We watch a video of a woman with no bra wetting her T-shirt and smiling. “Saint, I’ll wash your cars any day, and clean your pipes, too.”
We burst out laughing.
“He’s got a huge car collection, apparently. There’s a picture, see? There are like thirty cars here. Very rare ones. He’s got a thousand and one toys. Doesn’t that say something?”
“What?” Gina asks.
“When you have everything and nothing is ever enough?”
“How should we know? We barely made rent this month.”
“Come on, be serious. When nothing is ever enough, on some hidden level of his psyche there’s something about this man’s life that’s absolutely empty. I see him work, Gina; it’s like he . . . is obsessed with it. Like it helps him block out something else.”
“What?”
“Forget it.”
She laughs. “You’re so deep, Rachel. Such a philosopher. Send him the bill and save him the therapist.”
I continue with my links and end up viewing a video of him next to his father taken when his father refused his mother’s last wish to give Saint a seat on the board of his father’s company.
“The only good thing he has going for him is his name,” his father says to a reporter who asked why Malcolm had not been allowed into the family business. Malcolm doesn’t flinch. He smiles ironically, says nothing, just keeps himself in check. This video only made everyone cheer on Malcolm rather than his dad. Still, did it damage his psyche in some way?
“What an asshole,” Gina says late that afternoon when I watch the video one more time, this time watching only Saint’s expression, revealing nothing—like he expected the blow and was braced for it.
“No wonder Saint’s an asshole—he was bred like that.”
“He’s not an asshole.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s not an asshole,” I say casually.
“Who’s touchy?!”
“I’m not touchy. I’m just stating a fact.”
“Okay. You don’t like what we have in the fridge, when it was your turn to stock us for the week; you’re obsessed with that computer; you have circles under your eyes; you’re wearing an E for exposé on your forehead and an X on your ass screaming at Saint to fuck you right there. You’re crushing on him, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Well good, ’cause you’ve wanted this your whole life. Look up all the pictures of women all over him. Hell, with their tits almost in his face. That is the guy you like?”
I stare at the YouTube video. “I like this one,” I mumble as she leaves, then I scowl at myself. No, you don’t like him, Rachel. You want to be fair—you want to be truthful.
I go grab my sleeping bag for the End the Violence campout.
My friends think that a campout won’t achieve much on its own, really, but I feel good every time I do it, so I do it often, and when my life is unsteady, I do it even more because I feel safer doing it. Focusing on someone else is the only way I know of to forget about your own little pains—but I didn’t have a lot of those pains. I had a great life. Have.
My upbringing was different than his. I wasn’t told, “You’re reckless; the only good thing you’ve got going for you is your name.” My mother gave me so much love that here I am, taking on projects that might be a little too big for me, just because I’m crazy enough to think that I can handle them.
I’m so worried about doing justice to the piece, I need to touch base with her right now. “Hey, Momma.”
“Oh, hey, sweetheart. What are you up to? Are you on your way to the campout?”
“Yes, I just wanted to see what you were up to. Do you need anything?”
I can always tell when my mother is feeling all right or when she’s faking it. I’m relieved that she sounds genuinely happy today.
“I’m quite all right, Rachel. Last I checked, I was still the mother in this relationship,” she even teases me. “But how is my girl?”
“I’m good.” I can hear her favorite Cat Stevens CD playing in the background. “I’ll text you from work tomorrow. Take your insulin, okay?” I wait for her to say okay, and then I whisper softly, “I love you, Mom.”
“Rachel! Wait. Is something wrong?”
I hesitate. “What do you mean?” Oh wow, so now my voice is affected? I always tell her that I love her, so that can’t have caused her concern.
“Nothing is wrong, I’m fabulous. I’m writing a new piece, I’ll tell you all about it soon.”
A silence. “Are you sure?”
Shit, she suspects something.
It’s futile to tell her, not to worry about me, because then she’ll tell me not to worry about her, and I love her too much to do that. But I loathe having her worry over nothing.
“Yes,” I laughingly assure her. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” Then I hang up and exhale.
Despite my mother having gotten so inquisitive in the end, I really needed that call. I needed to remind myself that she’s the thing I most love and that my dream is to get her a nice house, a nice car, good hospital care, safety. I can’t give her back my dad, but I’d like to give her what I can. I’d like to give her the things he wanted to. In my heart, it means I will honor him—wherever he is—by managing to get for us the same things he wanted to provide. My mom’s a diabetic. It’s been under control for years, but her continued good health is still a concern for me, even if she refuses to admit it’s a concern for her.
The park is not very crowded tonight. A lot of people skip these events and opt for the walks or other sorts of End the Violence events, but I like coming out here with my books, my iPod shuffle, my snacks, and I’m set.
Recognizing some faces, I walk around until I find a nice spot under a tree.
I spread out my sleeping bag, say hi to the young couple nearby whose names I don’t know but who I’ve seen before, and stare up at a bunch of tree limbs and leaves poking into the sky. I rarely manage to get an hour of sleep whenever I camp out here, but I still do it just because I never want to get so comfortable with things to the point I don’t want to change them for the better.
