Savage: A Bad Boy Fake Fiancé Romance

by Kira Blakely

  “I don’t care,” Morgan said, sounding confident and cocky—so like Quentin as a kid. “I just want to be famous. And you can be famous doing almost anything, Dad. Trust me. Some people get famous just because they grow their fingernails out really, really long.”

  “Ha. That’s true.”

  “And you were famous. But not because you were beautiful,” Morgan said, blinking up at him. “Mom showed me some of the photos of you, when you were a famous rock star. You had long, tangled hair, too. And you were wild. Mom said you were nuts.”

  “Did she?” Quentin said, his stomach turning over.

  Quentin half-thought he should tell her some wild stories about her mother, but held them in.

  “Mom’s boring,” Morgan said, swiping her toe against the sidewalk. “I can just tell.”

  Quentin’s heart warmed for a moment, although he knew he’d have to set the record straight soon enough. He was a responsible, doting father, no longer that crazed, drugged fiend. He shuddered at the thought of his daughter falling down a similar path.

  “Let’s grab ice cream,” he said, easing her toward the side street near the park, where they sold two-dollar cones. They stood in a short line before ordering one strawberry, one chocolate-vanilla swirl, and then walked slowly together back home, their tongues lolling against the iced treat. Each time Morgan licked hers, a dab of strawberry dotted her nose.

  “I learned some new scales today,” Morgan told him, chatting companionably and filling space and time. “And I’m working on a Beethoven. I mean, it’s an easy Beethoven. One made for kids. But still.”

  “That’s great, honey,” Quentin told her, whisking her into the safety of their apartment foyer. He nodded quickly to the doorman, Angus, who’d stood long hours at the door since Quentin had moved in three years before.

  “Hi, Angus!” Morgan cried to him, between ice cream licks. “Only 162 days left of school!”

  “Wow,” Angus said, his grin flashing brightly. “That’s not that many, now, is it?”

  “I mean, it’s only September,” Morgan said, exasperated. “So, basically, we still have the whole year left.” She shrugged quickly, speaking like a know-it-all seven-year-old.

  “I guess she’s got me,” Angus said, making eye contact with Quentin. “Ya’ll have a good evening, now. And study up for those next 162 days.” He winked.

  “I’m going to practice tonight, Daddy,” Morgan said, chatting once more. “I have to be the best in my class. If Monica beats me at sight-reading next week, I’ll just die.”

  “Somebody’s being dramatic,” Quentin said, laughing and ushering her down the side hallway toward the elevator. His heart brimmed in his chest, jolting with happiness.

  He’d never imagined this kind of life for himself, certainly not in the throes of sexual or drugged passion. Certainly not when he pressed the heroin needle into his vein, nor when he took his eighteenth shot. But the simplicity of licking ice cream cones companionably with a little girl who looked surprisingly like him, with her spunk and love for him didn’t compare to any other thrill. Nothing on the planet.

  Chapter 4

  Charlotte’s best friend from college, Rachel, had moved out to New York City immediately after graduation. Charlotte had helped her pack, stretching duct tape over boxes and stacking them in Rachel’s rusty red caravan, which she’d sold immediately upon her arrival. In return, these four months later, in September, Rachel was helping Charlotte move into her temporary apartment. The difference, of course, was that she was accustomed to the city and had a million New Yorker complaints and bits of advice, unasked for, that were making Charlotte’s head spin.

  “You really have to watch out for pickpockets in the subway,” Rachel said knowingly, hoisting a suitcase from the steps of the nearby stop, sweating lightly in her blue-striped business dress. “I know you’re not used to this stuff in Ohio. I was really shocked when I first moved out here and realized that everyone was out to get me, you know, if I wasn’t careful.”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows, faking shock. She’d read enough articles online about New York living that nothing shocked her. She steered the conversation from Rachel’s half-bragging about her four-month leap on Charlotte’s arrival, hoping to halt her annoyance at her friend.

  “I’m so lucky my aunt left her apartment open,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to start a new job and hunt for apartments at the same time. I think it would have destroyed me.”

  “You could have stayed on my couch for a bit longer,” Rachel said. “But we’re already pretty packed in as it is. Too bad you can’t stay in Brooklyn, though.”

