by Kira Blakely
“Oh. Well, that hurts,” he said, grinning.
“She’s just younger, Dad. She gets it.”
“What, exactly, does she ‘get’?” Quentin asked.
“I don’t know. Me, I guess,” Morgan said simply.
Quentin held his daughter’s hand as they bounded across the street. Clouds began to coat the sky, growing gray and filling with rain. He stopped briefly and yanked Morgan’s zipper up her torso, closing her coat tightly. “Brrr,” he said. “It’s getting chilly.”
“So, she’s not coming?” Morgan asked, her bright eyes blinking.
“No. She has plans with a friend tonight,” Quentin answered truthfully. “Remember the girl she was with when we first met her on the elevator?”
“Oh,” Morgan said, her eyes downcast. “I thought we were her friends.”
“We are, honey. She just has to maintain her other life, as well. She’ll be around this weekend. I promise,” Quentin said, not expecting such certainty from his daughter about Charlotte. He rose to his feet and grasped her hand once more, darting them toward their apartment building and saying a brief hello to Angus, who grinned at him mischievously.
Quentin wondered if Angus knew he was sleeping with Charlotte. Then again, of course he did. He was the doorman, rich with secrets. Wasn’t that the purpose of the doorman, in the end?
“I think it’s too late to turn back, now,” Charlotte said softly, speaking with Rachel at the Brooklyn wine bar, tucked near the exposed brick wall. “I mean, I’m falling for him. Head over heels, really. But on the other hand, I know it’s against the rules. Like, I could lose my job. He could, too, I think. We could really fuck everything up.”
Rachel sipped her drink, assessing her friend with non-judgmental, yet thoughtful eyes. “I never did take you for the sleeping with your boss type,” she said, teasing her slightly, playfully. “But it suits you, I think. Your skin is brighter than I’ve ever seen it.”
“Ha,” Charlotte said, taking another sip. “I should have been fucking like this years ago. It just never suited me. I never felt anything for anyone. Until now.”
“And the daughter?”
“I love her,” Charlotte said, her eyes widening. “I love her like a younger sister, or a step-daughter, or…” She trailed off, snapping her palms over her cheeks. “Shit. I’m in too deep, already.”
“Don’t do this to yourself,” Rachel said. “Don’t make yourself feel guilty. You’re in it, you’re falling in love, and there’s not a lot else you can do, unless you want to quit. And I’m guessing that’s not what you want.”
“It’s not,” Charlotte breathed. “I want to write this feature, and I want to be a known music writer. But I also don’t want anyone to know.”
“That you’re sleeping with him, because it invalidates you. And on top of it, you could lose everything. And so could he.”
“I don’t think he even considers it,” Charlotte whispered. “He’s so into it, calling me into his office frequently, not caring if he stares at my ass while we’re there. It’s like he’s lost all sense of himself.”
“I think that’s what happens when people fall in love,” Rachel said, her voice teasing. “And I get it. You’re between a rock and a hard place. But just keep your head up. Roll with the punches. Maybe everything will work out.”
“Ugh. I just don’t know how,” Charlotte murmured. “And the worst of it is… I miss him. I miss him all the time. I want to run to his apartment right now and demand time with him. I want to make out with him on top of our building. Nothing else makes sense. And dammit, Rachel, this is the lead singer of Orpheus Arise, for god’s sake. None of this was in the cards for such a country bumpkin.”
“You’re still a country bumpkin,” Rachel said, winking. “You’ve just earned yourself a bit of sass since then, I’d say. A bit of Manhattan sass. Now, stop freaking out about it, and tell me something good. About the sex.” Her eyebrows rose high, waggling.
Could she even comprehend Charlotte’s panic?
Charlotte left Rachel in Brooklyn just after midnight, taking the train back to the Upper West Side and listening to the second Orpheus Arise album through headphones as the train blasted through the ground. The brooding, angry man in her head buds was the very man she’d slept with only that morning, before they’d both headed to work. He still contained that element of bad boy anger, of something brooding, like a storm, behind his eyes. And it made her pussy loosen, quivering with lust and desire.
