DECEIVED: Malcolm Saint’s New Girlfriend Really Undercover Press!

If you’ve been waiting for the dish on one of the most unexpected “relationships” to arise with one of our bachelors, prepare to have your mind blown even further when I let it all out of the bag. At least, Malcolm Saint’s girlfriend’s bag....

I can’t continue. Each word is out there for Malcolm to read. Snarky, like the words of a real-life Gossip Girl amusing herself while my world is torn asunder.

My eyes well. “He’s read this by now, ohgod.”

“Rachel, calm down....”

“You don’t understand! Truth and loyalty are important to him! They’re so important to him... I can’t.” I cover my head in my hands as I start to hyperventilate. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Rachel.” They try comforting me, both of them slinging their arms around my shoulders, but I’m beyond comfort.

My cell phone is buzzing madly. I suck in deep breaths, and when my phone falls still, the landline starts to ring. Gina lifts the kitchen phone in the air. “It’s Helen, Rachel.”

When nothing happens, she waves the phone at me.

“Helen’s calling.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Wynn whispers.

Gina covers the speaker. “Hello? Wynn? She’s her BOSS.”

I know what she wants, what she will say. I grab the phone while my hand trembles and the rest of me starts to grow numb inside. I have disappointed everyone in my life. “You saw?” she asks.

I can’t answer.

Helen growls, “We’ll ride this if it kills us. Get to work.”

I’ve barely hung up the phone when Gina raises my cell phone before me, eyes wide and apologetic. “It’s your mother.”

With a moan of distress, I shoot Gina a “help me” look. What will I say to her? Well, let’s see. That I lost my heart and my senses with it. That I lost the man I loved before I had the courage to let myself truly have him. That I lost a story to my colleague. That I might, if I can’t find my balls soon, lose my job.

That I’ve lost all sense of direction. Of what’s right and what’s wrong. Of who I am and what I want—

“Heyyyy, adoptive mom!” Gina finally picks up on my behalf. “Yes! GINA! Oh... Rachel? She’s super busy writing the article that will leave this other one in the dust. Oh, pfft! It’s just a blog article! Rachel’s will be IN PRINT, and it’s much more important in that format....” She starts to wax poetic to my mom while I go back to the computer and go to Saint’s social media.

I scan a few pictures.

There he is.

I see a picture of him getting out of his Rolls and into M4. A picture of him flipping off a reporter.

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.

“I feel bad for you, but Saint’s a powerful man. When Paul betrayed me, I couldn’t look at him, not even a single possession of his. He broke me. And this is... this is public, Rachel. How would you feel? If he came with something like this, throwing you for a loop? Give him time to assimilate what’s being said. Maybe he just wants to rationalize.”

Maybe he just needs to count to four, I think to myself.

“I have a temper....”

One instant I’m trying to feel positive by telling myself that I will have a moment to explain, eventually, and the next I’m heavy with grief. The next, I’m one big, gigantic knot of regrets. Remembering those few, rare moments when he completely opened up to me makes me even more anxious to be with him right now, to explain. To make it okay. To hold him. To BEG him to hold ME. “Rachel, what are you going to do with your article?” Gina asks worriedly.

In my hand, on my phone screen, for the thousandth time, I look at that picture of him arriving at M4 after a business trip. Looking like a true, first-class billionaire... but flipping off whoever was snapping that picture. All of that glass and technology in the background, and him, in that killer suit, his dark head bent, his eyes shielded behind his aviators. No comment, the caption says. But the finger said plenty.

29

RESEARCH

A short while later I slip into my bedroom and stand, in my socks and his shirt, and stare at my laptop.

Inhaling, I bring it, along with my shoebox filled with note cards, to the little rug beside my bed. I sit Indian style on the floor and read my notes, one by one. Notes on him.

Truth and loyalty, I had written.

Traits he probably admires in his best friends. Traits he may never have found in the women who are after him. Truth and loyalty...

That’s all I can write about. The rest of what I’ve learned is too raw for me to share.

But truth and loyalty.

Things Saint values above love.

Things he wouldn’t find in me. I read the back of the card, my scribbled note, this one talking about me.

I SUCK SOOOO HARD.

He’d stood there talking about truth and loyalty while I sat there moved by everything we talked about, absolutely knowing that I was falling in love, helpless to stop it.

And still, I was taking notes. Studying him like a lab rat. As if he wasn’t human. As if he weren’t driven by the same things everyone else is: a heart, a mind, a body, hormones; as if he didn’t need air and water and maybe even love; as if he were this robot to be scrutinized and picked apart for the amusement of the world.

Really? What does it matter that he’s been with a thousand and one women? What does it matter that he’s the city’s obsession and now also mine? He’s human. He’s entitled to the little privacy he has. He’s so damn closed off, he rarely opens up to anyone, and I know it’s because he’s always so judged and scrutinized.

My eyes water, and suddenly I grab the cards and start tearing them up, one by one. Then I lie with all the notes scattered around me and cry a little. Then I look at the scattered mess. What did I just do? Oh god.

If I want to save the magazine, I need to deliver something.

I breathe in and out.

“Rachel?” I hear Gina call.

She peers inside and scans the mess of torn note cards, and then me. As broken as the paper around me.

“Oh, Rachel.”

I start crying.

“I need to write it.”

“Rachel, tell him the truth. Tell him the truth. If he knows you well at all, he’ll understand.”

“What? That I’m a liar?”

“Tell him you love him,” she says.

“He doesn’t want my love. He values... truth and honesty, qualities I don’t possess.”

“You possess them in spades. You’re loyal and honest with everyone.”