  “Yeah. I loved the bars around you. I’m going to come over there all the time,” Charlotte said, checking the map for her aunt’s apartment building. “Thanks for leaving work early to move me in, by the way. We had literally nothing to do today at the office.”

  “Right. First day as an intern is always really weird,” Rachel said. “They don’t know you or trust you yet, so they just show you the coffee machine and give you some paperwork to sign. Pretty useless day.”

  “You should see my boss.” Charlotte hoisted her backpack higher on her back, sliding the straps closer to her neck. “He’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen. I remember being a teenager and having a photo of him in my locker, when he was singer for Orpheus Arise.”

  “My high school boyfriend really liked that band,” Rachel said. “He forced me to listen when he drove me anywhere. And he grew his hair really long, like that guy.”

  “Right. That guy. Quentin McDonnell,” Charlotte said. “He’s my editor-in-chief. I can hardly look at him, he’s so attractive. And now he’s weirdly older, yet better looking. More muscular, less stringy and drugged out. And a dad, which is super hot to me. Ha.”

  “Well, you might be in the right neighborhood for hot dads,” Rachel said, her eyes dancing around the Upper West Side. “Just in case you’ve already had your fill of Brooklyn hipsters. Oh, wait. You’d only be sick of them if you gave even one guy in your life a chance. But you hate dating. I get it.” Her voice was sarcastic, if playful.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t date right now. I want to focus on this job. I have to make it at this magazine. They only offer a few people full-time writing gigs at the end.”

  “And you’ll get it, Charlotte. You were the best writer at our university. It’s not like you’ll lose those skills, just because you’re in the big city now.”

  “Just let me panic about this for a bit,” Charlotte said, easing her rolling suitcase to a halt in front of the high-rise apartment building. “Shit. This is it.”

  “Wow,” Rachel breathed, gazing at her reflection in the wide windows of the foyer. “Your aunt lives here? Full time?”

  “She married a doctor. He died and left her a ton of money, so she bought this place,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “But she spends half the year in Florida.”

  “Why on earth would you go to Florida, when you could live here?” Rachel asked, exasperated. “I think I might crash with you, instead of the other way around. And you’re less than five minutes’ walk from the park. Damn, Charlotte. One of the best internships in the city, and this place. Most people don’t get this lucky.”

  “Don’t be too jealous, yet,” Charlotte said, yanking the door open. “I only get it till March, at which point I’m sure I’ll be living in a shoebox in Queens. Just watch me. I’ll decline into nothingness in no time.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Rachel said, giggling.

  The elevator was at the other end of the hallway. Charlotte stabbed the UP button, her thoughts brimming with the events of the day. She’d started her internship at MMM, shown her hot boss the curvature of her ass like some office slut, and was now moving into her “own” apartment, already pre-furnished with top-tier interior design in mind. She shuddered, remembering the horrible doldrums of her last summer in Ohio, when she’d continued half-heartedly dating her ex-boyfriend from colle
ge, until she’d received the good news of the internship.

  Finally, things were happening. Finally, the world was moving.

  Inside the elevator, Charlotte pressed the button for her floor, brimming with excitement. But as the elevator doors began their natural close, a mad rush of feet sounded from the hall. Conscious that new neighbors wanted the elevator space, she brought her arm through the crack, holding it for them.

  Suddenly, a man and a little girl, both holding dripping ice cream cones, appeared in front of them. The girl was vibrant, blonde, her smile crackling up at them and revealing that she’d recently lost a front tooth. Strawberry ice cream dripped from her nose.

  And beside her stood a tall, muscled man, with dark hair down to his ears and horn-rimmed glasses hiding his dark eyes. His five-o-clock shadow covered his chin and high cheekbones. He looked smart, sophisticated, dominant.

  Jesus. It was her editor. It was Quentin McDonnell.

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped. The little girl hopped into the elevator, peering up at them. She giggled slightly, becoming a bright burst of energy as the elevator door closed behind the four of them, locking them in. “You guys sure have a lot of stuff.”