She was going to avoid him that night, planning instead to go immediately to bed and wake up in the morning to work on her interview questions for Thick Soled. But as soon as her feet hit the hallway carpet, she pounded directly toward Quentin’s door, anxiety burning in her chest.
Not wanting to wake Morgan, she texted him from out front. He opened the door, revealing his sultry, muscled self, with just boxers and no shirt, his feet bare and large, flashing on the hardwood floor. He stared into her eyes, seeming to say a million things with one look.
Finally, Charlotte spoke.
“Are you sure we aren’t going to ruin everything?” she whispered. “I feel like this is our last opportunity to abort mission.”
Quentin tilted his head, almost incredulous. “I don’t want to jump off this ship. Not even if it’s sinking,” he said gruffly. “And it isn’t.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, taking a slight step forward. She felt his hands grip her waist and bring her closer to him. The heat of his groin rose up on her leg, and her pussy gave a heartbeat, a recognition, parting its peachy lips and preparing to feel whole, to be stretched, to be filled.
“Come in here, baby,” Quentin whispered, between soft kisses. “Come sleep with me. I’ll take away all your worries. You don’t need to live with them anymore.”
And somehow, Charlotte believed him, allowing herself to devolve into many layers of emotion and lust, stripping herself bare for him and diving between his sheets, becoming his angelic form, his gorgeous intern, the girl who was risking everything to be with him.
She hoped their delicate balance would never falter.
Chapter 25
“That interview,” Randy said the following Wednesday morning, hours before Charlotte was meant to leave to meet with Keith from Thick Soled. “That’s soon?”
They were standing at the coffee machine, with Charlotte clinging to her steaming cup and Randy filling his, watching as the dirt-brown trickle came from the tiny slot.
“Today,” Charlotte affirmed. “I’ve been working on the questions literally non-stop.”
“I can tell something’s on your mind,” Randy said, touching his temple. “Can feel the nerves coming off you. You’re all jittery.”
“Ha. I know,” Charlotte said, her voice soft. “I’m an anxious wreck. But once this is over, I can start writing the damn thing. If it’s just me and a computer, then it’s not as intimidating.”
“Ha. You sound like an artist, with some paint and a canvas,” Randy said, teasing her. He lifted his coffee mug and pattered toward the hallway, with Charlotte following like an injured dog. The secret was beginning to eat at her, nibbling at the edge of her heart and causing her shoulders to slump. Her only friends in New York City were a few of her intern friends, along with Randy. And she couldn’t divulge the secret of her love life without destroying her relationship with them.
She felt poisonous.
“Anyway, nobody deserves this like you do,” Randy said, assuring her. “And you’re completely personable. I would open up to you, at least.”
“Ha,” Charlotte said, laughing. “You don’t need much to open up to anyone. You just spew it out, like a drunk girl. Which is something I appreciate, by the way.”
“Good. Because I’ll keep telling you all the horrible stories about my ex-boyfriend until I get you to open up about your love life. I know you’re fucking. I can see it on your skin.”
“People keep telling me my skin looks good,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. “It makes
me think my skin didn’t look good before.”
“Before what? Before you met Mr. Right?” Randy asked, teasing.
“No. I mean. No,” Charlotte said, tossing herself into her desk. She gave him a secretive smile, wanting to keep the silliness up. “Now, no more questions. I have to focus.”
“Whatever. Just don’t get married without telling me,” Randy said, joining her. He began to type furiously on his screen, diving from line to line on his notes for the feature he was pitching at the next writers’ meeting.
Charlotte knew it wouldn’t get picked up. It was too imprecise, too last year. Perhaps, when she found time the following day, she could help him stretch it out a bit. She’d become his editor, fueling him as far as she could in the industry. Even if he didn’t have the skills, she wanted him by her side. Their friendship was beginning to mean something, even outside the office.
Charlotte met Quentin outside his office at two that afternoon, armed with a notebook, three pens, and a recorder, which she planned to use during the interview. She grimaced in panic as he joined her, looking cool, suave, unfettered.
