by Kira Blakely
He supposed he couldn’t think about it.
He sent the magazine to print, knowing they’d be at newsstands on Friday morning, one delivered to his apartment as early as seven a.m. through a special courier service. He sensed, with the single click to send, that he was altering Charlotte’s life for good, spinning her toward a trajectory of new life, and new professional status, and perhaps many new loves.
The little Ohioan girl he’d met would be long gone. And his heart ripped at the sadness of saying goodbye.
31
Charlotte rushed to the newsstand on Friday morning, her heart fluttering. Her black coat, one reserved for winter, had been drudged up from the bottom of her suitcase with a sudden burst of fall chill. With one week to go till October, the earth had taken a dramatic turn, bursting them toward winter all too soon. And her skin drew dots of chill in response.
The MMM magazine was featured on the top rack, with other music and movie magazines, complete with a cover of the Thick Soled musicians—those familiar faces she’d interviewed a few weeks before. She wrapped her fingers so tightly around the magazine, digging her nails into the glossy exterior.
“Ma’am? Are you going to pay for that?” the newsstand worker demanded, his thick, black eyebrows rising high. “Because otherwise, you gotta put it back.”
“I wrote this,” Charlotte murmured, tossing a five-dollar bill at the man. “I wrote the feature!”
“Congrats,” the man said, his words flippant. “Now, go tell the rest of New York City.”
Charlotte raced into a nearby coffee shop, wrapping her palms around a ceramic mug and sipping at a cappuccino, her stomach clenching with fear. Her name—Charlotte Barracks—was listed at the top of the article, beneath the title. It could be mistaken for no other name, no other writer. It was hers.
She read it once, then again, diving through her words and celebrating the pattern of them, the utilization. It hadn’t been edited a single bit, not by Maggie, nor Quentin, and she cherished this fact, knowing it was a rarity in the writing world. Sneaking the magazine into her bag, she rejoined the crowded sidewalks and marched toward her office building, sensing movement and change in the air. With this article, New York seemed to echo her name back to her, telling her, once and for all, she belonged. And not just because she’d once been sleeping with a rock star-turned-editor.
Passing hipster coffee brew houses on the way, her eyes craned to see that several mustachioed men, and their scarfed women, bent their heads to MMM magazines, diving through her words.
She was taking them on a journey.
About twenty-five minutes later, Charlotte entered the offices of MMM, her tongue turning to sandpaper with panic. Once inside the intern office, she spun her head to see that most of the interns were reading her feature, their nose pointed toward the bottom of pages, showing their interest. Joining Randy at her desk, she elbowed him softly, ripping him from the magazine.
His eyes were warm, friendly. He’d forgiven her, maybe. Or perhaps he just didn’t care anymore.
“The big fucking day, huh?” he said, his voice bright. “Charlotte, this is incredible. Really. And it wasn’t even edited from the original you sent.”
“I know,” Charlotte said, widening her eyes. “It’s really mine. Fuck! It’s hard to believe. This is literally a dream come true.”
The other interns piped up their heads, looking like rodents coming out of holes, and gave her slight grins.
“It rocks, man,” one guy told her, from the corner.
“That section where you describe their sound? Jesus. You wield adjectives like knives,” another said.
“It’s seriously one of the best pieces MMM has published in years. I’ve been seeing it passed around the Internet already. Impressive.”
Charlotte crossed her fingers over her knees, confidence fueling her. “Thank you,” she said, unable to verbalize how amazing she really felt. “This means a lot. And, guys, please know that I didn’t ever set out to wrong you.” She hesitated, her eyes dancing across theirs. She swallowed sharply, waiting.
“Girl, please,” an intern said from the side. “Pamela would throw us all under the bus if she could. Right, Pam?”
Pam didn’t speak. She lurched from her chair, holding her laptop at her chest. Her cheeks flushing with panic, she shoved from the room, unable to face the team that had righted itself , recovering from the near-fatal blows against Charlotte the week before.
