Chapter 19

Charlotte retreated to the bathroom, sliding down the side wall of the stall and weeping, fully, into her palms. After the night they’d had, just two days before, he’d ignored her completely. He hadn’t even allowed his eyes to grace her face. The normal, sexual tension had existed, certainly. But perhaps that only existed in Charlotte’s own mind? She couldn’t be sure.

Perhaps he’d used her up and planned to spit her out, like a dog toy.

His sexual deviance, thought to have been left in the past, ten years before, had just followed them both into this future. And now, it had destroyed Charlotte’s very sense of self. She quaked with sadness, feeling her stomach lurch.

As it was nearly lunch, she excused herself early and fled the office, sensing Randy’s eyes upon her, curious. Slipping her sunglasses from her face, she bounded down the street, feeling her blood rush through her veins. The world was crashing around her. Somehow, she felt electric, incredibly aware. This was what heartbreak felt like.

She wasn’t sure she’d felt it before.

The side corner, several blocks down, held a large, shaded bar, in which several winos drank in the bright light of the early afternoon. She joined them, tossing her purse to the ground beneath the bar and smacking her palm on the counter, eyeing the bartender, her sunglasses still plastered across her face.

“I’m going to need a Manhattan,” she said, her voice trying to find certainty.

“Darling, we don’t make that shit here,” the bartender said, his voice gruff, yet kind. “Better order something hard. Or wine or beer.”

Charlotte nodded, recognizing she was inexperienced. A Manhattan? She didn’t even really know what that was. “Right. I’ll have a wine, please. Better make it white. Don’t want to stain my lips, for work.”

“Right,” the bartender said, half-rolling his eyes and stomping toward the back refrigerator, finding a new bottle of white, unopened. “Don’t think I’ve had anyone drink white in here for a few months. Not that kind of establishment, you know. The kind that draws in white wine drinkers.”

Embarrassed, Charlotte slipped the sunglasses from her nose and blinked rapidly at him, sensing tears begin to build behind her lashes. “It’s just—I want to feel—”

“You want to take the edge off. And this is your poison. I get it,” the bartender said. His bald head gleamed beneath the orange lamplight. It seemed that the springtime sunshine didn’t seep far in through the windows, leaving them both in shadow at the bar top. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

He couldn’t have been younger than sixty. Charlotte felt oddly safe with him, unquestioning his purpose in asking her questions. He seemed like a lonely old man, behind a bar all day, watching the rest of the world go by.

“It’s Charlotte,” she murmured, sipping the white wine. It tasted tart against her tongue, unlike the nice wine her aunt had tucked away in her cabinet. But it would do.

“Charlotte. That’s not a name you hear very often anymore,” he said. “I’ve always liked it. Reminds me of the early century. Of Europe, even. Hell, I don’t know.”

Charlotte laughed appreciatively, already feeling the wine dance around in her head. She hadn’t yet eaten and had even foregone breakfast. She shivered. “I was the only Charlotte I knew growing up, that’s for sure,” she said, grinning. “In a group of Stephanies and Carries and Laurens.”

“Lauren. That’s my granddaughter’s name,” the bartender said, revealing a small sliver of his life. “Never liked the name, but love the girl. When I get down to Tennessee to see her.”

“Wow. So far,” Charlotte breathed. “My family all live in Ohio. Not far.”

“Nope. Although, after living in New York, I’m ruined for anything else. I don’t know where else you could possibly live. My daughter didn’t feel the same, hence this granddaughter I have a million states away.” He chortled. “You’re just a bit younger than her. Than my daughter, I mean. What are you? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three,” Charlotte murmured, sounding miserable. “But I feel four years old right now. Trouble at work. And I worked damn hard to get this job! It’s the only one I want on the planet. I definitely don’t want to leave. But something horrible happened…” She trailed off, sipping the wine down. The bartender refilled it, gesturing, as if to say it was free. Charlotte sure hoped it was.

“Well, then, you can’t give up on it. No matter what happened,” the bartender told her, his voice firm. “My daughter used to give up on everything, even if she liked it. She didn’t want to fail at it. She gave up on sports, dance, music. On everything. She even gave up on me, at least for a while. And it hasn’t gotten her anything but an early divorce and a custody battle.” He paused, recognizing he’d gone too far. “Of course, that’s nothing like you. And that’s my problem. Not yours.”

“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, diving back into her wine. “No, but you’re right. I shouldn’t allow myself any kind of quitting. Quentin was rock bottom, before. He was a rock star with every kind of addiction, and he had to fight to be in the position he’s in. And who knows what kind of uncomfortable positions he was in, before this. Not that I want to know…” She trailed off, biting her tongue, thinking about his sexual deviance, his addictions. “Anyway, if he can rise from the ashes, I can certainly rise up from this. It’s been, what, just a few days?”