“Somebody looks anxious,” he said.
“Let’s just not talk about it,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.
Around them, the other editors and writers gave them sideways glances. Since Maggie’s “chat” with Charlotte the previous week, she’d kept a wide berth, perhaps assuming that Charlotte would go straight to Quentin if she tried to “put her in her place” again. Charlotte was clearly gaining power with Quentin. This much was obvious to anyone.
“Ready?” he asked.
They entered the elevator together, standing at least two feet apart. The air around them sizzled, with Charlotte’s fingers twitching expectantly. The moment the gray doors closed, she felt Quentin’s hand on her ass, swirling her into him. She kissed him languidly, with wet lips, closing her eyes. Her body went lax with longing. His lips parted hers, darting his tongue within her mouth and causing a wayward moan to draw up from her throat.
“Wow,” she breathed, breaking the kiss.
“Impressed?” he asked, sounding playful.
Her eyebrows rose high. “Cocky today, huh?”
“You should be the one who’s cocky,” Quentin told her firmly. “It’s your first interview, babe. Get a little confidence. Stand up straighter. You’ve fucking got this.”
“Ha,” Charlotte breathed. “I just want—“ She stopped, feeling emotion brim through her. “I want everyone to think I’m a proper journalist. I want to be taken seriously.”
“And you will. After this,” Quentin said.
They still had a few hours before the interview and had left the office early purposefully, wanting to prepare with a drink and a bit of chatter about her interview questions. They went immediately to the Brooklyn bar Keith and the others had agreed upon, with its exposed brick walls, its cement bar top, and its mustached bartender, who served them both cocktails with slices or lime and orange floating at the top. Charlotte sipped hers evenly, feeling an immediate rush in her brain. “Damn,” she breathed. “This is really going to knock me out.”
“It’s going to loosen you up,” Quentin corrected, leaning closer to her. “Let’s see those questions.”
Charlotte pressed her notebook into his hand, watching as he flipped through it evenly. His eyes coursed down the lined page and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders readjusting. Above them, a grunge song from the ‘90s blared from the scratchy speakers. Charlotte approved.
“These are good, Char,” Quentin said, smacking the notebook back on the counter. “Really. I think your questions alone are going to set you apart from the other assholes they normally interview with. Including myself.” He smirked.
“You aren’t just saying that, right?” Charlotte asked, almost demanding an answer.
“No,” he said. “I promise. And you’re about as passionate about this as Morgan is before her piano recitals. I always have to talk her down from a bridge before each one. ‘Dad, I’m going to mess up and no one is going to respect me and I’m going to die.’ Every single fucking time.”
Charlotte grinned. “A girl after my own heart.”
“She hopes so, at least,” Quentin said. Her eyelashes flickered. “You know, I haven’t dated anyone seriously while I’ve had Morgan.”
“That’s kind of shocking,” Charlotte said. “She’s seven. You haven’t had anyone?”
“I’ve devoted my life to her. And the fact that this human who’s my entire existence respects you this much—I mean, that says everything. It tells me I’m not wasting my time.”
“Good,” Charlotte breathed.
They hadn’t spoken so heavily about their attraction, not since they’d begun. It had been nearly three weeks, although it felt like much longer, perhaps months. She sipped her cocktail, simmering with electricity, hopeful that the afternoon ahead unfolded evenly, without her saying the wrong thing or overstepping or making herself look a fool, especially in front of Quentin.
The band arrived about an hour later, while Quentin sipped on his third drink. Charlotte had ordered a water with lemon, wanting to retain some semblance of a sharp brain. She rose when she saw their rugged figures, watching as their eyes skirted from Quentin, back to her, confused, really, why she was taking the lead.
“Hi, boys,” Quentin said, rising and shaking their hands. “Keith. Martin. Cody. This is Charlotte. She’s one of our interns, and she’s taking the lead on this. I hope you’ll give her the respect she needs.”
“We aren’t that breed of rock star, Q,” Cody said, chortling and sitting beside Charlotte. “Not like you were.”
