Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(90)

A set of slick aviators shield his eyes.

He looks sharp and on top of the world as he gets out of the car and, just like that, flips off the reporter. And a caption beneath the image reads: “When asked by a reporter, outside his offices, what he thought about his girlfriend being undercover press, this is what Malcolm Saint had to say.”

Saint is back in Chicago. He’s back from his business trip. To find this.

He’s being tagged. He’s being BOMBARDED.

@malcolmsaint U deserve much mre and better than a cunt lke her!!

“I’m going to go talk to him.”

I run into my room and change as fast as possible into a pair of black slacks and a professional-looking white button-down blouse; then I quickly gather my hair into a ponytail and, despite Wynn and Gina’s reservations, take a cab to M4.

I cross the pristine lobby. If I’d thought it was difficult to walk up to the receptionists behind the oval desk the first time, it’s even more excruciatingly painful now.

I know that they know what’s going on; I can tell by their pointy stares.

My pulse is dangerously high. I can’t imagine what it will feel like when I see him.

“Rachel Livingston for Mr. Saint, please.”

It strikes me, after several heartbeats, that none of them wants to answer me.

“We apologize,” the middle one with the tidy bun finally says. “But Mr. Saint just got into town.”

“Yes, I know.” I can’t believe how calm I sound, considering how twisted up my insides are. “I’ll wait.”

“Miss!” she calls as I walk toward the elevators. “No one is to be allowed to the top without authorization today.”

I stop mid-stride, puzzled. “Oh.” I hesitate, and notice that the elevator bank is, in fact, quite empty today. “I’ll wait here, then.” I try to stay calm as I walk back in their direction. Did Saint cancel all the meetings in his “packed” day? I feel increasingly anxious about it. “Just please tell him Rachel Livingston would love to see him. It’s terribly important.”

“Like I said, he’s terribly busy.”

“I’ll wait,” I say, soft but firm.

I head to one of one of the lounges by the window. Huddled in my seat, I wait, feeling cold, remembering the absolute gossip storm taking place online. I shift uneasily from side to side, watching the elevators and the cars outside.

There are two or three people outside the building trying to keep their cameras hidden but occasionally taking snapshots of the building. So they want a piece of him too? Annoyance flares inside me. Annoyance, impotence, and loathing at myself for having caused this. The receptionist approaches moments later, and there’s an intimidating bodyguard with her.

Slowly, I rise to my feet.

“I’m sorry but we can’t have you here,” the receptionist says. “He’s busy, just arrived from out of town.” I see anger in her eyes. My attention flicks to the large man and . . . I just can’t believe there’s a bodyguard. I can’t believe he’s having them escort me out.

“Tell him I stopped by,” I murmur. Then I do them all a favor and take myself outside, using my hair as a curtain to avoid being recognized—glad that my hair can also hide the absolutely crestfallen look on my face. I head straight home, where Gina and Wynn appear to have been waiting by the door.

“How did it go?” Gina takes me by the shoulders and forces me down on the couch.

I’m still numb with disbelief. It takes me a moment to answer. “He’s walling himself up. I couldn’t see him. They . . . I was escorted out.”

“What?” Wynn cries, outraged.

And Gina: “Didn’t you tell me his staff is loyal to a fault? Of course they’d be overprotective of their Saint.”

“But did he know Rachel was there?” Wynn wants to know.

They start arguing about whether or not Saint instructed them to kick me out, but I can’t join the speculation. I’m feeling more and more hopeless as I look at my phone. My silent phone.

Locking myself in my bedroom, I call his cell phone and pace around as I leave a message:

“Heyyyyy. Hey . . . will you please call me back? I need to talk to you.” I flounder with what to say next, my thoughts stumbling one after the other.

“Malcolm . . .” I trail off, but my voice breaks so fiercely, I hang up. I wipe my tears away and dial again. “Sorry,” I whisper. I have never wanted to hear his voice so much. “I want to say that . . . I don’t know. . . . I just wanted to hear your voice.” I think of what else to say when I reach his voice mail.

I dial again. “You value truth and loyalty, and I . . . I need to talk to you, Malcolm, you need to let me explain. If that’s all you do, please let me explain.”

It’s killing me. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. I have a constriction in my chest and I literally can’t breathe. This time it’s not in a good way. I keep waiting to hear from him, keep expecting him to message me back.

I storm into Gina’s bedroom. “Do you think it’s over?”

She jolts up in bed. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought we had an intruder!”

“Do you think it’s over? Not talking and this shit happening, it means it’s over. Right? Who am I kidding? I wasn’t even his real girlfriend. Not even for a day. There’s nothing to be over.” I laugh sadly and struggle with my tears, and with my conscience, and my desperate need for him.