  “She’s moving in here,” Rachel said, smiling and rolling her head toward Charlotte. Her eyes danced up to Quentin, who looked awestruck, like he’d seen a ghost.

  “I’m Morgan. My daddy lives here,” Morgan said, gesturing to him. “And I live both here and down the road, with my mommy. We just got ice cream. You guys should try it. It’s absolutely the best.”

  Charlotte’s eyes were centered on the ground, at her pointed, black shoes, feeling the embarrassment draw up from her stomach, through her neck, into her heated cheeks. She exhaled roughly, sensing Quentin’s eyes upon her. She felt under a microscope, analyzed from the front, rather than the back, this time.

  Rachel and Morgan continued to chatter beside them, leaving Charlotte and Quentin in a kind of shell of silence, which brimmed with sexual tension and desire. Charlotte hadn’t been able to get this man out of her head since the morning. And now, he was her neighbor.

  “Oh, wait. Which floor did you need?” Rachel asked, piping up and shattering the silence on the other end of the elevator.

  “Nine,” Quentin said, his eyes dark and centered on Charlotte’s. “Looks like you’ve already pressed it.”

  Chapter 5

  Quentin watched his daughter nibble the last of her strawberry cone as the elevator swept past the second floor. He clung to his stupidly, recognizing that he looked like a fatigued dad, rather than a wayward, drugged, sexual musician. But with Charlotte’s angelic face before him, her pink lips pressed together expectantly, she reeked of inexperience.

  “So, you’re helping move her in, then?” he asked the friend, instead of Charlotte. “That’s a kind move on your part.”

  “Well, I owe her,” Rachel said, giving Quentin a bright, flirty smile. She wasn’t unattractive, with her bright red hair in curls down her shoulders. She had the same wholesome look as Charlotte. “She helped me pack up when I moved out here a while ago.”

  “Just four months ago,” Charlotte piped up, her cheeks glowing with red. “Not that long, is what I mean.”

  “Right,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “Well, I already feel like I’m becoming one of you.”

  “The city gets into your blood pretty quickly,” Quentin said, speaking companionably. He eyed Charlotte tentatively, sensing his groin pulse up in his crotch. He could smell her. He felt wolf-like, a predator, zoning in on her. He’d scouted her without even trying. “Which apartment are you in?”

  “Marcia. Marcia Barracks,” Charlotte whispered, her voice catching. “She’s my aunt. She goes to Florida every winter.”

  Quentin nodded. “Morgan used to go there to water her plants in the wintertime.”

  “That place smells weird. Like cats,” Morgan agreed.

  Charlotte flashed a toothy grin at the young girl. She looked like she could inhale her tongue with nerves. Quentin craved making a woman feel this way. He’d watched them dive after him, during his shows around ten years before. He’d flaunted it, bragging about the women who’d done anything he asked.

  And now, Charlotte was his employee, bound to do whatever he asked, regardless.

  But that no-fraternization clause was there for a reason.

  “I was just at piano lessons,” Morgan said, striking through his reverie. She lifted her backpack and drew out a whole book of songs she was practicing, flipping it toward Charlotte.

  Charlotte grasped the book, her eyes glowing with recognition. “I used to have this very book when I was first playing,” she said quietly.

  “You play?” Morgan asked, her voice high-pitched.

  “I did. Until I was maybe eighteen,” Charlotte answered. “But then I focused on writing.”

  “Kind of like Daddy,” Morgan said, gesturing wildly. “He used to be in a band or whatever, but now he just writes. Boring.”

  Charlotte’s eyes flickered up toward Quentin as the elevator halted at the top floor, dinging the doors open. Quentin gave her a half smile before guiding his daughter into the hallway and tossing his half-eaten cone into the trash. Rachel and Charlotte walked out after them, yanking their suitcases along. This would be their release point. But something in Charlotte’s eyes forced his shoes on the ground, keeping him glued, towering over her. She bit her soft lip with white teeth, her eyes growing steamy, her eyelids heavy.

  “Rachel, I suppose, I should introduce you,” Charlotte said suddenly.

  Rachel’s eyes swept from Quentin back to her friend, looking quizzical. “You know each other?”

