by Katy Evans
“Yes. But I’d like these new pieces to involve me a bit more with the community—helping share the stories of people who don’t have a voice yet.”
He jots down notes. “You have vision and ambition.” He taps his pen to the paper where he’s writing stuff. “And your output is impressive in your amount of time at Edge.” He nods, then seems to drop the mask as he takes off the glasses.
“Look,” he folds his hands on the desk and looks me in the eye, “I’m going to level with you here. The bosses, they’re friends of Saint’s. You’re brave, which they love, edgy, but they’d need to be very sure you are here for the long term.”
“I am.”
“Are you really?” He leans back then, a challenge as he crosses his arms. “Malcolm Saint . . . he knows about this interview?”
“Yes.”
“But isn’t Interface starting a news department . . .” he trails off meaningfully, because of course the implications are where Saint could hire you?
“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 . . .”
“I will,” I promise as we hit our floor. “Good luck, Valentine.”
In the newsroom—well, let’s just say it’s not called newsroom for nothing. It seems the little white Bug in the parking garage caused quite a stir.
Helen summons me to her office a few hours after I start jotting down my new piece, which I think will be called “What does your car say about him and/or you?”
“I’m kind of jealous of your position right now,” Helen tells me when I walk in.
“What?”
“You look radiant. Look at you! Everyone is talking about you and your Saint. His car downstairs. I’m becoming a bit of a Saint fan.”
“Because we’re being bought by the dad?”
She zips her mouth. She grins. “Tell me all the rumors are true. The three S’s.”
“What?”
“Size, stamina, and seduction.”
“Who said that?” I roll my eyes. “Stop talking about him.”
“Sex symbols are objectified.”
“Off-limits to discuss here from now on, Helen. That piece should be enough. Permission to go work now?”
She waves me off with a chuckle, then calls, “Rachel . . .”
“Yes?”
“Is it true? You’re looking?”
I realize she was joking with me, acting my friend and teasing, because she wants to know.
I look at her, suddenly feeling a like a complete deserter because I’m leaving Edge. Like those rats who instantly jump and leave the sinking ship, rather than staying there and manning it. But I’m so determined to work things out with Malcolm and staying here under his father’s thumb wouldn’t help my cause in the least.
“I won’t work for Malcolm’s father,” I say.
“Does your boyfriend know?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just . . .” I inhale. “Edge won’t be hurting my relationship this time around. I love it here but . . . my relationship with him now comes first. I really want to make it work, Helen. In my gut it just feels so right, if I let him go without a fight I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Her eyes soften, then she shakes her head as if angry at herself. “Enough about this speculating! Get to work.” She snaps her fingers. “But Rachel . . . I don’t think the owners are going to let you go that easy. Noel Saint wants you at Edge.”
“Well, then that’s even more of a reason to leave. He can go BLEEP himself for all I care.”
I
go back to my desk and then text, People are dying at the office over my ride
I love it, he writes back. But paying for their funerals is going to consume so much of my time that I’d rather spend it doing something else.
So when can I take your Bug back? You could play a little with me too if you’d like
OMG! I’m such a slut. I did not text him that.
But I did.
I did and he answers, I’m feeling rather playful. Sadly, 9:00 is the best?
SOCIAL MEDIA WHIRL
Before I leave Edge for the day, Valentine updates me on the latest social media whirl after our club sighting.
Latest blog entry from chicagogal243—
Malcolm Saint, our favorite bad boy, in a relationship? So, readers, do you believe that our sexiest bachelor could ever be monogamous? I sure don’t . . .
Twitter:
Spotted this weekend @MalcolmSaint back on with the lying reporter!
She’s SO wrong for you @MalcolmSaint SO WRONG!!!! YOU’RE A PRINCE AND SHE’S A FROG!
On his Interface page:
Saint, my darling! Jeremiah and I sent you an invite to our 1st anniversary—you can bring your friend along.
On Facebook:
Just PM’ed you, S. We’re planning the yearly group trip to Monte Carlo. RSVP soon?
His Instagram:
Your new girl is luscious and lovely! Call me if you want me to meet her and kiss her, give you a little show. CALL ME!
“You’ve hired a team of bodyguards, I hope?” Valentine asks me when he closes the internet search.
“No, but I have a Saint protecting me,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“So it’s a no to that threesome that woman’s offering?” he baits.
“Really, that lady has no clue how full Saint’s hands are going to be with me.”
Valentine laughs, and I shake my head and head to the elevators, smiling to myself. Sin, oh Sin, should I learn to wrestle so I can properly deal with these chicks?
Can’t we just tell them all I’m the one who has dibs on you?
THAT NIGHT
It’s 9 p.m. And I’ve already called Mom, and told Gina I won’t be sleeping in, and am heading to his place. I find him striding out of his bedroom, recently showered and in a pair of jeans and slipping into a soft navy blue T-shirt.
God, I tremble at the sight of this man.
“How was it?” he asks.
“What? The car? The interview? My day?” I set his keys down on the coffee table along with the Tribune I brought.
“Let’s start with the interview. I already know the car’s good stuff.” He smiles, then cocks his head when he drops down beside me and I curl up against his side.
He kisses my jaw and gives a little cup to the swells of my breasts rising enticingly to press into my top. I kiss the tendon in his throat that I bit the night before¸ noticing a slight pink mark at the bottom of his neck, hidden under his shirt.
“Do you realize someone recently left you a hickey?”
I moan when he ducks his head, seizes a piece of skin, suckles and does the same.
“Now she’s wearing one to match,” he says wickedly.
I moan again as he sucks one more time. It feels so good I don’t want to talk, to eat, to do anything but fuck with him.
