Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(36)

I’m a hypocrite. I’m . . . a liar.

That little game bullies try to make you play when you’re a little kid—if you were forced to kill one to save the other, your mom or your dad, who would you choose? Sometimes in life you have to make a choice like that, a decision so hard you can’t make it, you would rather sacrifice yourself. But that still means Edge goes down.

I peer into Gina’s room, but she’s not back yet. I go back to my fetal position on the bed and I turn on a local gossip show on television, trying to distract myself.

“Tonight at the Interface inaugural, Malcolm Saint speaking . . .”

A snippet from a while ago appears, and my stomach tumbles as if I’ve just taken a steep drop on a roller coaster. The video cuts back to the news anchor and an image of us, Saint and me, as he took my hand and led me to the terrace.

OHMIGOD!

“A young lady’s early departure is causing confusion among the press; this is the image taken earlier of Saint with her, arousing much speculation as to whether Saint’s got his eye on her. Early word is that she’s a member of a small magazine in the area but wasn’t on the scene as press. First time ever Saint’s been linked to a reporter. It will be interesting to watch future developments.”

“Agreed,” the coanchor says.

“Ohmigod!” I turn off the TV, toss the remote aside, and cover my face in my hands. I’m breathing in and out, in and out, when my cell phone vibrates. It’s Helen.

You’re on the news. Vicky texted. Said he looks absolutely hooked? I’m impressed

I groan, “I’m going to throw up now.”

Sick with self-loathing over my disgusting duplicity, I grab a pillow and bury my head there. I don’t answer Helen. I delete her text instead, then I reach for my lifeline, the only thing that has kept me going when it’s gotten rough:

Love you, Momma

14

AFTER THE PARTY

My mother’s probably asleep. She hasn’t answered. I still feel like shit. Hell, I am shit. Groaning, I pull my T-shirt over my knees and wrap my arms around my legs; then I bury my face there. I’ve been here for a while when I hear the downstairs buzzer. I’m not answering. I really am not.

The third time it buzzes, I give up and go answer from the kitchen. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Malcolm.

I glance frantically around the place I share with Gina. It’s in a Chicago factory-turned-apartment building. The doors to our bedrooms are both in a short hall, one on the right side, one to the left. Painted wooden bookcases and framed metal columns stand between the kitchen and living room. We have a hole in the wall between the dining room and the pantry, and the cheapest alternative we could think of at the time was to hang a huge whiteboard over it on the dining room side, where we write things when we get drunk or just feel like it. It used to be my idea board, but the girls hijacked it.

It’s . . . home. My home. What will he think of it?

This apartment is my pride, my little spot of peace, and now HE will be in it, and it will be intense. It’s been a while since my friends and I have had this conversation, but no man has crossed the sacred barrier of my apartment threshold. Ever. He’s the first. The very first.

I’m nervous about him seeing my place, my safe zone, my pride and joy, through eyes that have seen far too much of the world. Far more than me. What is pretty to me may be simple and uninteresting to him.

“C’mon up,” I murmur and buzz him in, then hurry back to my bedroom, slipping on some leggings and exchanging my T-shirt for a long blouse, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Sighing in despair over my swollen eyelids, I scrub my face with soap and head to the door. He’s waiting outside when I open it, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, staring down at his shoes, his eyebrows furrowed.

He looks up at me. My legs feel paralyzed, as if they’re not getting enough blood. He doesn’t know how monumental it is for me to step back and wave him inside. God, he looks so good—as good as he did minutes or hours ago—that I almost trip on the rug.

“Do you want coffee?”

He glances around my place with a nod.

His tie is unfastened and hanging around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair curls at the collar of his shirt, and when he rumples it and keeps surveying my place, it sticks out all over his head, dark and lovely. I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, I bring us two cups to the coffee table. I take the couch and watch him lower himself into my favorite oversize reading chair, the one I do my best thinking in. I’m a little afraid now that I won’t ever use it again without remembering he was parked right there.

“I’m sorry I bailed,” I whisper, sliding a cup across the table and retrieving my hand before he can reach for it.

“I heard you weren’t feeling well.” He leans forward, ignoring the coffee. Ignoring my apartment and everything except me.

His dissecting look makes me lower my face and exhale. “Yeah, I guess,” I agree.

“Somebody hurt you, Rachel?”

“Maybe . . .” I raise my head at the protectiveness in his tone and cross my arms over my chest. A male figure has never been concerned over me, protective. I like it so much I smile a little in happy amusement. “Will you punch her for me?”