“But not with him. ”

“From the moment you talk to him and come clean, you will be. Make him see it from your eyes. Maybe you can have it all.”

“Whoever gets it all, Gina? Nobody. Nobody, that’s who.”

“But yet we all believe that we can. Isn’t that the point of everything we do? We want it all. So write this piece. And if you still want him, then you should go get him.”

I pause. “I do want him,” I whisper, wiping my wet face with the back of my hand. “It’s a million tiny things that, added up, tell me there is no one in this world, ever, who will have this spectacular effect on me but him. Sometimes I just can’t see myself when we’re together, I’m so lost in him.” I wipe my eyes. “He’s the only man I dream about at night, and the only man I want to wake up next to in the morning. Everyone is after his fame or his money, but I love him not because of anything he has but because he has me....”

“Oh, Rache. Don’t cry. Maybe there’s hope for you two.”

“How can there be? He doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

“He’s fucking hurting, Rachel! Even I can tell, because there’s not one picture of him without fucking shades to cover his eyes. There must be hell in those eyes, Rachel. I can’t believe I actually feel bad for him now.”

“Because I was the Paul in our relationship. I was the liar.”

“Paul played me. You never played him. Your feelings were real.”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. I remember how Helen warned me from the beginning. That I was too young, playing with adults. I hadn’t seen all of this coming. She was right. I was not ready for this at all.

But I take the Kleenex Gina passes, wipe my tears, connect my laptop, boot it up, and write my heart out.

The day I turn it in, Helen tells me that the Edge email servers are bursting with hate mail for me, and she advises me to take the week to work from home.

The day it’s published, I don’t get out of bed. I don’t answer my phone. My mother stops by, but she ends up chatting with Gina because I don’t want her to see me like this; I’m too sad to fake it today, and she knows me so well. She tells me before she leaves, “I’m going to go paint.”

She’s telling me I should do the same. She’s telling me I’m free to go out there and do something I love.

But what I love hates me.

Twitter:

Did you read your girlfriend’s article? @malcolmsaint

On his Instagram:

No way @malcolmsaint would give that bitch a second chance!!

And the feminist groups online:

Rachel Livingston, our hero! Revenge on the playboys! Want to play with our hearts? Beware the time you will find your own weakness. Revenge is sweet!

Later that week I find enough energy to get out of bed and go to work, and I’m immediately called into Helen’s office.

There’s tension between us. Helen was not happy when I sent over the article. She said, “It’s not what I asked for.”

“No,” I concurred.

Helen took it and printed it anyway.

Today, I’m surprised that she seems pleased to see me, genuinely pleased. “It’s a circus out there,” Helen tells me, waving me forward from behind her cluttered desk.

“I’m not online. Can you blame me?”

“No. But let me fill you in.” She signs to a chair across from her desk, but I remain standing. “Your boyfriend,” she begins with obvious glee, “pulled Vicky’s piece. It can’t be reposted without legal repercussions now.” She eyes me with a new gleam of respect and admiration, and adds, “In case you lost me when I said ‘your boyfriend’ ”—she laughs happily—“Malcolm Saint canned any print editions of Victoria’s post—and it was removed from the blog.” She nods ever so slowly and somberly.

My eyes widen. “What?” I finally speak.

“Victoria’s article. Your boyfriend owns the rights. It can’t be published anymore—not without his say-so.”

“What? How? ”

She shrugs, then leans back in her chair with a little creak of the wheels. “Seems like Saint doesn’t want it out there.”

Ohmigod, he made Victoria’s story go away? “If he canned Victoria’s, why not ours? Why didn’t he can mine?” Why didn’t he read mine?!

My heart is in a fist in my chest and so are my lungs.

“Guess he doesn’t hate you that much.” She shrugs casually, but stops herself when she seems to notice—finally notice—that I’m crushed. That my hair is a mess, my face is a mess, I’m a mess. “Maybe he does like you, Rachel,” she says softly. “I’m impressed, did you know? I’m not the only one who’s impressed. The world is impressed too. He hasn’t been seen... consorting with you-know-what types.” She taps a pencil absently on her desk, her eyes narrowed on me. “But he’s been skydiving daily. You’d think he has a death wish or has some serious mojo to get out of his system.”

I hardly hear her. I need to get away. From Edge, from her, from this office. “Is it all right if I work from home today, Helen?”

Though I sense her reluctance, she agrees. I go get my things from my desk, aching to my bones.

Saint skydiving.

Saint buying Victoria’s article.

Saint thinking I betrayed him.

Outside that afternoon, I stop when Edge stares back at me from a newsstand, one copy remaining on this side, a few on the other.

“You read that yet?” The man behind the newsstand whistles and laughs. “That reporter’s got her panties in a twist over the guy.”

I lift my head, prepared to scream at the man. Instead, I scan the picture of Saint that Helen used on the cover—those icy green eyes staring back at me. And yes, this man is right. I do have my panties in a twist over Saint. Not just my panties—my entire body. My entire life.

I miss him like nobody’s business.

I want to kiss him.

I want to squeeze him. With my arms. And my thighs. With my whole body until I BREAK or he breaks me, and that’s just fine, as long as he comes after me.

“Smart woman,” I finally whisper, emotion thickening my voice. “I think I’ll take him home with me.”

I buy the copy just because of Malcolm’s picture. Sharp tie, perfect collar, and that thick-lashed gaze, screaming to be warmed, that gets me. It’s a marvel how those eyes of green ice can so easily melt me.

I sit down on a bench with the magazine on my lap, brushing my fingertips over his eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if he will ever read what I wrote to him.

30

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29