Manwhore (The Manwhore Book 1)

For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been surfing the Net and clicking through all his newly tagged pictures. There are also some older pictures of girls in bikinis playing mini golf at his place. And pictures of him getting out of a chopper with girl pilots wearing nothing but tiny shorts.

“It really bothers me, seeing all these pictures, because a lot of these girls go to him, he doesn’t ask them to come cling to him,” I tell Gina.

“Dude, Saint is big on whoring around. Must be all the attention he never got as a kid.”

“More like he’s a healthy male and women just throw themselves at him. I’ve seen YouTube videos dedicated to him, of women stripping or washing their cars, offering to come wash his. In fact, look at this. . . .”

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.