“We respect women,” Martin said, teasing him. “Charlotte. Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I heard you’re writing your first feature?”
“That’s true,” Charlotte said, her voice deep. If she didn’t believe in herself, who would? She slipped her recorder to the ON position and then grabbed her pen, beginning to take notes. She knew she looked harried and tried to focus on her breathing, feeling her tongue dry.
“And I appreciate you guys agreeing to do this. I know last time it was just Keith who came out to the interview, but I do think the article will breathe with more of your voices.”
“Cool. Yeah, people normally just want to talk to Keith,” Martin said, rolling his eyes playfully. “But whatever. Even when we were kids, girls only ever wanted to talk to Keith.”
“He’s our hidden factor. Our secret weapon,” the other band member, Cody, chimed in.
“Come on, guys,” Keith said, knocking his rugged forehead forward, clearly wishing they’d move from the topic. “I know you’re both obsessed with me, but this is a bit too much.”
“Ha,” Cody said.
“You’re actually on a pretty good theme, here,” Charlotte began, feeling vibrant, ready. “I wanted to discuss your initial trajectory and your experience with music as kids, growing up together. Your influences. And then, how your band links back to this nostalgia trip, upholding bands like Orpheus Arise and so many others.”
“Oh, hey, Orpheus Arise,” Cody said, nodding his head toward Quentin. “Good to see you. Although would kill to see you behind a guitar again.”
“Those days are over, boys,” Quentin said. “I only operate a computer these days.”
“Damn. Grunge is dead,” Martin said.
“It’s not. You guys are keeping it alive,” Charlotte murmured.
“That set you guys played. In the basement in Brooklyn in 2006 with the Beehives. Shit, man. I saw that on YouTube and I nearly lost my mind,” Keith said.
“It was a baller show, man. Seriously,” Martin added.
“It’s not dead,” Charlotte interjected. “Because you guys are keeping it alive. Talk about why it’s worth it to you. Why do you insist on blasting it with electricity and energy and bringing it to a new generation?”
Quentin splayed his hands forward, palms up, gesturing to the boys. Perhaps they spoke the sa
me language, Charlotte thought. Quentin seemed to interject, saying, “Talk to the girl. Not to me.”
And the boys behaved. They began to answer her, drawing inspiration from stories of their joint past and telling the tale of how they’d become the present-day Thick Soled—a name they’d arrived on when Keith’s mom had bought him thick-soled shoes and everyone at school had made fun of him.
“Keith hasn’t allowed anyone to make fun of him since then,” Martin said, laughing. “He’s not terribly thick-skinned, to say the least.”
The interview carried on from there, with all five of them ordering several rounds of drinks. Quentin hardly talked, only answering questions about “how things were” when he was a top-tier rock star. Charlotte brimmed with pleasure throughout the conversation, sensing the truth: she was damn good at this. This was what she was meant to be doing. And despite the fact that she’d probably gotten the gig through sleeping with Quentin, she still saw nowhere else she belonged more.
Thick Soled excused themselves after the third drink, shaking Charlotte’s hand with verve and then clapping Quentin on the shoulder blade, telling him, once more, they’d “kill” to see him perform again. They trudged from the bar table, exiting into the flurry of passenger traffic, leaving Quentin and Charlotte in the shadowy bar, the only drinkers in the establishment.
“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, holding out her fingers. They were quaking. She flashed a bright smile, aware of how silly she looked. “Shit. I’m shivering. But that was absolutely—incredible.”
“I can tell you loved every second,” he answered, leaning closer to her. “I was falling for you more and more every second. You reeled them in when they got too far away from a question topic, and you allowed them to dance through different anecdotes, having fun with it.” He clapped his hands together, almost aghast. “Shit. It’s going to be a much better article than the one I was planning to write. It’s going to be about a million times better.”
Charlotte leaped to her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulsed herself into his lap, unable to rein in her joy and sexuality, and then brought her lips around his, kissing him passionately. He wrapped his arm around her back, cupping her close.