After eating some berries and listening to music, I pluck off my earphones, plump my campout pillow, and drift off to sleep, dreaming that I’m lost at night inside a green forest, running in a man’s shirt, and when Gina, Helen, and my mom shout for me to come out, I can never find my way out of the deep.
I wake up with a start, sweaty and breathless and staring around in confusion. I’m at the campout. Shivering, I pull out my phone and then blink when I see I’ve got a message.
If I can’t drive you home yet, then at least let me pick you up and take you someplace.
I stare at the text from an unknown number with a wildly pounding heart and a tangle inside my stomach. I know it’s him, it has to be him. I think of him and his shirts and his stares and his grapes. I think of his yacht and his secrets and the ice in his eyes and the way he stares at me like he wants me to melt all of those mysterious icicles in him. I think of how restless I feel and how I can’t focus on anything else . . . and then I think of the exposé and struggle to center myself with that one goal, that one wish. Exhaling, I text back:
I wouldn’t object to a tour of the Interface headquarters
Done
I bite my lip, things that feel like butterflies now seizing me. These have to be story butterflies but I’ve never gotten them like this. Before I can stop myself I text:
Don’t you sleep?
Not when I don’t want to
I blush. God, is he womanizing right now? He could be such a great guy for one special girl, it’s depressing he lets everyone have a piece of him somehow.
You? Why are you awake now, Rachel?
Your text woke me, I write.
Sweet dreams then, Rachel
I close my eyes and think of his face in the YouTube video, his face at the club after he saw me, his face always so closed off and mysterious, as if he refuses
to let anyone see and know who he really is or what he really wants from them.
Same to you—if you want to dream, that is
Oh, I sound so dumb. Urgh. Setting my phone down as if it’s suddenly a snapping alligator I just encountered in my scary green dream forest, I don’t sleep one wink.
11
OFFICE
At least my writing has benefited from my growing obsession with this tormenting fascination that has nowhere to go. This thirst for information is leaking into my writing, into anything I turn my attention to. I’m like a glutton craving something in particular but stuffing herself on whatever she can get her hands on in the meantime. Even if it’s information on something else.
“This piece is phenomenal!” Helen says. “Such fire. I can’t wait to see what you do with the Saint piece. What’s the dibs on that?”
I gasp. “What?”
She smiles and taps the notebook on my desk with one word, underlined until the page tore.
DIBS.
She props her hip on my desk, and I feel Victoria nearly fall out of her chair in her eagerness to hear what I have to say.
“None,” I say, taking the tablet and putting it aside. Really, so I’m doodling “dibs” now?
“Oh, what do you mean, none?” She turns. “Victoria, Victoria.” She crooks a finger and Victoria gets up and walks over, casual as can be.
“Helen?” she says. “Hi, Rachel.” She beams.
“Help me get Rachel in with that stylist who always has you looking so spectacular? With this face”—she tips my chin up—“there’s no way Saint should be able to keep himself from hunting her down. Thank you, Vicky,” she says, sliding into her office.
With Victoria near, I suddenly wish I’d said I’d made moderate progress. I wish I’d said anything to keep me from having to see her enormous, gloating smile. I can almost hear her thinking that I can’t even write a piece without her help. That I can’t get a man without her help.
“It’s not necessary, really,” I tell her.
“Oh nonsense, I know just what you need. I’m going to borrow this for a second,” she says, gesturing to my landline. So she calls her stylist and hums while she waits, and I need to save and close my file because nothing can mess with my mojo as much as someone sneeking a peek at my screen.
I sit there, feeling like a loser and peering into my phone when I see Dean’s message.
Mr. Saint would like to give you a tour of the Interface corporate headquarters. Let me know if this is of interest; he’s looking forward to seeing you.
My toes curl a little and my cheeks are red. Fuck. I text back:
I’m looking forward to seeing him.
Oh god. Seeing him? I’m meeting with him, not seeing him. Professional. That’s all. What will I do when I see him again?
I pull out a picture of him I downloaded on my phone and peek at it. His profile is so perfect. He’s the only guy I’ve ever had a picture of in my phone—it came from one of the girls who tagged him, and since it got downloaded it’s somehow stayed in my phone. I haven’t been able to erase it.
Considering Saint erased my picture, I should do the same, but a part of me enjoys being able to look at him while he’s not watching me. And this picture . . . I’m pretty sure this picture was taken that day on the yacht, and what he’s staring at in the distance is me. Something about his unreadable expression demands that I figure him out.
Victoria slams down my office phone. “Done. I’ve got an in for you next week on Friday. Be ready to make Saint weep!” she declares, patting the top of my head and leaving me staring down at my phone to Dean’s new message.
Great. We’ll have a car at your place on Thursday at 4 p.m.
12
THURSDAY
Thursday.
At 4:01 p.m., I’m exiting my building.
“Oh, I’ll get the door for you, Miss Sheppard.”
Our neighbor from the third floor (who makes killer coffee cakes every holiday) seems to have been out walking her dog, her cat nestled in her arm. “Rachel, you look lovely with your hair down.” The cat purrs as she strokes the back of its ear. “I can’t even think of an actress as blonde and fair-skinned as you. Who did your makeup? It’s so natural.”
