I feel suddenly so spoiled and decadent when I slide into the front passenger seat of the shiny chrome-and-black BUG 1 Malcolm gave me the keys to. It smells divine, looks divine, and I’m horny just thinking about driving the fucker.
I exhale as I close the door, and click the ignition button.
The motor rumbles and scares a little laugh out of me. Holy crap.
The wheel slides under my fingers, the seat hugs me, vibrating with the rumble of the motor. This car isn’t a bug, it’s a beast.
A beast that should be driven at breakneck speed and I’m cautiously driving at half the speed limit to a thousand envious stares of those passing.
An old man passes by with a grin and I’m glad he got to feel superior today.
After a quick pit stop at home for a fresh set of clothes, I walk into Bluekin’s kick-ass downtown offices in Chicago. I’m running on adrenaline.
The thing I most love about this place is . . . well, hell. Everything. Their covers are usually hand-drawn sketches, and somehow this allows for a very ample diversity to the content inside. If anyone colors outside the lines, it’s Bluekin.
Their pieces on human interests are always real, sober, and very heartwarming—but that’s not all they feature. They have everything from funny articles to the most somber articles, covering every topic under an umbrella that they keep making wider and wider.
I’m rather blessed to be interviewed by Mr. Charles Harkin today, a very well-respected member of the company who used to work at a big New York magazine.
“The CEO is an acquaintance of Saint’s. He was impressed by how thoroughly you seemed to grasp him, and especially how brave you were in your honesty. You should be very proud of that piece.”
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.”
“You, woman, are in debt to me,” he declares, and hangs up.
He comes out, grumbling as he gets into his car and pulls it out of the garage, and I park with care—triple-checking all my mirrors. Then do the same when I open the car doors and slide outside.
Valentine comes running back into the parking garage. He gapes. “WHA—!” He cuts himself off with a breath.
“I didn’t mean to bring this,” I promise, lifting my hands when he levels accusing eyes at me. “Otis is sick, I planned to take a cab to my interview, he said, ‘Here.’ And when I left he said, ‘Drive it like you stole it—but don’t get caught.’ I’m nervous driving it. If someone scratches it I’ll die.”
“What—I cannot—” He’s shaking his head and having a combustion. “Dude, it’s a fucking BUGATTI! It’s worth like two-point-three million dollars!”
“Hush, it’s hard enough to drive it carefully without knowing that. It’s responsive and energetic. You touch the pedal and the bastard just goes.”
“ ’Cause it’s a V-sixteen engine and like twelve hundred horsepower. You . . . Bugattis shouldn’t even be driven by women, dude, this is rude!”
“Bug off, you’re gay, Val, you’re like half woman.”
“Holy shit, let’s see it inside!”
My excitement from holding Malcolm Saint’s key in my hand comes back when I let Valentine open the car and peer inside. “Dude, holy shit! This sends a message—he’s so pussy-whipped, man. Did people see you take this out?”
My lips curl. “A tiger doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep. He doesn’t care what people think.”
Valentine drools and moans and rubs it for a while. Then, “Where did you interview?”
“Bluekin.” My face crumples a little as I lock Malcolm’s baby and we head to the elevators. “I can’t stay here, Valentine. Saint’s father is taking over, and my loyalty is elsewhere now.”
“I know, Rache, I can’t sleep, I tell you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do either, but I should probably start looking too. Everyone says Noel Saint’s a fucking asshole. The only one who can take him on is his son and they say Saint is done with him—rightly so. A man’s got to move forward, not stay with those who want to bring him to the pits.”
Completely unlike Valentine, he suddenly looks crestfallen. He sighs. “When new owners take over it’s like everyone will be canned, they like to start fresh, bring in their new blood, take care of any little mafias inside, purge it all. If you hear of anything where you’re going . . .”
“I will,” I promise as we hit our floor. “Good luck, Valentine.”
In the newsroom—well, let’s just say it’s not called newsroom for nothing. It seems the little white Bug in the parking garage caused quite a stir.
Helen summons me to her office a few hours after I start jotting down my new piece, which I think will be called “What does your car say about him and/or you?”
“I’m kind of jealous of your position right now,” Helen tells me when I walk in.
“What?”
“You look radiant. Look at you! Everyone is talking about you and your Saint. His car downstairs. I’m becoming a bit of a Saint fan.”
“Because we’re being bought by the dad?”
She zips her mouth. She grins. “Tell me all the rumors are true. The three S’s.”
“What?”
“Size, stamina, and seduction.”
“Who said that?” I roll my eyes. “Stop talking about him.”
“Sex symbols are objectified.”
“Off-limits to discuss here from now on, Helen. That piece should be enough. Permission to go work now?”
She waves me off with a chuckle, then calls, “Rachel . . .”
“Yes?”
“Is it true? You’re looking?”
I realize she was joking with me, acting my friend and teasing, because she wants to know.
I look at her, suddenly feeling a like a complete deserter because I’m leaving Edge. Like those rats who instantly jump and leave the sinking ship, rather than staying there and manning it. But I’m so determined to work things out with Malcolm and staying here under his father’s thumb wouldn’t help my cause in the least.
“I won’t work for Malcolm’s father,” I say.
“Does your boyfriend know?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just . . .” I inhale. “Edge won’t be hurting my relationship this time around. I love it here but . . . my relationship with him now comes first. I really want to make it work, Helen. In my gut it just feels so right, if I let him go without a fight I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Her eyes soften, then she shakes her head as if angry at herself. “Enough about this speculating! Get to work.” She snaps her fingers. “But Rachel . . . I don’t think the owners are going to let you go that easy. Noel Saint wants you at Edge.”
“Well, then that’s even more of a reason to leave. He can go BLEEP himself for all I care.”
I go back to my desk and then text, People are dying at the office over my ride
I love it, he writes back. But paying for their funerals is going to consume so much of my time that I’d rather spend it doing something else.
So when can I take your Bug back? You could play a little with me too if you’d like
OMG! I’m such a slut. I did not text him that.
But I did.
I did and he answers, I’m feeling rather playful. Sadly, 9:00 is the best?