“Pssh. She’ll get over it,” Randy said as they watched her run toward the elevator, all flailing limbs. “She’ll be back to piss us off in no time. I think she’ll make a career out of it.”
Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the doorway of the intern offices, causing a shiver to bolt up and down Charlotte’s spine. Quentin, of all people, had arrived, even after avoiding the intern offices for the past several days. The interns hushed, turning their noses back to the magazine, while Quentin continued his blaring gaze, which seemed to suffocate Charlotte, turning her tight throat inward and closing.
No one spoke for what seemed like a small infinity. For Charlotte, she and Quentin were the only humans alive, their hearts beating as one.
No matter how many times she’d said that she and Quentin didn’t belong together; no matter how many times she’d convinced herself that she and Quentin should end it, for good—she knew, now, she’d been wrong. She stood delicately, like a ballerina, and then gathered her laptop and notebook, walking toward him, as if walking toward a bright light.
Finally, she stood before him, in full view of all the other interns. All secrets were out; their dirty laundry was strewn over the office.
“I was hoping to speak with you about the feature in my office,” he said firmly, his eyes dark. “If you have a moment.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, sounding professional.
They were playing the game again, dancing around one another. And her heart quickened, like a rabbit’s, awaiting either the car to roll over her, squishing her, or missing her entirely, allowing her to escape death.
Charlotte entered the warmth of his office, listening to the click of the door behind them. The tension was high, causing her ears to ring, her fingers to burn with desire to touch him. But instead of reaching for her, ramming her against the desk and pummeling his mighty girth between her legs, he sat across from her, his hands wrapping together, and his eyes straight ahead, solid.
“HI,” he said.
“Hello.”
The clock on the wall continued to tick.
“The article is incredible. I’m sure you’ve already sensed it’s a success, but I wanted you to hear it from me. I know you slaved at it for days. You deserve every bit of acclaim. And none of that acclaim belongs to me, no matter what you may think,” Quentin said.
Charlotte felt her heart warm. A slight smile began to creep across her lips, showing her lust for him. But still, the divide had been drawn between them.
“But we can’t be with each other,” she murmured, cutting to the chase. “I know it’s the wrong thing. It’s unfair to the rest of the employees. It’s unfair to you, and to me.”
Quentin leaned back heavily in his chair, assessing her with smart, dark eyes. She could feel the cranking mechanics of his internal mind, trying to pinpoint precisely what to say.
“I don’t want to say that,” Quentin began.
“But we should say it,” Charlotte whispered, feeling a single tear descend down her cheek.
All her life, she’d been hunting for this height of emotion. But it had come at the wrong time. Lifting her shoulders back, she tried to go on with confidence, to halt her girlish crying. But her insides continued to quake.
The phone blared on the desk. Quentin hesitated before lifting it, holding up a single finger and mouthing, “One minute.”
Speaking to his secretary, Charlotte heard him say, “Who is it, Barbara? Tommy?”
A pause.
“Yes. Sure. Connect me.” He spun his chair
around, turning his eyes toward the window. Outside, the clouds were parting to reveal a glimmer of late September sun. In Ohio, they could have snow in mere weeks.
“Tommy, hey there,” Quentin said, sounding jovial, almost false. “What can I do for you?”
“Yes. Uh huh. Well, thank you. Thank you. Yes, actually. New here. She’s an intern.”
Charlotte frowned, uncertain. She whisked her fingers through her hair, drawing her head forward. Who was he talking to? And why did she feel he was definitely speaking about her?
“I’ll pass along her details, then,” Quentin said, laughing. “And let me know if you want to grab a burger some other time. Had a good time seeing you the other night. All right. Bye.”
Quentin hung up the phone. He closed his hands over his desk, gazing down at Charlotte with glowing, almost loving eyes. Despite all they’d been through the past week—when they’d been tested, strung out—it seemed the growing affection remained.
“You’ll never guess who that was,” he began.
“You’re right,” Charlotte said, shrugging. She gave him a half-smile, feeling uncertain, lost.
