by Kira Blakely
“I want to take you out to celebrate,” Quentin said. “I want you to divorce yourself from all that worry you’ve been holding onto, and I want you to have a good time with me.”
“Where do you want to go?” Charlotte whispered.
“I know just what you’ll love.”
Quentin paid for the massive tab with a flourish of his credit card and then grasped her hand, leading her into the sun-drenched, early fall streets. She slipped a cardigan over her shoulders, retrieved from her bag, and added her sunglasses atop her nose, conscious that all the panic she’d had, jostling around her heart for the past week or so, was receding quickly.
And she hadn’t even made a total fool of herself.
“God, I just want to shout it from the rooftops,” she breathed, giggling. “I want to tell the world that I fucking did it. I fucking killed that interview.”
“Hah,” Quentin said, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I love seeing you this happy.”
He led her down a side alley, toward a rusty set of steps. Although Charlotte was a bit hesitant, she trudged up behind him. Music built up in her ears slowly, gravitating from the rooftop.
“Is this a roof party?” she asked, breathless. She hadn’t yet seen this “side” of New York, although it had certainly been something she’d dream of.
Quentin didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand firmly and pulled her up the final few steps, delivering them to a landing. A man stood out front, wearing dark sunglasses and balding in the center, front part of his head. He wore a rugged leather jacket; his jeans were holed and too tight on his rather thick frame. But the man grasped onto Quentin’s hand and then gave him a masculine hug, one that spoke of years of partying, of raucous times.
“Q,” he said, his voice booming. “Good to see you again, man. You’ve been out of the scene for years.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” Quentin said. “Thought it wouldn’t be a bad time to rejoin. This is my friend Charlotte. Charlotte, this is Peter. Pete.”
“Pete,” Charlotte said, a smile snaking across her lips. She shook Pete’s hand, feeling suddenly like a specimen.
“You always did have the prettiest girlfriends,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Back to your old tricks, I see.”
“Nah,” Quentin said firmly. “I’m a changed man. A dad. And a professional. Fuck, it’s been a while. I need a drink.” His eyebrows rose high. He joined Pete’s raucous laugh, both of them seeming to fall into reverie. Charlotte shifted her weight, listening to the rock music, revving from just over the fence.
“No entrance fee for you guys, then,” Pete said, gesturing inward. “Just go have a good time.”
He stamped them both with black images on their inner wrists and then swept them toward the roof party, with Quentin slipping a firm hand around her waist. Charlotte buzzed with the previous bar’s cocktails, feeling herself transported to a different world: to Quentin’s old world of drugs and sex and abandonment. This was the world she’d craved, from her lonely position in Ohio. The world she’d expected for herself, as a music groupie.
She’d arrived.
As they entered the rooftop party, Charlotte gaped, in awe of the gorgeous guests. A band strummed guitars in the corner, wearing the height of hipster cool, their eyes covered in sunglasses and their jeans sucking close to their skin. Girls leaned heavily against tables, their breasts glowing in the soft light of the late afternoon. Drinks were poured heavily and passed to men in hip hats with mustaches, bringing white wines back to their girl companions. It was clear that everyone had a purpose, everyone had money, everyone was creating a kind of show, for all their peers to see.
“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, whispering into Quentin’s ear. “I don’t think I’ve been to such an exclusive party before.”
Quentin laughed, guiding her to the bar. He ordered them two craft beers and then carried the frothing glasses to the edge of the roof, giving them a grand view of Manhattan and the sun, lingering at the height of several of the skyscrapers. He clinked his glass with hers, congratulating her with a firm nod.
“I’m saying this as your boss. You’re a marvelous journalist,” he said.
Charlotte eyed him. “And what would you say if you weren’t my boss?”
Quentin leaned heavily into her ear, whispering, “I’d say I want to fuck you against the edge of this roof, for everyone to see, just so they know that I have you, I’m the one taking you home.”
Charlotte shivered, feeling her heart rate quickened. “I’ve always wanted to fuck in front of people,” she answered, her eyes dancing. “Kind of a fantasy of mine.”
