by Kira Blakely
Of course, the moment Maggie understood that Charlotte was taking on a feature, alone, she appeared at her desk, without so much as an email notice, and demanded Charlotte come to her office immediately. Charlotte rose, again feeling the aching eyes of the interns on her back, recognizing that, somehow, she was in trouble. She felt the warning signs, saw the bright lights. “Turn back,” her muscles screamed.
Maggie opened the door to her small, closet-sized office, which she hardly used and certainly never invited anyone into—except, apparently, when she was firing them. She pressed her lips tightly together, looking like a strange, turtle-like creature, her anger pulsing out from every orifice.
“Quentin’s informed me that you’re taking your first lead,” she said, her voice curt.
“I am,” Charlotte said, not sitting.
“Please. Have a seat,” Maggie said, gesturing.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Right. Well. I wanted to… give you your due congratulations, for the feature. It is a marvelous idea, and it seems you’ll take it where it needs to go. But I wanted to give you advice.”
Charlotte’s toes curled in her shoes, feeling suddenly trapped. Her inhales came sparingly, making her dizzy.
“What is it?” she murmured.
“Well, first of all, darling, I know just how you feel about Quentin,” Maggie said, her eyes flashing. “I can see it in every crevice of your body. You’re attracted to him, and you’re not the first one. No.”
Charlotte’s lips parted, suddenly. She throttled with panic.
“But that’s not to say he’ll take to you, Charlotte. I know you’re a gorgeous girl. Everyone can see it. But he’s already fired you once, remember. I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get you back on the payroll.”
Charlotte knew Maggie was bluffing. Maggie had fired her out of turn, out of jealousy, perhaps. She quivered, not wanting to argue. If she revealed what she actually knew, she’d be showing all her cards. And that was against the non-fraternization clause, completely and totally. That would destroy her for good.
“I got the feature because he liked the idea,” Charlotte whispered. “I’m not trying to… to be with him.“
“Ha. I can see right through you,” Maggie said harshly. “I just wanted to tell you to watch yourself. Don’t make yourself out to be a fool. You could ruin your career, which is proving to have quite a bright future, isn’t that right?” She mocked, making Charlotte out to be a fool.
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I just want to write the feature.”
“My eyes are on you, Charlotte,” Maggie whispered. “You may think you’re queen of the interns, but that can fall apart in a second.”
She flipped her red hair, returning to her chair and beginning to highlight things with a bright blue marker. She hummed evenly, like an evil villain.
Charlotte stared at her stupidly, trying to remember to breathe. What the hell?
“You can leave, now,” Maggie said primly. “I have tons to do before I leave. Unlike you, I have actual job responsibilities, besides flirting.”
Charlotte spun from Maggie’s office and shut the door a bit too loudly, causing several editors and writers to snap their heads toward her. They’d surely noticed her in the previous few weeks, perhaps even sensing the tension between her and Maggie. None of them made eye contact with her, not choosing to include her, as she reeked of intern status.
Entering back into the intern office, she made momentary eye contact with Pamela, who grinned madly, like a clown.
“Somebody had a bad meeting with Maggie,” Pamela said, her voice heavy with snark. “I don’t suppose you got fired again, did you?”
Charlotte ripped her purse from her desk and snapped her laptop closed, anger zipping through her.
“Actually, she just wanted to discuss the feature I’m writing for the magazine. About Thick Soled,” Charlotte said, her eyes dancing with anger. She felt on the brink of insanity.
Pamela’s jaw dropped. Interns didn’t get features—this was a hard and fast rule. She shot up from her desk, clearly trying to think of some kind of haughty response. But Charlotte was already bursting from the intern office, seeking solace in the silence of the elevator, where she finally collapsed in a fit of tears.
She was a mockery. She was a scam. She was nothing.
Chapter 24
Friday afternoon, there was a slight crispness to the air, an assurance that fall was coming, easing into their summertime, soon to rob them of afternoon warmth and evening sun. Quentin left the office early enough to pick up Morgan at school. She’d been back since the previous Monday, brimming with frustration at being “a few days behind on piano” after her hospital stay, but generally content to be elementary-school-popular, having been one of the only kids to stay the night in the hospital.
Quentin waited out front, a small, brown paper sack in his hands, holding two chocolate croissants he’d picked up at the local French bakery. Perhaps ice cream was out of the cards for a while.
As he waited, he checked his phone, finding a small message from Charlotte. Immediately, a smile flickered across his face and his heart palpitated, showing his lust and growing intense affection for this girl. As they’d grown increasingly emotionally attached to one another, they’d also found ways to sneak around their schedules, hooking up in his office at work or making love after Morgan left to visit her mother. He found that he felt lighter, more even-keeled than he had in years, and he knew it was a result of this budding relationship.
In truth, he’d never felt this way.
When Charlotte brought up the non-fraternization policy, Quentin always talked over her, teasing her, telling her not to worry, they would figure it out later. And he was certain, somehow, they would. Or perhaps he was just too giddy to care, really, what the future held. He was enjoying the lust-filled waves of the present.
Morgan leaped into his arms, becoming a flurry of long blond hair and sticky fingers, which she confessed was due to the snack she’d just eaten. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to have my croissant,” she said, her eyebrows high.
“If you say so,” Quentin said, guiding her toward the sidewalk and into the swarm of children and parents, picking up and rushing away.
“Is Charlotte coming over tonight?” Morgan asked, ripping a slab of crispness from her croissant.
“Do you want her to come over tonight?” Quentin asked, curious. Morgan had brought up Charlotte more and more often, recently, leaving him to believe she was falling for her, just as he was.
“I mean, definitely. She’s way cooler than you,” Morgan said with certainty.
“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.”