MANWHORE
by Katy Evans
I look very different than the girl Saint met in his
office. But I don’t feel any different. My nerves are frayed to the edges as I
give my name to a bouncer at the entrance and I’m allowed into the club, every
part of me snug and tight in my dress as my black heels hit the floor.
Whereas M4 was all museum-like, the Ice Box is pure dark
decadence. Ice sculptures sit on pedestals around the room. Cages with
body-painted dancers hang from the ceiling. A bar with white and blue lights
stretches from one wall to another.
Strobe lights flash across the space as I get jostled by
the crowd. The bass thumps as the song “Waves” by Mr. Probz plays for the
dancing crowd. Drinks are flowing on shiny silver trays, and the drinks are so
adorned—by fruits, olives, salt glitter or colorful liquid swirls—they’re like
artworks. This isn’t a normal swanky club. It’s the rich boys’ club and
everywhere you look are beautiful people wearing beautiful things.
“I met him! God! When he said hi I thought
I’d faint…!”
My nerves eat at me as I hear that, because I know for
sure they’re talking about him. Trying to breathe, I wind deeper into the club,
wishing for Gina so bad I ache. The room is packed with women, some clearly on
the hunt, others already paired with someone, a few hanging out with their
friends. I breathe slowly, in and out, telling myself I can do this. It’s just
a club. I can have some fun. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out to a club,
and never a club like this, but it doesn’t matter. I can interview people, and
if I’m lucky, I can do more than that.
After scanning the area and trying to find the best
spy-spots, I go to the top level and that’s when I get the best look at what’s
happening downstairs at the most crowded corner.
And speak of the devil. My heart stops a beat when I see
that dark head of his, and that loathed, burning knot in my stomach squeezes
with a vengeance. I swear no one in my
life has ever made me this nervous.
He sits with his arms stretched out behind him, a wine
glass and two women vying for his attention as he chats with his friends. His
masculine face is illuminated in certain angles when the lights flash—his
beauty unprecedented.
Okay. Breathing.
Do I want him to know I’m here or not?
A watery sensation seems to spread down my limbs as I
force myself to go downstairs. I wind a path to the ladies’ room and worm
myself through the throng of bodies toward a wide mirror above a set of
modernist floating sinks. A group of women preen at themselves while I look our
reflections. To my right, a woman pouts her red lips, and to my left, her
friend pouts her pink ones. Me? I’m still me, but I look extravagant, like I
was born here. I look very different than the young girl in coveralls he met.
Will he even recognize me like this?
“You going to the after-party?” Red Lips asks Pink Lips as
they retouch their lipsticks.
“No key yet.”
“Lookie lookie.” Red Lips waves a keycard in the air.
There’s squealing in the room and she tucks the key into
her bra. “Mine!”
“So there’s an after-party?” I ask them.
“At Saint’s penthouse,” one says, nodding.
“How do you get invited to this party?”
“A hundred keys are distributed during the evening.”
A sudden thought of stealing the very key she’s just
tucked into her bra flickers through my mind. I mean, it’s just a key. It
couldn’t possibly be a felony.
“Babe,” she tells
me, “stop giving my key the eye! I’ve been waiting three years to get a key
like this. Go and work your ass out there if you want one. Only the finest
asses make it.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to look at my ass in the mirror
questioningly. Gina says I’ve got a great ass. It’s perky and the perfect
handful, some would say. But would Saint say that?
I sigh and lean against the wall, then I spot all the
little writings on an open stall door. I narrow my eyes, forcing my focus.
Malcolm for my baby-daddy
I sucked Saint’s cock
Tahoe rammed me right here
Callan licks cunt like a caveman
I head back into the noise and try to find a good spot for
spying when I see him again. The two women won’t leave his side and now my
stomach for some reason feels jumpy, annoying me. One of the blondes takes a
shot from the waiter, licks the rim, and then adds salt.
Saint edges back and watches her with an expression of
casual boredom, but his lips are curled, as if he’s having some fun.
I’m so engrossed watching—a little too fascinated and a
little bit disgusted—I don’t realize a guard has walked up to me until he’s
right in my face. He signals to the back of the room—to where Saint’s best
friends are now watching me. Saint isn’t even looking my way. Oh no, he’s too
busy being entertained, still wearing that almost-bored smile. Maybe they need
to take their tops off to get him excited?
All three men fit in perfectly with the lavish
surroundings, but I can’t look at the other two. Only at Malcolm. Malcolm’s
dark good looks blend with the shadows like Hades in his own little corner of
hell.
Suddenly he laughs over something one of the blondes does
and he turns a little, his eyes landing straight on me—and stopping there.
I feel his stare like a hit of adrenaline. I want to look
away, but I can’t, I feel trapped. I don’t know if I made this up but I
could’ve sworn his chest jerked as if he sucked in a breath.
Does he recognize me?
Do I want him to?
Suddenly the atmosphere is so heavy I can’t breathe. My
lungs feel like rocks and I really can’t breathe.
As he rakes me in one fast, complete sweep of his eyes that makes my stomach
grip nervously, he takes in my pumps up to my long blonde hair, and I become
aware of my dress hugging the top of my thighs, my hips, my abdomen, my breasts
and even my ass. Oh god. I force myself to follow the guard in his direction, every
step accelerating my heartbeat. In that black suit and without a tie, the top
button of his shirt open and his hair a bit rumpled, Saint is the embodiment of
luxurious and decadent and sin. He is Sin Itself and I feel like an
absolute…virgin.
He stretches his long legs out before him, his stare fixed
on mine without any seeming inclination to move away.