  “Well, only sort of. We met today,” Quentin said. He swept his hand forward, taking control. “I’m Quentin McDonnell. Editor-in-Chief at MMM. Where Charlotte’s interning right now. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?”

  “Had my first day today,” Charlotte breathed, her eyes turning down to the floor.

  If Quentin didn’t know any better, he’d say that he could literally feel Charlotte’s heart jolting in her chest. She was like a rabbit, with a buzzing little heart—buzzing so hard it could go out at any moment, like a light bulb.

  “Wow. And you were in that band,” Rachel said, pointing her finger rudely. “Orpheus Arise.”

  “Yes,” Quentin said.

  “Dad. I don’t want to talk about your band again,” Morgan whined from below, yanking at his hand. “And I’m starving.”

  Quentin sniffed, turning his head toward his daughter. “Didn’t you just eat ice cream?”

  “That’s not food, Dad,” Morgan said, her voice saucy. God, she was like her mother—a know-it-all, dressed up in a gorgeous little girl’s body. “Mom says I can’t eat sweets for dinner.”

  “Does she, eh?” Quentin said, sensing Charlotte draw away from him. She turned back down the hall, toward her aunt’s apartment. She lifted the keys from her pocket, ready to scamper away. “All right, then. I suppose it’s time to say goodbye,” he said, bowing his head to both Rachel and Charlotte. “Say bye, Morgan.”

  “Bye!” Morgan cried, before rushing the opposite direction down the hallway, toward their door. Quentin allowed his eyes to linger on Charlotte’s thin, taut body, on her breasts, and on that angelic, nervous face for a single moment more before turning, allowing the tension to release. He bounded down the hall, sensing the girls watching him from behind. He lifted his own keys from his pocket with a flourish, lifting his chin high and allowing a casual whistle to escape from between his lips.

  He hadn’t felt this light, this young, in years. In his imagination, he spun back down the hallway and pressed Charlotte against the wall, pressing his mouth into her neck and inhaling the scent of her. He’d bang her throughout the night, until she cried out with a mix of pleasure and pain. He’d have no responsibility; he wouldn’t be forced to remember her name. He’d be gone from her life for good, after that, leaving only bruises. Leaving only scars in her heart.
/>
  But he wasn’t that man anymore. He couldn’t be.

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte’s anxious, shivering fingers slid the key into the door of her aunt’s apartment. Her ears rang with panic. When she opened the door, the scent of cats blasted over them, making Rachel cough. “Jesus. That kid wasn’t lying.”

  “Ha.” Charlotte bounded into the apartment, trying to ignite her energy. She collapsed roughly on a cozy, flowered chair in the corner, blinking heavily around her as Rachel snipped the door closed. “Wow. That was fucking weird.”

  “You’re shaken up, aren’t you?” Rachel asked, laughing. She walked toward the balcony, opening the door wide to rid the apartment of the stench. Leafing a lighter from her inner pocket, she lit a candle on the center table, fueling apple crisp flavor into the air. “You were just spewing all about how hot he was. How weird. It’s like you summoned him here.”

  Charlotte’s heart continued to flutter. “I need a drink,” she whispered, boosting herself from the chair and marching to the liquor cabinet, which her aunt kept well-stocked. She leafed through the spirits, hunting through the gleaming glass bottles, before settling on a French red wine. The kitchen, tiny compared to the rest of the apartment, featured a large, antique cabinet, with a wine bottle opener situated on a rack at the top. She snuck it from its position, cranking the metal into the cork and popping it into the air.

  “That’s a sound I like to hear!” Rachel cried from the far room before marching in, joining her. She slipped off her heels, revealing blistered feet beneath.

  “Jesus, Rachel,” Charlotte said, pointing. “Your feet. They didn’t look like that in college.”

  “I know,” Rachel said sadly, reaching over Charlotte and pouring herself a glass of wine. “It’s all the walking in this city. Sometimes I really miss my little red van. Remember all the good times we had in that thing?”

  “You mean, when we were literally living in the middle of nowhere, Ohio?” Charlotte joked, joining Rachel in taking off her shoes. Her forehead relaxed; her shoulders slumped. “Boy. I’m going to have feet to match yours, soon.”