“That was the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone magazine. He wanted to know who the hell you were and where you came from,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “You really got the music writing industry talking this morning with your piece.”
“That was Tommy Burson?” Charlotte said, shocked. “Seriously? I can’t—I don’t—” She shook her head tentatively, bursting from the chair. “Why would he care who I am?”
“Well, he was shocked you were an intern,” Quentin said. “And he wanted to know if you’d be interested in a real job. One that actually pays more than your barely-living wage as an intern for MMM.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She leaned toward him, unable to resist him any longer, and strapped her legs around him, straddling him. She brought her hands to his gruff cheeks, gazing into his eyes, unable to deny how good it felt to touch him. Beneath her, she felt his cock, the tip rubbing against her clit, making her pussy lips part with intense desire.
“He wants me to work for him?” she whispered.
“Well, he wants you to come in and talk to him,” Quentin said, giving her a devilish smile. “But I can’t imagine he won’t love everything about you. Especially your writing. But this…” He grabbed her ass, squeezing it till she giggled with glee. “This won’t hurt your chances, either.”
“This would solve everything,” Charlotte whispered, incredulous. “We could do this for real, without skirting around a bunch of rules.”
“Shhh,” Quentin murmured, pressing his nose against hers. “Don’t psych yourself out. Just go talk to him. If you like the job, if it suits you professionally, then take it. And if you don’t, you’ll just work here. And we’ll keep publishing your features until you tell us to stop.”
Charlotte kissed him, slipping her tongue against his and rubbing at him with her crotch, yearning to hump him properly. She felt his hands on the small of her back, grasping her, easing his nails into her skin. He broke their kiss after several impenetrable moments. “You fucking gorgeous specimen,” he whispered. “Go email Tommy Burson. There’s no time to waste.”
Charlotte did as she was told, racing back to her desk to email the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone to set up an interview for the following day. He called her back immediately, upon receiving the email, introducing himself with a gruff voice and even telling her he’d been in bands when Quentin had been a rock star, over ten years before.
“Oh, we sure knew each other,” Tommy said. “But back then, none of the girls knew my name. Only his. It got kind of frustrating, as you can imagine.”
“Sure,” Charlotte said, feeling as if she were floating. “Although I’m sure he didn’t deserve it.”
“No, no. He did. But he’s even more handsome now, the asshole. Anyway, I’d love it if you could pop into the offices this next week, just to meet me, get a feel for your job, and maybe even claim a few bands that you’d like to write about, yourself. They’d be your beats, essentially.”
“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, unable to hold in her excitement. “I’d love to. Does Monday work?”
“Sure does, Charlotte. How about nine in the morning? We start the day right at Rolling Stone, with big, beautiful donuts. I hope you’re not gluten free.”
“Never.”
Hanging up the phone, she turned, brimming, toward Randy, and then tossed her arms around his neck. Unsuspecting, Randy bucked back, nearly falling to the ground, but caught her, all the same, in a firm hug. “Wow,” he said, laughing. “This might go without saying, but you’re stronger than you look. What’s all the hubbub about?”
“Oh, nothing,” Charlotte murmured, grinning inwardly. “Just appreciate you being around, is all. Drinks this weekend? I need help celebrating my article. And I want to do it with my newest, closest friend.”
Randy agreed heartily, lifting a flask from his business suit jacket pocket and passing it to her, causing her to giggle outrageously, not knowing he’d been sipping dark whiskey throughout nearly every work day.
“You are a man of many, many surprises,” she said, knocking the drink back. “Thank god I know you.”
32
Two weeks later, it was the second week of October, and the last day of Charlotte’s first week at Rolling Stone magazine. Hustling from the offices, where she’d slaved over an article about an up-and-coming band reminiscent of Soft Cell, the ‘80s band, she met up with Randy for a quick drink, telling him the complex hierarchy of the editors and writers of Rolling Stone, and how it felt to finally be taken seriously.
