Chapter 5

Quentin

Quentin watched his daughter nibble the last of her strawberry cone as the elevator swept past the second floor. He clung to his own cone stupidly, recognizing that he looked like a fatigued dad rather than a wayward, sexual musician. But with Charlotte’s angelic face before him, her 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, his cock already twitching. 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 grin at the young girl. She looked nervous as hell. 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 same 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, 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 to the ground, keeping him glued, towering over her. She bit her soft lip with white teeth, her eyelids heavy.

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

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.

If Quentin didn’t know any better, he’d say that he could literally feel Charlotte’s heart pounding 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. “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. God, she was like her mother—a know-it-all, dressed up in a cute 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 pulled 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, wouldn’t be forced to remember her name. He’d be gone from her life for good, after that. Leaving only scars in her heart.

But he wasn’t that man anymore. He couldn’t be.