Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(7)
“Indeed there has been speculation on whether his daredevil attitude for the past month has anything to do with the recent breakup with journalist Rachel Livingston, what is rumored to be his first relationship ever. Livingston, who had been investigating Saint when they met, had a huge fallout with the tycoon when her investigation leaked and her own version published shortly after on Edge. Rumors of whether M4 is integrating a news section into their Interface media website were abuzz when Livingston was spotted back at M4 . . .”
“In the meantime Saint himself has been skydiving, and, according to a witness, taking over businesses at a speed that has been alarming to the members of his board . . .”
And on Facebook:
#TBT ThrowbackThursday: remember this picture? We had bets going on how long it’d last but nobody bet on it lasting as long as it did! I know it seems she played you but we know better than that, nobody plays as hard as you do—hope you used her good!
I stare at my computer screen. I’m suddenly sick with dread wondering what he’s read too. Is this how he thinks of me? A bitch? I’m a bitch and a slut, who “whored” myself into his bed for information? I’m stunned to realize that even when I poured my heart into my article—it was, like Helen says, a love letter to him—the words I wrote didn’t matter. My actions trumped it all.
Saint values truth and loyalty.
I can’t take it.
I open up an email and search through the several emails of his I’ve got.
Even if it’s suicidal.
Even if he’s the most unobtainable thing in the world, placed so far off, I’d need a satellite to hoist me up high enough to snatch him. He’s my own personal moon . . .
In End the Violence, I’m always waiting to see what I can do to help those who’ve been exposed to loss. I always seem to be waiting to see if my mom’s health is stable. Waiting for the right story.
I don’t want to wait anymore.
I don’t want to wait for the story, wait for the right time, wait for the muse, wait to forget him, wait to be wanted by him, wait to see if time will be on my side and help me fix things with him.
With all the nerves in the world but a determination to match it, I select his M4 email. The early one we used to use when I started to interview him. I have no idea who will read this email, but I keep it business and type out a message, knowing that keeping it simple is the best chance I’ve got.
Mr. Saint,
I’m writing to let you know how much I appreciate your offer. I’d like to discuss it further with you. Would you please let me know if there’s any convenient time I could stop by your office? I will adjust my schedule to yours.
Thank you,
Rachel
WORK & WRITING
I’m running on three hours of sleep, but I’m determined to make something good out of my day the next morning. I even smile at a few strangers as I get out of the cab, take the building elevators, and walk into Edge. I chitchat with a few colleagues as we get coffee, call my mother to say good morning, answer a few emails from my sources.
But there’s that tiny little buzz still in my body.
I still stare at green eyes whenever I stare at . . . anything, really.
I see a full mouth.
A full mouth, smiling in the way he used to smile at me.
I exhale slowly, do my best to push the thought of yesterday aside, and stare at my computer screen.
My very blank, very white computer screen.
Keyboards are clacking, reporters talking over their cubicle walls. Edge has been doing a little better after my love letter to Saint. The job cuts have stopped, two new journalists have been hired, and although there are only a dozen of us, we still somehow manage to make noise. Oh boy, do we make noise. We’re the specialists of making every event of the day seem more monumental than it is. It’s our job to hunt for news, after all. Create stories.
Write something? Rachel.
Inhaling, I put my fingers on my keys and force myself to write one word. And one word becomes two and then, my fingers pause. I’m out of juice. Out of ideas. Empty.
I read what I wrote.
MALCOLM SAINT
It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.
Something called . . .
MALCOLM SAINT.
I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.
Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.
MALCOLM SAIN
MALCOLM SAI
MALCOLM SA
MALCOLM S
MALCOLM
Oh god.
I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.
On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.
Malcolm KPL Saint.
The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.
“Rachel!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.