Manwhore
Page 23
“No, I wanted to ask you a question.” His normally intense green stare accomplishes the impossible and intensifies even more. “What were you doing there Friday?”
“A friend invited me.”
He comes closer.
“The truth,” he warns.
A hot blush creeps up my neck, and he notices. His voice drops. “Tell me you were looking for me, and then let me make it up to you.”
“Oh really? How does Malcolm Saint make something up to someone? Something tells me a simple coffee isn’t your style.”
“Do you like coffee?”
“Two sugars, actually.”
“Noted.” He studies me as his lips shape a coaxing smile. “Stay and meet my friends tonight.”
His smile is small but so coaxing, my stomach feels hot, as if I swallowed a spoonful of warm honey. I don’t know how those eyes of his can be so disturbing and so comforting at the same time.
“Saint! My man!” A yell carries from nearby.
Callan and Tahoe and a handful of girls hop onto the yacht, and I exhale shakily and edge a few steps away from Malcolm as they greet him.
“Rachel,” he says, calling me back, and he introduces me to his friends.
9
YACHT
Here’s why I’m sucking at my job today: Saint.
Saint lounging in a chaise.
Saint wakeboarding.
Watching Saint strut around his yacht.
Saint calling out to some other guys on another passing yacht.
“Saint! You heard the Cubs got smashed?”
“That’s so wrong, dude. That’s so fucking wrong.”
Then, Saint chatting with his friends.
We’ve been eyeing each other in quiet puzzlement for a while, Saint and I. There’s a closet full of trunks and bikinis, and I ended up slipping into a tiny white one and watching the other women dip into the lake.
This afternoon I’ve smeared on a lot of sunscreen, enough to let me get a good tan but hopefully keep me from burning. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun. I can feel the Lake Michigan air, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht as it glides through the water. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep. But I’m too aware to sleep—I don’t want to miss anything. The work calls he makes. How he relaxes but still is somehow alert to his business.
Saint’s been dipping into the water all day. I know it’s cold, because I went in once too. He’s been swimming a little and diving in every half hour, regardless of whether his friends are swimming or wakeboarding. I’ve been staying on my chaise, warm and cozy under the setting sun, but he’s always doing something. It’s like he doesn’t relax. He exudes a force; no wonder he’s always active. Skiing black diamonds, skydiving, flying . . . He takes the risks of someone who has nothing to lose. He takes more risks than anyone I’ve ever known.
I’m in my tiny white bikini and hungrily circling an oasis of food when his friends, Tahoe and Callan, join me.
I linger by their sides and altogether try to avoid Saint merely because we seem to have come to a truce, but I’m a bit out of my element. In his space, with his friends.
The interest in his eyes, every time I look around to find him watching me, makes me more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.
When he brushes my arm with his, I find myself instinctively edging to the side. When he comes to stand beside me, I shrink from the warmth of his touch. I’m unsettled and I don’t know why. He ends up heading to the opposite end of the party. He disappears into one of the cabins—on business, the friends say—until a pair of women go and coax him out to “sit” with them. He drops onto a couch, his arms spreading over the backrest. I can feel his stare on me as if it were a touch.
I try to get into the stories his friends are sharing with the group. But out of the corner of my eye, I can’t stop watching the girls sitting on either side of Saint nearly blabber their mouths off as they try to get his attention.
We stay on the deck sitting area with the group while Malcolm slowly drains a glass of wine. And then another.
We end up telling drinking stories, friend stories, stalking stories about girls who stalk Malcolm.
“His old man never knew what he was going to bring home since Kalina,” Callan explains.
“You brought home a naked girl?” one of his floozies asks him, pouting jealously.
The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his mouth. “She was an artist, and her clothes were painted on. Quite nice, actually.”
I feel my mouth quirk up too. His gaze locks on me and his smile fades, his look growing thoughtful.
“A friend invited me.”
He comes closer.
“The truth,” he warns.
A hot blush creeps up my neck, and he notices. His voice drops. “Tell me you were looking for me, and then let me make it up to you.”
“Oh really? How does Malcolm Saint make something up to someone? Something tells me a simple coffee isn’t your style.”
“Do you like coffee?”
“Two sugars, actually.”
“Noted.” He studies me as his lips shape a coaxing smile. “Stay and meet my friends tonight.”
His smile is small but so coaxing, my stomach feels hot, as if I swallowed a spoonful of warm honey. I don’t know how those eyes of his can be so disturbing and so comforting at the same time.
“Saint! My man!” A yell carries from nearby.
Callan and Tahoe and a handful of girls hop onto the yacht, and I exhale shakily and edge a few steps away from Malcolm as they greet him.
“Rachel,” he says, calling me back, and he introduces me to his friends.
9
YACHT
Here’s why I’m sucking at my job today: Saint.
Saint lounging in a chaise.
Saint wakeboarding.
Watching Saint strut around his yacht.
Saint calling out to some other guys on another passing yacht.
“Saint! You heard the Cubs got smashed?”
“That’s so wrong, dude. That’s so fucking wrong.”
Then, Saint chatting with his friends.
We’ve been eyeing each other in quiet puzzlement for a while, Saint and I. There’s a closet full of trunks and bikinis, and I ended up slipping into a tiny white one and watching the other women dip into the lake.
This afternoon I’ve smeared on a lot of sunscreen, enough to let me get a good tan but hopefully keep me from burning. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun. I can feel the Lake Michigan air, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht as it glides through the water. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep. But I’m too aware to sleep—I don’t want to miss anything. The work calls he makes. How he relaxes but still is somehow alert to his business.
Saint’s been dipping into the water all day. I know it’s cold, because I went in once too. He’s been swimming a little and diving in every half hour, regardless of whether his friends are swimming or wakeboarding. I’ve been staying on my chaise, warm and cozy under the setting sun, but he’s always doing something. It’s like he doesn’t relax. He exudes a force; no wonder he’s always active. Skiing black diamonds, skydiving, flying . . . He takes the risks of someone who has nothing to lose. He takes more risks than anyone I’ve ever known.
I’m in my tiny white bikini and hungrily circling an oasis of food when his friends, Tahoe and Callan, join me.
I linger by their sides and altogether try to avoid Saint merely because we seem to have come to a truce, but I’m a bit out of my element. In his space, with his friends.
The interest in his eyes, every time I look around to find him watching me, makes me more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.
When he brushes my arm with his, I find myself instinctively edging to the side. When he comes to stand beside me, I shrink from the warmth of his touch. I’m unsettled and I don’t know why. He ends up heading to the opposite end of the party. He disappears into one of the cabins—on business, the friends say—until a pair of women go and coax him out to “sit” with them. He drops onto a couch, his arms spreading over the backrest. I can feel his stare on me as if it were a touch.
I try to get into the stories his friends are sharing with the group. But out of the corner of my eye, I can’t stop watching the girls sitting on either side of Saint nearly blabber their mouths off as they try to get his attention.
We stay on the deck sitting area with the group while Malcolm slowly drains a glass of wine. And then another.
We end up telling drinking stories, friend stories, stalking stories about girls who stalk Malcolm.
“His old man never knew what he was going to bring home since Kalina,” Callan explains.
“You brought home a naked girl?” one of his floozies asks him, pouting jealously.
The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his mouth. “She was an artist, and her clothes were painted on. Quite nice, actually.”
I feel my mouth quirk up too. His gaze locks on me and his smile fades, his look growing thoughtful.
