Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(15)

Grabbing our apartment phone from next to the living room couch, I call Valentine, one of my coworkers, the one who’s in the social section—who knows everyone, and if not, knows about them well enough to lie about it. “Can you get me into Malcolm Saint’s Ice Box party tonight?”

“I can get you anything, woman. The real question is, what do I get in return?”

“Name the price . . . man.”

“Ah, I love my snarky Rache! Let me call you back.”

Minutes later, he calls me back and says, “You’re on the list.”

“With Gina, right?”

“Dude, I’m a rainmaker, not a miracle worker. You’re welcome. You owe me one.”

“And I’ll pay,” I happily promise—but Gina’s not that happy with the news.

“What do you mean I can’t go with you?” Gina complains when I tell her. “Wynn is going out, and I have to stay in on a Friday?”

“I’m sorry, Gina.” I wince as I frantically fish out some clothing options. “What if Valentine comes over?”

“Oh no.” She groans. “I don’t trust that man. He’s like the gossiping bald guy in Game of Thrones, playing everyone.” Then she starts texting. “Okay, I texted Valentine because he’s like the gossiping bald guy from Game of Thrones. We might get drinks once I send you off.”

I’m still in my terry robe, fresh out of a shower, with Gina and Wynn trying to help me find the perfect outfit, when there’s a knock. Wynn leaps to her feet as if lightning just struck. She rushes to the bathroom to fluff her curls, and then walks across the living room to answer the door.

Wynn flings the door open to reveal: Emmett, chef at an up-and-coming restaurant. Her latest man. Her scarf flaps in the breeze generated by the opening door, and Emmett grabs its edges and pulls her to him.

Tall and blond, he kisses her on the mouth, a kiss so perfect and movie-like, any minute now I expect the background music to blare.

I’ve never been pulled to a man like that. I’ve never been tossed in the air like an airplane, like Wynn was growing up, or kissed on the forehead by my dad every night, like Gina was.

Wynn has always been the softest of us three. She wants to marry, and is expert at using her femininity to get what she wants. What she always wants? A man. I haven’t wanted a man my whole life. I grew up wanting my dad to be alive, and all my wanting has been used up; that well has long since gone dry.

Gina watches them too, and the moment Wynn shuts the door behind her, we both stare at each other with a look that says, Are we missing out on something great because we grew too jaded?

Gina is the cynic among us. She dated a guy named Paul a couple of years ago in college. Paul is such a nice, unassuming name. You’d never think someone named Paul would be lying through his teeth when he said he loved you. You’d never imagine he’d have two other girlfriends with whom he discussed you. You’d never think that the first guy you fell in love with would make being single for the rest of your life something to look forward to.

Gina and I are both married to our jobs, and we both mean for it to stay like that. Gina works at a department store and she lives for her employee discount. I live for my column.

“You look nervous,” Gina says as I add some blush to my cheeks. “Relax, Rachel. He’s just a man, no matter how godly.”

“Don’t say that, I’m nervous enough as it is. Clubs were not even my scene when we were begging to be let in.”

“Nobody will know it’s not your scene. Just make sure to look the part.”

We both look at the three options I’ve set out.

Considering he’s seen me in my coveralls and then dressed in a suit, I want to give a completely different message with whatever I wear tonight. His parties are known to be decadent—and I don’t want to wear clothes that say I’m a working girl. I want to look like someone who parties with his crowd. I want to look seductive, modern, edgy so the last thing he’ll remember if he sees me tonight is that I’m the same woman interviewing him for an Interface article.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Option 1: a cute white skirt with a flimsy white top; option 2: red, knee-length, very tight dress; option 3: black bandage dress.”

“Men love women in white,” Gina says. “It’s that devil in them that can’t resist. Saint’s devil is the wildest of them all. They love red too.”

“But black is foolproof,” I say. “I don’t want to scream out, ‘I haven’t had sex in a while.’ I don’t want to say, ‘Come hither.’ I just want to be there and say, ‘Here I am.’ ”

She nods approvingly, so I go into the bathroom, slide on my black lace undergarments and the dress, and come out barefoot to slip on my heels.

Gina drops the magazine she was reading as we take in my appearance in the full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door.

I’m tall and trim, my breasts small but firm and perky. My skin is milky apricot and my hair platinum blonde, from my mom’s Scandinavian heritage. For some reason people compliment the curves of my shoulders and neck, so the low-cut dress shows them off. It emphasizes my slenderness, my slim hips and small waist, the black material heightening the translucence of my face and neck. My hair gleams like silvery gold. My eyes are gray with flecks of blue. The dress hugs me in all the right places.