Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(16)
Val smirks. “Well, you’re the goose with the eggs Saint could have fertilized.”
I’m too hyped about Sin’s message and enjoying my writing high too much to let Valentine’s jibe have any effect.
I merely roll my eyes and ask, “Are you going to McCormick?”
“Nope, she wants me to revise all this bullshit.” He signals to his screen, then winks. “But the truth is, she needs to bully me to feel alive.”
“I’m glad you seem to enjoy it.” I head to Helen’s office with my printout even though I’ve already emailed the piece.
I set it on her desk, and when she directs her attention to me, I say flat out, “Saint’s speaking at McCormick Place about Interface, and he got me a place in the reporting pool. You mind if I go, even if it’s just to observe?”
Helen looks at me levelly. “I expected you’d ask me after yellow-vest did. Yes,” she agrees. “But not as a dormouse. Ask a question! Let people know we’re covering.”
Seeing my hesitation, she quickly adds, “Getting out there and acting normal is the only chance you’ve got of things actually going back to normal.” A pause; a frown. “What? You’re not sure now?”
No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything these days.
Your name’s up front.
“Come on, go! Hurry out there and make some inquiries that make us sound smart!” Helen says. “Someone who will make up for Val’s clothing.”
Bracing myself for the worst but hoping for the best, I nod and head back to my seat. Helen’s right, I need to go on as normal.
I care about him more than what anyone can say about me. I won’t pass on a chance to see him.
Five minutes before the conference begins, I pay my driver and ease out of the cab. Keeping my hair out of the wind, I hurry into one of the four main buildings of McCormick Place.
This is the grandest convention center in the country, so massive that it takes several minutes to wind through the walkways and halls to reach the auditorium where Saint is keynote speaker.
The press is already in position near dozens of steel folding chairs: neighborhood papers, community radio stations, five local news teams. It’s a big deal, apparently. Hundreds of professionals fill up the room, sharp and prepared with cameras, notepads, microphones.
As I wait in line at reception and try to discreetly comb my hair with my fingers, a small group of new arrivals near the entrance spots me. I’m given a thorough examination and then, the whispers start.
Fuuuck me.
Red down to my toes, I force myself to stand in line until I reach the woman with the clipboard. “Hi, Rachel Livingston with Edge, here for Malcolm Saint.”
“Honey, they’re all here for him,” she mumbles without looking up. She locates my name on her page and I silently thank Saint’s press coordinator for the favor—or Saint himself. I notice how reluctantly the woman locates the badge, until she finally hands it to me. I fake confidence as I take the badge with my name and head inside.
There’s a crowd gathered already, applauding when a bald presenter in a gray suit takes the stage. “Welcome,” he says into a microphone.
Though I try to keep my attention on the stage as I search for a seat, there’s no missing the stares coming my way.
I feel an uncomfortable squeeze in my stomach when I think of Victoria and wonder what she’s doing, if she’s covering for that stupid magazine whose blog she exposed me in. She must be thirsting for my blood after Malcolm killed her article.
I don’t see Victoria here, thank god. But people see me. And suddenly, I. Don’t. Care. What they say.
I’m impassioned here. He impassions me. Just thinking of watching him speak today lights up my writing fire, so I should let him light me up and let me burn.
I stand before an empty chair at a back row, next to a long aisle.
That’s when a commotion from the entrance draws my eye, and the sight of Saint walking inside hits me with a jolt of feminine awareness as he takes the room with a trail of businessmen behind him. Malcolm owns every place he’s in, every floor he steps on. More virile than any man I have ever had the pleasure of staring upon, he uses that eat-you-up stride as he heads to the front of the room.
It’s impossible, but I swear even the air shifts—dynamically, energetically—with him in the room.
The presenter speaks his name into the microphone, and then, behind the wooden podium, stands Malcolm freaking perfection Saint.
“As many of you know, since inception, M4 has experienced record-breaking growth across all platforms . . . but there’s been an area among the M4 holdings that has captured my attention the most. For over the past year, a team of more than four thousand specialists and I have been laboring to bring to you Interface, which, in its short time online, has beaten every socialmedia site in the areas of engagement and user signup,” he says, and then he eyes the audience with a pause.
He’s so much larger than life that my eyes are wide as I absorb the full impact of him up there—owning the room. Owning everyone in it. Especially me.
But . . .
He’s not reading my speech. I’m a little bit confused, then I realize—I really did lose it. I’ve lost my spark, I’ve lost it all. He believed I could write well, maybe. Enough to want me to work at his company. He gave me a chance, and now he’s realized I’m no good. He won’t want me, even for a job. He won’t want me at all.