He nuzzles my ear. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got my hands all over you.”
“Sin, you’re making me self-conscious now . . .” I groan, and he smiles against me.
I drag my hands up his chest to his face. “I thought about you all day.”
His eyes darken. He brings me close, until I’m sitting over his thigh. “This is getting in my way,” he says in mischief, fingering the top button of my blouse but not removing it yet. I think he knows—we both know—if he takes it off, our talk is over. “So how was it?”
“Good.”
“Good?” he repeats, clearly not convinced.
“Not spectacular or anything. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
When he keeps giving me a that’s-just-bullshit look, I sigh.
“Not really good,” I finally admit. “But I love Bluekin. I love how they do things, how they don’t box themselves into a certain market, they’re read by young people, by old people, women, men . . . they’re open.”
“Who did you see there? Harkin?”
“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. “He said you’re friends with his boss.”
He nods and eases away, pours us drinks and comes back to pass me a glass.
“Where do you think I should go?” I ask him, taking a soft sip.
“You know where.” He smirks as he lowers back down on the couch next to me, his eyes twinkling but serious.
“Come on, I value your opinion.”
“Bluekin’s good,” he says, furrowing his brow in thought. “Buzz, Lokus, the Sun-Times, the Tribune, the Reader. I can get you into any of those. Maybe even RedEye too.”
“No. No string pulling. I need to do this on my own. What would you do if you were given something just that easily, hmm?” I dare.
“I’d take it and use it to go higher.” He lifts his eyebrows, challenging me. “You pull yourself up by your bootstraps or by whoever’s are closest, Rachel.”
“You say that because you have the biggest bootstraps and don’t need anyone to help you up.” I add, “I’m not even considering the mag where Victoria is.”
“Was.” He shrugs. “I can get you in there too.”
“Was? What’s she doing now?”
“Not messing with you.”
I gape at him, perplexed and amazed. “How do you even know all these people?”
“Fund-raisers. Benefits. Business. They like my wallet.” He winks at me and smirks a little. “Some even like me.” He lifts his wine to drink. “Still, don’t take me off your list,” he murmurs.
“Why?” I groan, then jokingly frown. “You want to keep tabs on me every hour of the day?”
Thoughtfully but intensely, he runs the back of a finger down my jaw. “M4 is the only place I know without a doubt you’ll work on what you want.”
Before I even know what I’m doing, I cup his hard jaw.
“I can’t believe I’m leaving Edge.” I think of my friends for a moment, especially Valentine and Sandy. “Maybe this purchase will be good for them?”
He laughs softly, then stands to refill his glass. As though he needs some space on his own, he remains staring out the window, cradling it in his palm, the stem between two fingers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly.
“Not really.”
A gazillion city lights flicker outside, and there’s this space that is as dark and serene as the sky, which is the lake. Will he ever take me there again? To our little spot where nothing else matters—nothing?
He turns to look at me after a moment, his eyebrows slanting low over his eyes. “What’s so awful about working for me, Rachel?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to.” I scowl.
He scowls back.
This is what I’ve wanted. To write what I want. He’s giving me that. He’s giving me all that. And I’m afraid to take it. That taking it would mean, eventually, that I’d lose what I most want: the possibility of having a long-term relationship with him.
I can’t. I don’t even want to be tempted.
“Malcolm, I promise you, I won’t be there when your father takes over. I won’t be there.”
He clenches his jaw. His silence is heavy, thoughtful.
My frown deepens. “I’m promising I won’t be there. Malcolm, I won’t be there.” I look at him. “Don’t you believe my promise? Is it because you don’t think promises are worth a damn or because you don’t believe in me?”
He narrows his eyes. “Can you blame me for not jumping to believe in your promises?”
That strikes me, and it hurts.
“Are we in a relationship beyond working each other out of our systems, or am I just along for s
ome kind of four? Four weeks? Four months?”
I remember what has been said about him and maybe it’s haunting me. Maybe Saint’s reputation is still haunting me, and my own feelings of not being up to such a powerhouse like him.
“We’re taking it one step at a time,” he says measuredly.
I chew on my lip.
When I don’t look ecstatic about it, he narrows his eyes. “Is that not enough for you, Rachel?”
No. Because I love you, I think brokenly.
“You’ve taught me to be greedy. I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Do you expect me to go work for you knowing that in five months you could be parading around with dozens of women, none of them me?” I challenge, slowly coming to my feet. “I have pride too. I can’t compartmentalize with you, I just can’t. I know you want to protect me. But I needed to believe that I can find something on my own. I want your respect, like I respect you. I need . . .”
I pause when a little bit of my emotions start getting too riled up.
“I guess I just need you to believe I can find something on my own too.”
Eerily silent, Saint seems to be trying to figure out how to tread into this, and I realize this conversation is going to go nowhere fast.
Fuck, I’m tired. He’s temperamental about this job issue.
We’re fighting already? On day two?
“You know what? This is a topic we’re not seeing eye to eye on, and I’m tired. I’m just going home.”
“Fuck,” I hear him say, smashing a palm into the wall, but I just ride down the elevator and hail a cab home, proud and misty-eyed and needing time to think about what I’ll do to make a living while still fighting to try to have a relationship with Sin.
NIGHT VISIT
I’ve been morosely sitting in my bed pondering my life situation for the better part of an hour when Gina knocks on my door. “Rache? Someone’s here to see you.”
She peers inside to see if I’m decent, and then she steps back and widens the door.
Saint stands on the threshold, his hands at his side, his jaw set thoughtfully . . . and my heart turns over in my chest.
“Hey!”
I rise to my feet in shock, battling to conceal the excitement spreading over me at the sight of him in my apartment.