“I know you’ll find your niche somewhere,” she told him firmly, over their second cocktail. “You’re a great writer.”
“It just sucks that you left us with Pamela,” Randy said, teasing her. “Because in the end, she’s treacherous to everyone. Her and Maggie have kind of bonded, maybe it’s their joint red hair—who knows—and Maggie’s been pushing to have Pamela write more for the magazine, even though I think she was hired for sales. It’s a whole, dramatic thing. Of course, Quentin’s stopping it in its tracks.” Randy paused, giving her a quizzical look. “How is it going with you guys, anyway?”
Charlotte couldn’t contain her smile. She leaned forward, her heart pushing against her ribcage, as she described her love for Quentin for the first time.
“I have never felt this way before,” she breathed. “Every night his daughter isn’t with him, I go there and we cook dinner and we laugh or we go out and see music and dance…” She trailed off, her skin glowing. “I can’t believe it all worked out. It felt like it never would, there for a bit.”
“Good thing you’re a baller writer,” Randy said, laughing. “Otherwise you’d still be pining for him from the tiny intern office. Let me ask you another question.”
“ Hmm?”
“What was it like to fuck in his office, knowing you could have been found out any second?” His eyes flashed with humor, making Charlotte’s face brim with red embarrassment.
“I’d like to plead the fifth on that one,” she said, giggling. “Now, this is my last drink. I have to run back to Q’s. We’re having a little dinner with his daughter before she goes to a week-long piano camp.”
“A whole week with Mr. Right,” Randy said, teasing her. “Now doesn’t that sound like a dream?”
It did.
Charlotte kissed Randy on the cheek and left a twenty, paying for them both. She dashed toward the street and hailed a cab, slipping evenly into the broken, leather seats and directing him toward her apartment building. Leaning her head heavily back, she gave thanks to the universe for opening to her. For giving her love.
When she reached Quentin’s door, Morgan flung it open and rushed headlong into her legs, wrapping her arms tightly around them. Morgan’s lips were coated with melted chocolate, making her look adorable, if clumsy. Charlotte lifted her into her arms and swiped her finger across her ch
ocolate cheek, inquiring, “How on earth did this happen?”
“She got into her snack drawer before dinner. That’s how,” Quentin called, flipping burgers on a grill on the small balcony, toward the piano room. It was one of the last gorgeous days of the year, when October allowed blue to flood the sky.
“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “Guess that means I get her burger!”
“I don’t eat meat, remember?” Morgan said, sounding haughty. “You heathens.”
“It’s a veggie burger for her,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “The phase continues.”
Charlotte dropped a bottle of red on the counter and then entered into his firm embrace, reaching up and kissing him. She sucked at his lip for a moment, allowing her eyes to close. Would any feeling be as beautiful as coming home to this?
“How was the last day of the first week?” he asked her then, smacking her ass.
“Oh, wonderful,” Charlotte said, squealing slightly. She cranked open the wine, pouring them two glasses, before joining him on the balcony for good, listening as Morgan began her pounding. She’d begun Beethoven, and the emotions were strikingly different. “We had a big staff meeting at the end of the day. Lots of ideas swirling around. It made my head spin. But it was electrifying.”
“Yeah. We have those every once in a while,” Quentin answered. “I love how it ignites the writers. We should have them more often. Maggie doesn’t think they work. But she’s got a lot of interesting opinions.” He winked at Charlotte, teasing her, now.
The treachery of their affair seemed like years ago now. Their love blossomed each day, with Quentin sending her emails, music links, and even the new song he was working on, which he’d entitled, “She’s Here.”
Charlotte didn’t want to assume it was about her. But she sensed it.
Quentin, Morgan, and Charlotte sat at the dining room table, with two burgers and a veggie burger before them, all three steaming, with blackened marks from the grill. They ate heartily, speaking companionably, with Quentin refilling their glasses of wine with frequency. Charlotte felt her head spinning with a strange mix of inescapable joy and lust for future fucking.