“My roommate, Gina.” I hold the door open for her. “She works in a department store, in cosmetics, and we’re trying out different looks on me.”
“Ah, yes. The day I have a ball and a pretty dress, I’ll go visit her.”
Her dog yaps at my ankle and I wince a little but stand my ground, then turn back to the street once she’s inside. I freeze. Instead of the Rolls, Saint’s black and shiny BUG 1 is parked just outside.
He leans against it, watching me. And he’s smiling. At me. He steps forward and says, “Hey.” To me. And I forget about everything. Even my name. Even that I’m supposed to be working today. My stomach contracts, and so does my throat.
“Hey,” I say, taking in his black suit as he opens the passenger door for me.
Oh god, what is this?
He offers his hand, and I look at it with dread and anticipation before slipping my fingers into his. He grips my fingers lightly as I slip into the seat, the touch lingering long after he lets go and closes the door.
Then he’s in the car, shutting his door and enclosing us in the most confined space we’ve been in since we met. His scent envelops me along with the leather of his car, and my lungs start to ache with every breath I take.
As I dressed, I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to look perfect because nothing would come of it. But I actually spent more time than ever thinking about what I was going to wear and wondering how he’d feel about it.
Dean sent a message instructing me to wear something comfortable because parts of the building were still under construction. I ended up wearing a favorite pair of worn jeans, a loose shapeless sweater I love writing in, and my warm boots, because I love having comfy feet. I’m a fan of chunky socks, my Uggs, and tucking my feet into anything soft and snug. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes it, right? Because nothing can come of this. I’m working, and he’s . . . well, he’s being nicer to me than I ever imagined by giving me a tour in the first place.
“I hope I’m dressed okay,” I whisper.
His green eyes run up and down my body, and suddenly more than my feet are warm as a small smile appears. He reaches an arm behind my seat and faces me completely. “I like this almost as much as I love what you wore the day we met.”
I cover my face and laugh. “You absolutely don’t mean that.”
When I force myself to drop my hands, he’s staring at me. I really have never been looked at the way he looks at me, with that glint of mischief in his stare, sexy, dark, and deep, roiling with the most exquisite promises. When he teases me like this, my flesh goes warm and things happen to me that could only be explained by collisions and particles and energy and chemistry. I can’t take it.
Without reassuring me any more about my looks or how much he likes or doesn’t like them, he gets the engine roaring to life, checks his mirrors, and sends the tires squealing as he pulls into the street. The next second, I’m flat against the car seat and without breath.
“This car is meant to be driven like you stole it,” he says.
He takes a curve a bit recklessly and starts to chuckle, the sound low and amused. “All right, Rachel?” He grins and squeezes my thigh, and I look up at him, the tingles of adrenaline and lust I’m feeling becoming bells chiming loudly inside me.
I smile and nod, but add, “You’re a devil, though.”
He slows down and starts driving like a normal person for the next couple of blocks, speaking low, with a sidelong, curious glance at me. “More devil than saint?”
“You couldn’t be a saint if we got you a halo.”
His lips tip upward, but there’s something about the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he turns back to the road. From the moment I met him, the air between us has felt diffe
rent from the way it does when I’m not with him. Thicker, more electric, every glance or smile or word causing ripples in the atmosphere. But right now, inside his leather- and man-smelling car, I feel his presence with every breath. Every thought. Every move—those moves of his, as he turns the steering wheel, shifts gears. And those moves of mine: tucking my hair back, smoothing my hands over my sweater.
When we get to the Interface underground parking lot, he slides into the first empty slot, and I’m telling myself to freaking forget about his delicious ghost kisses as he removes his jacket and tosses it to his seat. But it’s no use; the glimpse of muscles rippling under the fabric of his white cotton shirt doesn’t help get my knees back into normal working order. He unknots his tie and pulls it loose, his biceps flexing under his shirt. My eyes—I can’t pull them away from him. I feel his call viscerally, right in the core of my being. I watch him, noticing the hair that fell over his eye as he raked his fingers through it just now.
A ball of tangled lightning is in my stomach as I follow him into the elevator and we ride to the top floor.
His textured voice suddenly runs like a feather down my spine. “Do you want to talk about Interface now?”
I tear my attention free from that beautiful set of lips of his to find him watching me. His stare is too keen and knowing for me to hold it for long, but I can’t look away, either. “I don’t know.”
“So you don’t want to discuss Interface?”
His voice is gruff, deeper than usual, and the sudden smile on his lips is absolutely sensual.
I bite my lower lip, uncertain of what to say as he takes a step forward, looking at me questioningly and also . . . expectantly. My heart starts thumping. I feel like something is happening. A hurricane called Malcolm Saint is happening. I’ve been dreaming of him—of us. Limbs, flesh, touching, those grazing kisses of his right on the corner of my mouth . . .
A prickle of nervousness tightens every inch of my body as he moves his frame to stand before mine. He stretches his arm along the wall behind me, his eyes glowing. He’s so close I can see the icy flecks in those irises, reminding me of other times, when those flecks seemed to have melted from warmth.