“Oh?” Quentin asked her, smirking. “Maybe we can make that dream come true.”
Quentin and Charlotte sipped their beers, chatting amicably and heightening their friendship and lust for one another. Charlotte found it difficult to stop giggling, surprised, at a certain point, at how hilarious she found Quentin. “I wouldn’t have assumed you—the king of grunge—would be so funny.”
“When you’re as famous as I used to be, you have to have a sense of humor about it. Otherwise, you’ll go absolutely crazy.”
Mere minutes later, the band quit playing their set. The lead singer wrapped his microphone with the cord, passed it off, and then shuffled toward Quentin and Charlotte, his eyes centered upon Quentin. He gulped audibly, despite his seeming put-together chicness.
“Quentin? Quentin McDonnell?” he breathed, reaching out his hand.
Quentin shook it, probably used to this type of interaction. Charlotte watched as the younger man slipped his sunglasses from his nose, lending Quentin his dark green eyes. “I just wanted to come tell you thanks for listening to our set. We all grew up with Orpheus Arise. And it’s really a dream come true to meet you.”
“You guys partying after this?” Quentin asked him.
Charlotte’s eyes shot toward Quentin, curious. Quentin was off drugs—wasn’t he? The air sizzled around them, anticipating the younger man’s answer.
“Sure. We have some stuff.” He gestured back toward his band, who were packing up and moving aside for the next set. “We’ve just been doing it on the side of the roof. No use for the bathroom up here. Everyone’s fucked out of their minds. Everyone who’s cool, that is.”
Quentin pushed forward, following the younger man, who introduced himself as Miller. The other boys shook Quentin’s hand, giving him firm nods, a sign, apparently, of respect. Charlotte quivered beside him.
“And Morgan’s with her mom the rest of the night, right?” she whispered into his ear.
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be out here if she wasn’t,” Quentin said, giving her a half-dark look. As the brief moment of tension passed between them, Quentin shrugged it off, gesturing. “I’ll just take a little bit. It’s been years. And you, baby, you’ve ignited something in me. I want to live again, you know?”
Charlotte nodded, her hesitance drawing a frown across her face. “Sure. I trust you,” she lied. Her nostrils flared as she tucked closer to the band, where the drummer drew white lines of powder across a book
As her eyes danced around the room, Quentin wrapped his hands around her waist, trying to catch her back in his embrace. “Come on, baby. You want a little bit?” he asked, preparing to go next, after the drummer. “I promise, it’s good shit. It’s only good at these parties.”
Charlotte’s heart yanked at her brain, fueling panic. She looked up into his eyes, small tears drawing themselves from the corner of her eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry. Maybe I’m too much of a novice to handle this.”
“Hey,” Quentin said, his voice becoming quieter. He spun toward the band. “I’ll be back in just a second.” He drew Charlotte from the band, into a far corner, and then cupped her face with his hands in an intimate motion. “You think I’m going to get addicted again, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, realizing, suddenly, how much she truly cared for him. “I want you to be safe is all. I don’t want to lo
se you, the way the other girls did.”
Quentin’s eyes grew softer. He leaned closer to her, kissing her deeply and sucking at her bottom lip. He only broke the kiss to breathe. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”
After an intense moment of silence, during which not even the band played, Charlotte turned her eyes toward the entrance of the rooftop party. Still wrapped in Quentin’s arms, she watched as a redheaded girl, approximately her age, dressed in a bright pink skirt, stared at her, mouth agape, her eyes filled with anger and darkness.
It was Pamela.
“Shit,” Charlotte exhaled quickly, shoving Quentin from her grasp. She parted from him, still staring at Pamela.
Befuddled, Quentin knocked his arms on either side of his torso, glancing to where Pamela stood, but not recognizing her. “What’s going on?”
But before Charlotte could explain, Pamela ducked toward the side steps, disappearing from sight. Charlotte felt her stomach drop out; her knees grew weak. She fell against the side, half-wall, quivering down to the ground. Quentin began to call her name, recognizing her panic.
