His stare is dark as night and his voice is gruff with desire. “I know what got into you—the same thing that got into me.”
“No.” I go into the hall, call up the elevator, and then push him in with all my effort. “’Bye, Saint.”
“I’ll call you, Rachel,” he murmurs as he grabs my face and kisses my mouth, rubbing his tongue a little over mine and making me moan before I tear free and the elevator leaves.
Oh. My. God. What have I unleashed?
“What was that?”
“He was saying goodbye.”
“I’m Gina, remember. Your best friend. I can tell when you’re lying. Were you guys . . . sleeping together on the couch like some item?”
“I had a few drinks. So did he. We had that . . . thing. I’m beyond . . . not thinking well.”
“Okay. ’Cause we know deep down he’s Lucifer, right? The Arch Douche himself? We don’t sleep with the bastard, we do not drop our walls!”
I nod and go to my room. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand and brush my teeth and then look at my face in the mirror.
What am I doing? I poured my heart out to him. Why didn’t I just tell him I was writing an exposé?
This wasn’t part of my plan. I’m supposed to write an exposé about him, not let him expose me.
But I can’t sleep. I remember the frustration on Saint’s face when Gina came in. A little later, I turn on my lamp and get my cell phone.
I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye, I text, but before sending the text, I dial the number and wonder if he’ll answer. I don’t wonder for long: I hear the sound of him picking up, his voice saying hey.
“I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye.”
There’s a smile in his voice when he answers, relieving me. “If that’s what it takes to get you to call.”
I laugh, then go sober and cuddle up in bed with the phone to my ear, shyly whispering, “You’re different with me than anyone.”
“Because of the ‘fragile, handle with care’ sign you wear.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You’re so fragile you’ve boxed yourself up so you don’t break.”
“I like my safe zone.”
“Nothing happens in the safe zone.”
“That’s the point—you control everything and it’s predictable and . . . safe.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Saint says, “When you come outside of your box, I’ll be waiting.”
15
A MAKEOVER
What did that even mean?
I don’t want to be unsafe. It’s the last goal of my existence. I’ve always liked that I have never been reckless.
On Friday, I pour myself mindlessly into a piece Helen wanted for the week. I can’t think; I can’t stop to think or I’ll start to drown in my own fears and confusions. I tell myself to stay detached and keep my eyes on the prize, and that’s all a sensible reporter would do. And I am sensible. At least, I was for the twenty-three years before I met Malcolm Saint.
I’m typing furiously when my phone buzzes and I peer absently at the screen, only to have a heart attack when I see the word I saved him under in my contacts. SIN.
Meet me tonight at the Tunnel?
What is my heart doing right now? It’s doing cartwheels in my chest. I’ve become this girl, this ridiculous girl. The Tunnel is a hot spot known for its dark and winding rooms, its loud music. Hardly anyone comes out sober or unmussed from the Tunnel. Rachel, you can’t go with Saint to the Tunnel unless you’re totally prepared to get your libido in check, and you’ve been doing a lousy job of that.
“So are you ready?”
I lower my phone when Victoria tries to peer over the top of my cubicle. “Ready?” I repeat. “For what?”
“Don’t you remember? Your beauty day! Getting you prepped this weekend to work.”
“I . . . ah. Right. How could I forget? The clichéd makeover. Normal girl gets her hair cut, gets the guy, lalalalalala,” I say as I grab my things.
“Yes.” She laughs.
I get my phone and close the file I had open on my computer with a few too many links—but never enough—featuring what Malcolm did this week. In all the pictures there were girls too, but he looked detached. He didn’t look like he was having fun, but then, he’s hard to read.
Once I close up my computer, I follow Victoria to the elevators and we head to a spa. Pedicure, manicure, a trim.
“Highlights.”
“No.” I go into the hall, call up the elevator, and then push him in with all my effort. “’Bye, Saint.”
“I’ll call you, Rachel,” he murmurs as he grabs my face and kisses my mouth, rubbing his tongue a little over mine and making me moan before I tear free and the elevator leaves.
Oh. My. God. What have I unleashed?
“What was that?”
“He was saying goodbye.”
“I’m Gina, remember. Your best friend. I can tell when you’re lying. Were you guys . . . sleeping together on the couch like some item?”
“I had a few drinks. So did he. We had that . . . thing. I’m beyond . . . not thinking well.”
“Okay. ’Cause we know deep down he’s Lucifer, right? The Arch Douche himself? We don’t sleep with the bastard, we do not drop our walls!”
I nod and go to my room. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand and brush my teeth and then look at my face in the mirror.
What am I doing? I poured my heart out to him. Why didn’t I just tell him I was writing an exposé?
This wasn’t part of my plan. I’m supposed to write an exposé about him, not let him expose me.
But I can’t sleep. I remember the frustration on Saint’s face when Gina came in. A little later, I turn on my lamp and get my cell phone.
I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye, I text, but before sending the text, I dial the number and wonder if he’ll answer. I don’t wonder for long: I hear the sound of him picking up, his voice saying hey.
“I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye.”
There’s a smile in his voice when he answers, relieving me. “If that’s what it takes to get you to call.”
I laugh, then go sober and cuddle up in bed with the phone to my ear, shyly whispering, “You’re different with me than anyone.”
“Because of the ‘fragile, handle with care’ sign you wear.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You’re so fragile you’ve boxed yourself up so you don’t break.”
“I like my safe zone.”
“Nothing happens in the safe zone.”
“That’s the point—you control everything and it’s predictable and . . . safe.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Saint says, “When you come outside of your box, I’ll be waiting.”
15
A MAKEOVER
What did that even mean?
I don’t want to be unsafe. It’s the last goal of my existence. I’ve always liked that I have never been reckless.
On Friday, I pour myself mindlessly into a piece Helen wanted for the week. I can’t think; I can’t stop to think or I’ll start to drown in my own fears and confusions. I tell myself to stay detached and keep my eyes on the prize, and that’s all a sensible reporter would do. And I am sensible. At least, I was for the twenty-three years before I met Malcolm Saint.
I’m typing furiously when my phone buzzes and I peer absently at the screen, only to have a heart attack when I see the word I saved him under in my contacts. SIN.
Meet me tonight at the Tunnel?
What is my heart doing right now? It’s doing cartwheels in my chest. I’ve become this girl, this ridiculous girl. The Tunnel is a hot spot known for its dark and winding rooms, its loud music. Hardly anyone comes out sober or unmussed from the Tunnel. Rachel, you can’t go with Saint to the Tunnel unless you’re totally prepared to get your libido in check, and you’ve been doing a lousy job of that.
“So are you ready?”
I lower my phone when Victoria tries to peer over the top of my cubicle. “Ready?” I repeat. “For what?”
“Don’t you remember? Your beauty day! Getting you prepped this weekend to work.”
“I . . . ah. Right. How could I forget? The clichéd makeover. Normal girl gets her hair cut, gets the guy, lalalalalala,” I say as I grab my things.
“Yes.” She laughs.
I get my phone and close the file I had open on my computer with a few too many links—but never enough—featuring what Malcolm did this week. In all the pictures there were girls too, but he looked detached. He didn’t look like he was having fun, but then, he’s hard to read.
Once I close up my computer, I follow Victoria to the elevators and we head to a spa. Pedicure, manicure, a trim.
“Highlights.”
