Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(44)
Fuck me. Does everyone have to mention that or know Malcolm? I hear him say “Saint” and I can’t stop the reaction: visceral. Like an elephant—Rosie—just kicked me in the heart.
Sleep deprivation weighs on me, but I feel as relaxed as if I were buzzing with alcohol. What swims in my veins is better than alcohol. Intoxicating. It’s pure beautiful torture to remember last night. He told me I wouldn’t forget spending the night and he’s right. I feel . . . possessed.
I exhale. Forcing myself to get out of his penthouse and come back here, to the HR department and the interview I never thought I’d want until the sacrifices I made for a career I loved brought too many complexities to rein back under control.
“Sometimes the good pieces are the ones that take the most from us,” I finally tell the man on the other side of the desk, admitting to myself that, well, that piece took so much from me I’m still not fully recovered.
He’s a nice, unassuming man, but behind the glasses, his gaze is shrewd and admiring. “In a way, I can relate. The hardest things to do are sometimes the ones that prove most meaningful, but not necessarily the ones we remember most fondly.”
We share a smile and then he reviews the pages before him. “It says here you’re interested in covering serious topics.” He nods approvingly. “We’re definitely looking to bring someone like you on board, who’s not afraid of taking risks.”
I wait and try to settle down my nerves as he reviews the paper again.
“Sorry for going into territory which might seem personal but . . .” he adds, “we’d like our reporters to gain their reputations for their pieces, rather than who they’re involved with. And dating such a figure in this city, well, it’s got to be tough. Saint is a man known to overpower what he wants and we’re surprised you’d be interviewing here . . .” he admits.
I smile a little. “He respects my career choices, I assure you.”
“Hmmm . . .” he says.
I start getting the feeling they’re somehow concerned that hiring me will piss off Malcolm.
“So you’re not interested in even partly writing on your previous subjects?” He looks down. “Your column usually discusses the trends around the city, though lately you’ve seemed to be steering onto dating advice for women.”
“Yes. But I’d like these new pieces to involve me a bit more with the community—helping share the stories of people who don’t have a voice yet.”
He jots down notes. “You have vision and ambition.” He taps his pen to the paper where he’s writing stuff. “And your output is impressive in your amount of time at Edge.” He nods, then seems to drop the mask as he takes off the glasses.
“Look,” he folds his hands on the desk and looks me in the eye, “I’m going to level with you here. The bosses, they’re friends of Saint’s. You’re brave, which they love, edgy, but they’d need to be very sure you are here for the long term.”
“I am.”
“Are you really?” He leans back then, a challenge as he crosses his arms. “Malcolm Saint . . . he knows about this interview?”
“Yes.”
“But isn’t Interface starting a news department . . .” he trails off meaningfully, because of course the implications are where Saint could hire you?
“Yes, but I want to work my way up.”
Something akin to admiration appears on his face. “Okay then. Well.” He claps his hands and rubs them, as if that’s that. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for your time.” Feeling a little sinking sensation in my gut, I sense this is goodbye. I pump his hand effusively and smile anyway.
It’s a smile that leaves me the moment I exit the building. Sighing, I lean against the exterior. I groan and shake my head because I don’t think it went well at all. I sense they believe that I’ll start here and then be lured into the Interface news arm.
Will they all be afraid of Malcolm reaching out to scoop me up under his wing?
Crossing the street, I go buy a copy of the Chicago Tribune from the nearby newsstand and carry it back into the underground parking lot, tuck it into the front passenger seat of Saint’s Bug, and when I slide into the front seat, I set my forehead on the wheel and sigh.
Okay, Rachel, it’s just one interview. One. And not the only one.
I absently run my hand over the dashboard, enjoying the smooth luxury of all the sleek black leather and chrome.
The next interview will go better.
It has to.
I turn on the engine, the loud, rumbling roar scaring another little laugh out of me as the seat starts vibrating. God, if Sin’s car doesn’t look good, smell good, and feel great. And isn’t it great the man upstairs didn’t see me in this, or he’d never even given me a chance to walk in the door.
I don’t have the same luck in keeping the Bug out of sight at Edge, though. Our underground parking lot is minuscule and limited to purchased spots, and since I don’t find any parking, I have to call Valentine. “Val, I brought a car.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Well, I brought one. Please, please let me borrow your space? I can’t leave this car out there at the mercy of the elements, it’s . . . you’ll understand, I promise.”