“Charlotte? Hey? Are you okay? Baby? Char?”
But he sounded as if he was a million miles away.
“Shit. Shit, shit,” Charlotte finally exhaled, visibly shaking.
Quentin laughed, in spite of himself. “Morgan always makes that face. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“Can we just go?” Charlotte begged, not wanting to explain the horrible thing that had just occurred. In her mind, the world had just split in two. In another reality, in another timeline, she and Quentin were snorting cocaine till dawn, celebrating her successful interview into infinity. But in this one, Pamela was racing home to call Maggie, to tell everyone the truth, that Charlotte had only gotten the feature because she was sleeping with the editor-in-chief. And beyond that, she was busting the no-fraternization clause, thinking she would get away with.
Quentin hailed a taxi outside the rooftop party, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, becoming a pillar on which she could lean. The moment he tucked her into the back, he swept her hair behind her shoulders, easing her cheek against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry I wanted to do that back there,” he answered firmly. “It won’t happen again. Really.”
“That’s not it,” Charlotte murmured, watching as they laced through the darkening streets, darting through cars, racing the sun. “We’ve been found out.”
“What do you mean?” Quentin asked, seemingly not dismayed.
After all, losing his job probably wasn’t a big issue for him, was it? He was a millionaire, perhaps more. He’d fought his battles. He wouldn’t fight to pay for groceries again.
But Charlotte, no. Her battle had just begun. And she’d just fallen on her sword.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. You’ll find out soon enough,” she whispered, cutting her head closer to his chest. “Just hold me for now, won’t you? I want to be as close to you as possible. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. And I don’t know what I’ll feel when it all falls apart.”
“Charlotte. I can’t resist you,” Quentin said, after a long pause. “You might be single-handedly saving my life. I’d given up on love.”
But Charlotte couldn’t find the words. She began to shake at the beauty of what he’d revealed to her. Devastation clouded her mind. She held her tongue, waiting till they arrived back at their apartment.
Her shoulders aching with the horrible promise of tomorrow, she wrapped herself tightly around Quentin, ripping his pants to his knees and wrapping her perfect lips around the tip of his cock, rubbing her tongue in a light, flirtatious circle around the tip. She listened to his moan, and then dove down to his balls, sucking on their perfect, circular shape. He caught her head with his hands, bringing her upward, kissing her again and then ripping her dress above her head, revealing her bra and underwear beneath. Her underwear was slightly wet, as her pussy had begun its insistent pounding, its silky lips separating, its clit poking out from above. Quentin slipped her panties to her feet, then unhooked her bra, watching as her tits bounced casually in front of his face. He wrapped his mouth around the darkness of her nipple, sucking at it insistently, with need.
They dove into bed with each other, making passionate, end-of-the-world love, with only Charlotte recognizing what had occurred. She humped him wildly from above, her lips parting, and his wide girth filling her, pushing up against the softness of her G-spot. He placed two fingers against the small clit, expounding on her pleasure centers and pushing a long, easy moan from her throat.
This is what she’d given up her career for, she told herself as she fell into a chorus of orgasms. This had to be worth it. This had to be everything.
26
Charlotte snuck from Quentin’s bed early the next morning, kissing his soft, warm lips before slipping back into her apartment and scrubbing herself clean. Clamping her eyes closed, the image of Pamela, staring at her, stampeded through her brain. She couldn’t have imagined it.
“Damn,” she whispered, her voice raspy and echoing in the shower. Just when Quentin had told her he was falling in love with her. Just when everything seemed to be falling into place.
“What the fuck was Pamela even doing at that party, anyway?” she murmured to herself, toweling off. Pamela had seemed like a snooty nerd, perhaps ultimately writing the classical music or jazz beat, rather than the chic rock and grunge beats.
