s over.
There wasn’t rain or thunder when we ended. We just ended like we began. There were no flashes of illumination that told me I would fall in love, that I would meet the one man who would challenge me, drive me crazy. Now it’s ended, my project done. Completed.
