Manwhore

“Helen, I’m sorry that—”

“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t go through with it now. Victoria quit. She’s gone to our competition. They’re printing a story about Saint’s girlfriend secretly working to expose him. They’re jumping in before us.”

“WHAT?” I’m frozen.

“So you see, if you quit now, every one of your colleagues will soon be out of a job. Edge will get the last blow needed to finish it once and for all. Do you want to live with this, Rachel? At twenty-three, do you want to live with this on your shoulders? I’ve asked one special thing of you. One. To do your job.”

“Helen,” I plead.

“If you ever thought you could back out and it would all be forgotten . . . it won’t. Your boyfriend will know what you’ve been up to by next week. If you thought you could salvage your own image in his eyes by sacrificing Edge . . .” She sighs and turns away. “You thought wrong. Victoria will run with whatever it is she accessed through our systems—surveillance caught her photocopying things from your desk, Rachel. You wanted a voice? You have one. I need it in my inbox by Monday to try to match their print schedule. If we want to try to salvage the magazine, we need this piece—and we need it now.”

All I hear, as I leave Edge, as I gather my notes that Victoria may have photocopied and my bag, shut down my computer, and as I take the elevator downstairs, all I hear is my own voice, telling Malcolm that it wasn’t Interface that I was researching.

It was him.

I find myself in the streets. Walking without direction. How long have I been staring at the word Sin in my contacts? I don’t know. The wind bites into my cheeks. My fingertips are cold around my phone. I’m walking . . . but I’m heading nowhere.

I stare at Sin’s name and realize it’s the last contact I dialed.

It’s barely afternoon—he has a thousand things to do at M4 and even has to fly to New York City, but I press “dial” and lift the receiver to my ear. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Only that I need to hear his voice right now.

He picks up with his lips sounding close to the receiver, as if he’s with people. “Hey.”

God help me, his voice will never stop doing things to me.

My eyes drift shut as a series of sensations flow through me to the tips of my feet. He is such an experience. Funny that he’s known to be straightforward, a man of few words.

This seems to fascinate the world, and in contrast, the world speaks about him almost too much.

And now, Victoria is going to speak about us.

“Hey,” I hastily whisper, “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I stop walking, lean on a lamppost as I feel myself blush beet red, and stare at my feet and the cracks on the sidewalk. “What time do you fly out?”

“Soon as I finish here, two hours at most.”

He waits for a heartbeat, as though waiting for me to explain why I’m calling.

“Something up at work?” he asks.

“Only me, wanting to call you. I’m making it a habit, aren’t I?”

“I’m not complaining,” he husks out in a murmur. “But I’ve got some people waiting.”

“Of course. Go get the world. Better yet, go get the moon!” No time to have this talk now, Rachel. Just say goodbye, say goodbye and ask to see him soon. “Let me know when you get back? I was hoping we could talk.”

“Sure.”

“’Bye, Sin,” I whisper.

“’Bye.”

After a full minute of regrouping, I look around, and though I know perfectly where I am, I’m lost.

I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home.

I’m lying in bed, sleepless, when my cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and an unidentified number appears. I see it’s almost midnight, and I almost don’t answer, but I do—and that’s when I hear it.

Saint’s voice, kind of smoky, thick and low, through the background of jet engines. “What . . .” I grumble and shake myself awake. “I thought you were flying?”

There’s pleasure in the low whisper. “I am.”

“Of course,” I groan. “Your plane has a phone. What else? Naked flight attendants?”

“I assure you they’re perfectly dressed.”

“Oh, but I bet you’re not,” I tease.

Surrounded by only dark in my bedroom, his voice is . . . everything.

His voice, his soft laugh.

It gives me such pleasure I can’t stop smiling. “I’m glad I amuse you,” I say softly.

“I’m glad too.”

My turn to laugh.

But this time, Saint doesn’t join in.

“We said a week, right?” Saint asks me.

“A week for . . .” I’m confused for a moment, but then I remember our conversation onboard The Toy, about him . . . and me. And I know exactly what he means. “Oh, that.” A hot flush creeps along my body, spreading down, down, down, all the way to my toes. “Yes, that’s what we said,” I admit.

“How about now?” he surprises me by saying.

Tingles and lightning bolts race through my bloodstream. The sensation covers my body from corner to corner. I try to suppress it; it’s wrong to feel it. But I can’t stop it, I can’t stop what he does to me. “What happened to your legendary patience?”

“How about now, Rachel?” he insists.

All my guilt, my insecurities, and my fear are suddenly weighing down on me. It’s really hard to speak as I shake my head in the dark. “I’m a mess, Saint,” I choke out.

“Be my mess, then.”

A truly sad laugh leaves me, and for a moment, I’m afraid it’ll turn into a sob. “Oh god.” I drag in a deep breath and blink the moisture from my eyes. “When can we talk about this in person?”

“When I land in Chicago. Saturday. Come stay over.”

I nod. “God, I need to see you.” I wipe the corners of my eyes. “I need to see you,” I say, then laugh to hide the way my voice is trembling and boy, how I really, desperately want to cry and spill my guts to him. “I really need to see you, Malcolm.”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

He’s teasing me?

He’s teasing me and I love it and I always have.

“Saint!” Thank god my voice didn’t break just now, because the rest of me really wants to.

I hear his chuckle, low and savoring.