Manwhore

I laugh.

They both look at me as if waiting for me to explain the situation, but I won’t. I think those two are too scared to drill Saint. So the guys start talking.

I’m trying to take mental notes, but mainly they’re talking about the White Sox.

I curl up on the couch and set my cup to the side, grabbing a little pillow. Sin sits across from me, maybe because I told him that I didn’t want them to think I was his whore. I smile at him in quiet gratitude.

He smiles at me and sips his wine.

I’m trying to convince myself that it’s better if I go home—though my body protests at the mere thought of not seeing him until I don’t know when—when I hear Tahoe casually tell Malcolm, “Her girls are coming over.”

My cup of coffee comes down with a clatter. “What?”

“Yeah. I invited them.”

“You? How do you even know my friends, Tahoe?”

“Succulent Gina?” He smirks. “Saint’s got dibs on you. And he’s got your landline.”

I stare at Malcolm, flushing when he returns that look with a straight, unflinching stare.

And true to Tahoe’s claim, in fifteen minutes Wynn and Gina appear at Saint’s place, dressed to impress. They gape a little at their surroundings, and I’m almost embarrassed for them at how long it takes them to recover. The guys usher them to the living room with the huge cinema-size screen. “What are you girls up to?” Tahoe prods—gazing directly at Gina. “What were you so heatedly discussing coming off the elevator?”

“Um . . .” Wynn says, hesitating. “We were talking about Rachel’s love life,” she blurts out. “How she’s lived perfectly well without a man her whole life. Not even a boyfriend, ever, really.”

“Really?” Tahoe asks. “So is she like, a virgin, or what?”

The silence from Malcolm’s vicinity feels leaden, and then he growls, “Dude, Rachel and I . . .”

He falls silent upon my glare, and then the silence grows endless.

“You’re what?” Tahoe asks.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me in question.

“You’re what?!” Gina echoes.

Malcolm keeps looking at me, as if just now realizing I hadn’t wanted my friends to know, either. I’m frantic wondering what the hell he’s going to tell them we’re doing. Well. What are we doing?

“You two are sleeping together, holy shit, I could stick a sock in my mouth right now!” Wynn says.

“I could do that for you if you’re into that,” Tahoe offers.

“It’s nothing, really,” I quickly say, to appease my shocked friends. “We hooked up, twice. So.”

I’m aware of the way my friends stare at me in confusion, Malcolm in quiet assessment.

“Just twice, dude? And looks like there might not even be a third!” Tahoe laughs.

“Shut up, asshole. I’ve got this pocket on lockdown.” Malcolm crosses to my couch and drops beside me, reaches out and kisses my temple, his whisper low and husky so that only I can hear, “This Hershey’s Kiss, all mine.”

“Malcolm.” I swear I just blushed from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes.

“Look at that pink on your skin.” He laughs softly, clearly amused, a smile on his face, his eyes dark and gleaming.

“Twice?” Gina explodes in delayed response to her shock. “And you did not think to tell your best friends?”

Saint heads to the wine room, a cold space encased in glass near the back of the bar, bringing out a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses, all the while looking at me with curiosity. “It just didn’t seem important,” I hedge uncomfortably.

“Considering . . .” Gina scowls. “Considering.” She gestures at him. “It was important.”

Gina looks at him.

Then me.

“It’s not important,” I repeat.

“Oooooooh, that’s bad, man,” Callan ribs Saint.

“You fucking sly dog,” Tahoe says. God, that man is obsessed with dog references, I swear. “You’ve been jousting all this time. I bet you were jousting right fucking now when we came in.”

Malcolm’s eyes flick up to me in quiet evaluation and then he whispers, his voice low, “Rachel’s a lady.”

I’m tomato red.

Malcolm’s eyes are totally talking to me. What’s this about?

“Hell, I bet you joust with the lady when we leave!”

“Drop it, T,” Saint murmurs, draining his wine, looking at me still with that quiet concern. He’s trying to know what to do; I can tell he wants to get a cue from me, but I can’t even think of what cue to give him now. Oh boy.

“Let’s bet on it,” Tahoe suddenly tells Callan and then turns to Malcolm. “If you get the lady under your charms, I give you my wheels. If you don’t, you give me one of your insects.”

Saint sets his glass down, and I stare at him, waiting.

My friends stare at him too.

It seems like the one question they’re all asking—are Saint and I are sleeping together?—will be answered right now.

And Saint looks at me, a look that’s part challenge, part quiet command, and says, “Done. I’ll get both your wheels when I do.”

The guys woot.

My blood rushes through my body, hot with arousal, and also hot with humiliation.

“Saint! You said she was too good for you!” Tahoe jabs a thick finger in his direction. “You wore her down in true Saint form.”

I stare at Malcolm, and he’s still staring at me, a small smile of victory on his lips as he pours himself a fresh glass of wine and sips it. As if now all is right in the world because he’s on top of it once more.

I explode.

“You did not seriously just bet your cars that you’re going to . . .” I trail off, and when he nods, I go get my bag. “Okay, enough. We’re leaving. Thanks for the great time, Sin,” I mumble, charging for the elevators.

He comes over. “Get back here, Livingston. Everyone’s leaving but you. . . .”

I walk by, and he moves his big body so I can’t leave. “Didn’t you hear what I just told the guys?” he asks me softly. His eyes are curious and look completely puzzled by me, as if I should be ecstatic he claimed me like this.

“I did, and that’s exactly why I’m leaving.”

I stomp away, and at the elevator I swing around and glance at him one last time, and his eyes are as shuttered and unreadable as his expression is.