Although she’d plotted to arrive at the office a bit before everyone else—hoping to get ahead of the rumor mill—she realized, halfway down the street, that she’d forgotten her notebook and recorder, both with information she required to write the feature. She raced back, removing her black heels and feeling the gritty sidewalk beneath her feet. Mid-internal cursing, she gave Angus a hearty wave, then pushed up to her apartment, already recognizing the harried nature of the day.
It wasn’t going to get any easier.
Charlotte arrived at work about five minutes after she was meant to, finding that the interns were bent intently over their computers. Charlotte tried to dart to her computer, unnoticed, but soon found that, one-by-one, each of the interns turned their eyes toward her. Each eyeball seemed to burn red with anger, with envy.
“There she is,” Pamela said, her voice saucy. “The woman of the hour.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, her heart hammering in her chest. She tucked toward her desk, only to find that the chair had been removed. She waved a firm palm toward Randy, who kept his headphones in his ears. A heaviness fell upon her shoulders. The entire crew was ignoring her. Even her friend.
“Randy, hey,” she whispered, her voice hesitant, weak. She nudged him slightly, watching as he slipped a single earbud from his ears. “Randy, it’s not what you think.”
“Oh. It’s not?” Randy asked her, sounding sarcastic. “Because I don’t know how it could be anything else.”
“Can you just let me explain?” Charlotte murmured. “Please? Don’t you owe me that?”
“Charlotte, I barely know you,” Randy snapped, stabbing his earbud back in his ear.
“None of us do,” Pamela said, smirking from the side. “You really put on a good face, though, didn’t you? There for a while, of course. Nothing lasts. Especially not that little relationship you think you have.”
Charlotte’s nostrils flared.
“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she began, unsure of where she was leading. Pamela had, of course, seen precisely what she thought she did. She’d seen an intern making out with the editor-in-chief of their magazine. She’d seen privilege. She’d seen a liar.
“Oh, honey. Don’t even try,” Pamela said. “The only thing I’m really worried about is what Maggie’s going to say when I send this email.”
“Please. Don’t,” Charlotte whispered, her voice rough.
“Oh, I’m not going to yet,” Pamela said. “I want to watch you suffer in shame for a few days before it all fal
ls apart. I want to see you cower in this room, crying, even. I want to make sure you feel like the piece of shit you are, and then I want to turn you in. I’m sure you know all about the non-fraternization policy. And if you don’t, I’m sure Maggie will fill you in.”
Several of the interns shifted uncomfortably, jittery with Pamela’s spat-out words and clear anger.
“Guys, is it really that big of a deal?” Charlotte murmured, trying to find someone, anyone, to hold her up. “If you’d just let me tell you how it all happened, I think you’d understand.”
But the writers returned to their computers, beginning to type furiously. She was a tumor, a rat, something best avoided, best not discussed. She collapsed at the side wall, leaning heavily against the white-wash, and opening her computer. Slipping her headphones on, she dove into a raucous world of 2000s grunge music, trying to get in the right headspace to write the feature.
But it soon seemed impossible. Her mind raced. She understood that the world was crumbling around her.
Angered, she stood and burst from the room, stomping toward Quentin’s office. She entered without knocking, watching as his downcast eyes turned to hers lovingly, saying all the things she wanted them to say. In response, she slammed the door and began to gasp with hysterics.
Quentin burst from his desk chair, reaching her quickly and wrapping his arms around her thin, bird-like shoulders. He shot his palm down to the small of her back, trying to hold onto her, stop her shaking.
“What is it?” he asked her tenderly. “You can talk to me. Something’s been up since last night…”
Charlotte’s tears blurred her eyes. Swallowing sharply, she finally found words. “Quentin, it’s been such a wonderful time, getting to know you. But Pamela—she saw us last night. She saw us kissing. And now, she’s going to hold it over my head for a few days, and then she’s going to tell Maggie.”
Quentin huffed, slipping his fingers through his dark hair. “Fuck.”
“I know,” Charlotte murmured, her head spinning. “I should probably just leave. Maybe Pamela won’t have a vendetta against you and spare you. This can’t get to the owners.”