Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(3)

I’m so dazed and exhilarated, I’m euphoric as I head to the door, fairly trembling with the need to start working.

“Rachel,” she calls as I open the glass door, my stomach in a whole new tangle. She nods her head. “I believe in you, Rachel.”

I stand there, completely awed that I finally, finally have her trust. I didn’t expect it would come with a huge fear of failure on my shoulders. “Thanks for the chance, Helen,” I whisper.

“Oh, and one last thing. Saint isn’t normally accessible to the press. But there have been exceptions, and I can think of a way you could get lucky. Check out his new social media site, Interface. Use it as an approach. He might not like the press, but he’s a businessman and will use us to his advantage.”

I nod with some self-confidence and a ton more self-doubt, and as soon as I’m outside, I exhale nervously.

Okay, Livingston. Focus and let’s do this.

I’ve got so much information on Saint that I email myself dozens and dozens of links to continue researching tonight at my apartment. I place a call to his office and talk to a representative, asking for an interview. She assures me they’ll let me know. I cross my fingers and say, “Thank you, I’m available anytime. My boss is very excited to run a piece on Mr. Saint’s latest venture.”

Done for the day, I head home. My place is close to Blommer Chocolate Company, in the Fulton River District. I wake up to the smell of chocolate in the air. My building is five stories high, on the edge of downtown.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m living my dream, or at least half of it; I wanted the briefcase, the mobile phone, the heels and matching jacket and skirt. I wanted to be self-sufficient enough to buy my mother the car of her dreams, and a home of her own where she wouldn’t get evicted because she couldn’t pay the rent. I still want those things.

Unfortunately my market is tough. A freelancer before I even graduated college, I had no steady income. You live by your muse, and she’s not always ready with ideas for you. Then I answered an advertisement in the Chicago Tribune. Edge was looking for weekly columnists for topics such as fashion, sex and dating, innovations, decorating tips, and even fancy pet discoveries. The office covered two floors in an old building downtown, and it hardly represented the corporate environment I’d envisioned.

The top floor is littered with reporters at their desks. The floors are wood, the editorial offices peppered with bright colors and satin cushions, always full of the buzz of phones and people chattering. Instead of the business suits I imagined wearing to work, I write in an oversize, trendy T-shirt-with-an-attitude and a pair of socks that have the words I Believe on the toes. It’s a crazy magazine, as crazy as some of the stories and columns we put out—and I love it.

But bloggers are putting us out of work, our circulation growing tinier by the second. Edge needs something cutting-edge, and I’m desperate to prove to my boss that I can bring it to her.

“Gina!” I call to my roommate when I stroll into our two-bedroom flat.

“We’re over here!” I hear Gina call.

She’s in her bedroom, with Wynn. They’re my best friends. Wynn’s a redhead, freckled, pink and sweet, very unlike the dark, sultry Gina.

We’re like Neapolitan ice cream. In height, Gina and I are the tallest, while Wynn is an elf. Gina and I try to use logic; Wynn is “Team Feelings” all the way. I’m the career girl, Wynn is the nurturer, and Gina is the sexpot who hasn’t yet realized she could use men as her personal dildos (if she wanted to). She doesn’t want to. Really.

Dropping my bag at the door, I spot their huge Chinese food picnic and join them on the floor.

They’re streaming an old episode of Sex and the City.

We eat in silence and watch a little bit, but I’m not even paying attention to the screen. I’m too wound up, and finally blurt, “I’ve got my story.”

“What?” They both stop eating.

I nod. “I’ve got my first full story. It might be three pages, four—hell, five. Depending on how much information I end up with.”

“Rachel!” they yell in unison and come toward me.

“No tackle hugs! Shit! You spilled the rice!”

They squeal and then ease back, and Wynn goes to get the Dustbuster. “So what’s it about?” she asks.

“Malcolm Saint.”

“Malcolm Saint?”

“What about him?” Wynn asks.

“It’s . . . almost undercover.” They’re practically popping out of their skin with anticipation. “I get to meet him.”

“How?!”

“I’m trying to get an interview to ask about Interface.”

“Aha.”

“But I’ll also be researching him in secret. I’ll be . . . unlayering him,” I tease.

“RACHEL!” Gina bangs my arm, knowing I’m usually straitlaced.

Wynn shakes her head. “That man is hot!”

“What do you two know about him?” Gina asks.

I pull out my laptop. “I was just online liking all his social pages, and the guy has over four million Instagram likes.”

We hop onto other sites and check out his Twitter feed.

I’m not impressed by what I read.

“His rep wouldn’t give me an appointment—she wrote me down on a list. I wonder if I’ll have better luck reaching out on social media.”