“Mr. Saint,” the
guard clears his throat. “The gentlemen had me summon her.”
Although his smile doesn’t waver, the look on his face is
completely remote and unreadable.
“Here
she is, gentlemen,” the guard then tells the other two—the blond and the
copper-haired men looking at me like lunch.
“Tahoe,” the blonde says.
“Callan,” the copper-haired says.
Saint
merely pats the blondes on the butt and sends them on her way, then he reaches
out to take my elbow somehow in an instinctive gesture that brings me a strange
sense of comfort. I don’t know anybody else here, so when he tugs me to his
side, I go down and sit next to him on the edge of the long booth.
And that’s when he leans his dark head over to me and
murmurs, “Malcolm.” His voice is so deep and rumbling, I shiver.
“Rachel,” I lamely
offer.
He raises his eyebrow and stares at me. What are you doing here, Rachel? he
seems to ask.
I’m wondering what to say, when Tahoe lifts his drink and
drains it. “You’re up past your bedtime.” The Texan oil baby. Oozing charm,
drawling out the words.
I don’t know why but I’m acutely aware of the position of
Saint’s body in relation to mine. He just straightened fully in the booth and
somehow shifted so his arm is very noticeably stretched out behind me.
“Like they say, no rest for the wicked,” I answer Tahoe
with an extra-wide smile, my heart pounding over Saint’s nearness.
Suddenly I can smell him. Just him. Among all the mingled
scents in the room, it’s Saint somehow in my lungs, in every breath. He radiates a vitality that
draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me but something in his presence, so close
to me, soothes me too.
“Apparently there’s a dress code—Saint had to drop his
tail and horns at the door,” Callan jokes as a waiter sets a drink before me.
“Oh yes.” I tug the hem of my skirt self-consciously, “I
had to drop half my dress.”
“Did you now?” Tahoe asks.
“T.”
One word, one letter, from Malcolm.
“Yeah, Saint?” Tahoe returns, lifting his eyebrows.
“Dibs.”
I almost spit out the drink. I cough and slam my hand to
my chest, and Saint calmly reaches out to take my drink from my hand and sets
it aside. “Okay?” he asks, ducking his
head and peering into my face.
I give one last cough and squeeze my eyes shut and nod,
and when I open my eyes, Saint is the only thing I see. I find him staring at
me in such a penetrating way I can feel the stare in my bones.
“Did you just get to the party, Rachel?” he asks.
As he waits for my reply, he reaches for my cocktail and
extends the glass out to me. His wrist is thick and looks so strong, so golden,
his skin smooth, his arm dusted with a little bit of hair as I cautiously take
it from him, our fingers brushing.
Tahoe reaches for his coat pocket and waves whatever he
extracted in the air. “Saint! May I?”
Excitement leaps in my chest when I realize it’s the key!
“Not happening, that’s not her scene,” Malcolm murmurs
besides me.
“Aw! Come on, let me give her a key. She’s a dime, man,”
Tahoe drawls.
I’m so disbelieving, I’m not even breathing as Malcolm
slowly stands. I follow him up, staring up into his face in confusion.
“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I demand. I feel
like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m dizzy. Confused. And
unexpectedly hurt.
For the first time since we met, he looks at me like he’s
actually losing his temper…with me. He
leans closer and puts his lips close to my ear. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s
not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look laden with warning
and walks away, blending into the crowd.
Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless. “That’s a first,”
Tahoe mumbles and heads away.
I feel myself burn in humiliation and confusion. Worse is
that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around the day before walks
over to me.
“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive you,” he says,
hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge man, with a bald
head, an earpiece, and no expression. A second later, he’s opening the car door
of the Rolls for me.
Seriously?
Did Saint call him just now and ask him to escort me home?
Aware of people staring and seeing me being led to Saint’s
car, I climb into the back of the car and I murmur my thanks simply because
it’s not this man’s fault.
The car smells new and expensive and, like him. A bottle of wine and water bottles
ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is just
right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands down my dress and
look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?
I feel as if he pulled the rug from under me and reminded
me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody ruthless.
I can’t take the heat in the back of my ears and on my
cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window. Focus,
Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the details
about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but ride
here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.
COMING SOON
Google: http://tinyurl.com/l4c7nnc
RELEASE
DATE: March 24th
MANWHORE
book #1 of ‘the manwhore series’
Is it possible to expose Chicago’s hottest
player—without getting played?
This is
the story I’ve been waiting for all my life, and its name is Malcolm Kyle
Preston Logan Saint. Don’t be fooled by that last name though. There’s nothing
holy about the man except the hell his parties raise. The hottest entrepreneur
Chicago has ever known, he’s a man’s man with too much money to spend and too
many women vying for his attention.
Mysterious.
Privileged. Legendary. His entire life he’s been surrounded by the press as
they dig for tidbits to see if his fairytale life is for real or all mirrors
and social media lies. Since he hit the scene, his secrets have been his and
his alone to keep. And that’s where I come in.
Assigned
to investigate Saint and reveal his elusive personality, I’m determined to make
him the story that will change my career.
But I
never imagined he would change my life. Bit by bit, I start to wonder if I’m
the one discovering him…or if he’s uncovering me.
What happens when the man they call
Saint, makes you want to sin?
Hey! I’m Katy Evans and I love family, books, life, and
love. I’m married with two children and three dogs and spend my time baking,
walking, writing, reading, and taking care of my family. Thank you for spending
your time with me and picking up my story. I hope you had an amazing time with
it, like I did. If you’d like to know more about books in progress, look me up
on the Internet, I’d love to hear from you!
Email: authorkatyevans@gmail.com
