Manwhore
Page 95
I clear my voice, hating that it wavered a little at the end. There’s a tense silence. Way to go, Rachel. Say goodbye to Saint now. Do you think he wants to deal with a crybaby right now?
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at my mom’s. Heading back to my apartment.”
“Otis will be there. Spend the afternoon with me.”
My voice gets shy and I admit, “I’d love that, Malcolm.”
He’s quiet, as if taken aback by how vulnerable I sound. And then he surprises me too, his voice just as low and fiercely husky and tender. “Me too. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up and stare at my phone, my heart literally in pain inside my chest. Am I in love with him? Why am I so consumed and so confused? It seems like my brain points me in the direction of my logic and my lifetime career dream, but the rest of me doesn’t want to go there if it means having to leave him.
I glance at my mother’s painting and am struck by its raw beauty. It’s like nothing she’s ever painted before, as if all these years what she couldn’t paint just simmered inside her, creating a powerful force that, once set free, fired up and took over the canvas. Even the room itself.
Just like an affair with Saint is taking over me.
25
NEEDING A SAINT
Two hours later I reach the docks, and when I see him waiting for me on the deck of The Toy, I inhale, long and slow. I’m wearing a yellow dress that’s quite informal, because I hadn’t planned to see him today, and I need to flatten my palms to my thighs to keep the dress from going up when the point is for it to fall down.
The wind flaps my hair as I board, also pushes the fabric of his white polo against the planes of his chest. He wears baggy white cargo shorts with that shirt, his legs thick and muscled.
He picks me up and swings me around and onto the deck, then takes my hand and leads me to the top deck. We don’t even say hello. There’s no need. I hadn’t realized we were at that telepathic point I’ve only ever been at with my mother and friends, where you know what the other needs and you say nothing, you just stand there and be there. And that’s exactly what he does for me as he keeps my fingers within his strong ones and brings me to the sitting area. I feel fragile, like if he touches me more, I’ll break. So I pull free, take a seat on the chair across from the couch, and just sit there quietly as the boat engines hum and we head into open water.
“Want to talk about it?” Malcolm asks from where he sits across from me, reaching out to brush my hair back. Eyes like blades slice through my walls.
Malcolm is such a sex god. He’s a playboy and a player, but nobody sees past that. That he’s funny. Also, in a way, very reserved. He’s kind . . . I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s kind with me, with his friends, never denying any request for charity. For anything. If he doesn’t want to sleep with me ever again, he’s a man I’d be honored to call my friend. I’ve come to respect him that much.
I’m also feeling so jealous over him, to know I have to step back so others can have him kills me.
“I’m having one of those days when my family . . . well, my mother and my friends and I aren’t seeing eye to eye,” I murmur.
The concern in his eyes is almost too much for me right now; right now when I hate myself for my job. For what I’ve been doing.
“Malcolm.” His name escapes my lips in a soft moan.
He reaches out and draws me between his widely spread knees. “Never saw eye to eye with my family,” he offers, sitting me on his thigh, and I’m surprised that he’s willing to go there again. On his own. A tiny voice in my mind tells me, He’s doing it for you, Rachel. To connect with you. “It made me feel all sorts of fucked up. Like there was something wrong with me. It doesn’t matter what they believe. What do you believe?”
That I suck! I want to cry. I look down to his hand on my hip, and I slip my hand over his just because I don’t want him to remove it—and I know that when I turn in the exposé, I will never feel this big, strong hand holding me by the hips again. Can I really do this?
“We didn’t see eye to eye on anything,” he continues. He brushes my hair behind my ears as the wind flaps it around, then grabs it in his fist and holds it to the nape of my neck so we can look at each other. “Nothing I did was good enough. I could never live up to the Saint name.”
“So since you couldn’t live up to the Saint name, you gave it a whole new reputation?”
His eyes glint greener. “Nah. I just did my own thing, tried to be happy regardless.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at my mom’s. Heading back to my apartment.”
“Otis will be there. Spend the afternoon with me.”
My voice gets shy and I admit, “I’d love that, Malcolm.”
He’s quiet, as if taken aback by how vulnerable I sound. And then he surprises me too, his voice just as low and fiercely husky and tender. “Me too. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up and stare at my phone, my heart literally in pain inside my chest. Am I in love with him? Why am I so consumed and so confused? It seems like my brain points me in the direction of my logic and my lifetime career dream, but the rest of me doesn’t want to go there if it means having to leave him.
I glance at my mother’s painting and am struck by its raw beauty. It’s like nothing she’s ever painted before, as if all these years what she couldn’t paint just simmered inside her, creating a powerful force that, once set free, fired up and took over the canvas. Even the room itself.
Just like an affair with Saint is taking over me.
25
NEEDING A SAINT
Two hours later I reach the docks, and when I see him waiting for me on the deck of The Toy, I inhale, long and slow. I’m wearing a yellow dress that’s quite informal, because I hadn’t planned to see him today, and I need to flatten my palms to my thighs to keep the dress from going up when the point is for it to fall down.
The wind flaps my hair as I board, also pushes the fabric of his white polo against the planes of his chest. He wears baggy white cargo shorts with that shirt, his legs thick and muscled.
He picks me up and swings me around and onto the deck, then takes my hand and leads me to the top deck. We don’t even say hello. There’s no need. I hadn’t realized we were at that telepathic point I’ve only ever been at with my mother and friends, where you know what the other needs and you say nothing, you just stand there and be there. And that’s exactly what he does for me as he keeps my fingers within his strong ones and brings me to the sitting area. I feel fragile, like if he touches me more, I’ll break. So I pull free, take a seat on the chair across from the couch, and just sit there quietly as the boat engines hum and we head into open water.
“Want to talk about it?” Malcolm asks from where he sits across from me, reaching out to brush my hair back. Eyes like blades slice through my walls.
Malcolm is such a sex god. He’s a playboy and a player, but nobody sees past that. That he’s funny. Also, in a way, very reserved. He’s kind . . . I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s kind with me, with his friends, never denying any request for charity. For anything. If he doesn’t want to sleep with me ever again, he’s a man I’d be honored to call my friend. I’ve come to respect him that much.
I’m also feeling so jealous over him, to know I have to step back so others can have him kills me.
“I’m having one of those days when my family . . . well, my mother and my friends and I aren’t seeing eye to eye,” I murmur.
The concern in his eyes is almost too much for me right now; right now when I hate myself for my job. For what I’ve been doing.
“Malcolm.” His name escapes my lips in a soft moan.
He reaches out and draws me between his widely spread knees. “Never saw eye to eye with my family,” he offers, sitting me on his thigh, and I’m surprised that he’s willing to go there again. On his own. A tiny voice in my mind tells me, He’s doing it for you, Rachel. To connect with you. “It made me feel all sorts of fucked up. Like there was something wrong with me. It doesn’t matter what they believe. What do you believe?”
That I suck! I want to cry. I look down to his hand on my hip, and I slip my hand over his just because I don’t want him to remove it—and I know that when I turn in the exposé, I will never feel this big, strong hand holding me by the hips again. Can I really do this?
“We didn’t see eye to eye on anything,” he continues. He brushes my hair behind my ears as the wind flaps it around, then grabs it in his fist and holds it to the nape of my neck so we can look at each other. “Nothing I did was good enough. I could never live up to the Saint name.”
“So since you couldn’t live up to the Saint name, you gave it a whole new reputation?”
His eyes glint greener. “Nah. I just did my own thing, tried to be happy regardless.”