The bartender answered with only a smile. He pointed up the road, past several skyscrapers, toward a single, glittering, silver one on the corner. “You know, I used to work there.”

“What?” Charlotte murmured. “No. Are you serious?” She glanced at it, unable to link up this bearded, balding bartender with that professional-looking, piercing skyscraper.

“Sure did. But I gave up. And now, I’m here,” he told her. “Now, I’m not much for teaching people lessons, not when they have a drink in their hand. But I think you already know what you should do.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, sliding her half-empty second glass across the bar top. She swiped the back of her hand across her bright pink lips, feeling suddenly embarrassed for going to a bar in the middle of the day. Who did she think she was?

“Thank you for this,” she murmured, rising up onto her heels. “I think I should be getting back.”

Once standing, she felt oddly certain of her decision, sensing that she’d crossed over some kind of boundary. Her brain simmered with knowledge, with insight.

“What was your name, sir?” she asked the balding bartender, her eyes Bambie-like, big.

“I’m Hank,” the bartender said. “And I want you to forget about me immediately and head back to work. You deserve it.”

Charlotte’s lips pressed into a smile. How much time had she missed from work? As she pounded onto the sidewalk, she lifted her cell, noting that it was still ten minutes before everyone corralled back inside after lunch. Nobody would notice she’d been gone. Stabbing a piece of gum into her mouth, she chomped furiously, hoping the stench of the wine would fall from her lips.

Luckily, or perhaps not so, the wine had reduced her anxiety as she entered the office. She walked with powerful steps toward her desk and then sat primly on the edge of her seat, making momentary eye contact with Randy, who’d nibbled on a salad at his desk. Charlotte’s stomach growled angrily, conscious it had only had alcohol the entire day. Randy handed her a crouton, looking at her curiously. “Didn’t you just go to lunch?”

“Trying to drop weight,” Charlotte lied, crunching on the crouton. “But, damn, aren’t these good.”

“You shouldn’t deprive yourself. Not with that figure,” Randy said, his voice flamboyant. He shot his notebook toward her desk, showing her the features he was planning to pitch at the next writer’s meeting. “Check out what I’ve been brewing up?”

Charlotte snuck the notebook toward her, nodding almost imperceptibly at the half-thought-through items on his list. The ideas showed that Randy had a semi-thorough understanding of the current music climate, yet it also alerted her that he had a great deal to learn, as he was planning to pitch features regarding bands that were brewing the previous few years and certainly not this spring.

“I think these need a little bit of help,” she began, her voice a whisper. “I mean, they’re great. I just think if we put our heads together…“

Randy nodded enthusiastically, glomming onto her. “Whatever you think. You’ve got the brains here.”

“Ha,” Charlotte murmured, rolling her eyes. She began to jot down several ideas, linking his with greater musical comprehension. As she did, she dove deeper into her personal world of thought, almost blacking out.

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t hear the door open. Not immediately, anyway.

She felt the silence, first. It was heavy against her shoulders, causing her spine to curve. Glancing up, she spotted Maggie in front of the interns, her arms crossed over her chest. “Charlotte? I don’t suppose you’re going to join us?”

“Oh, shit,” Charlotte said, dropping her notebook. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

“Quentin would like to discuss the recent interview he had with Thick Soled with all of you. Wants to demonstrate how he forms an idea, then applies that idea to an interview, and then turns that into a story. Sorry if that sounds too boring for you.”

Charlotte’s mouth had turned downward with fright. She burst from her seat, trying to imitate excitement. “No, no. That sounds wonderful. I just got caught up in my note-taking, is all…”

Why on earth would Quentin call them in for this post-interview process? Was this Maggie’s idea, for teaching the interns? She shuddered, knowing Quentin wanted to see her about as much as she wanted to see him. Zero. Nada.

Bowing her head, she drew herself behind Randy as the interns filed out, lining up in chairs in the conference room and waiting in silence for Quentin to join them. Maggie stood quietly at the head of the large gray conference table, her hands wrapped at the top of the rolling chair, gripping too tightly. Her eyes danced across Charlotte’s face, branding her. What did she know?

The wine continued its sloshing around her head, dipping from ear to ear, it seemed. Charlotte brimmed with sudden expectation. She no longer held the fear she initially had, at least with this alcohol confidence. She half-wanted to toss her head back in raucous laughter at the ridiculous nature of it all. Two weeks before, she’d been passed out in her father and mother’s backyard hammock, daydreaming about the day she’d finally have a feature in MMM. Now, she was facing off with the boss and ex-rock star—a man who’d decided, just off-handedly, that she no longer existed.

Finally, Quentin burst into the room, standing taller than Charlotte remembered, his broad shoulders firm and strong as he strutted toward the front, near Maggie. A skinnier, more rugged man came along with him, his beard long and curled, and a black hat perched upon his head. Charlotte recognized him immediately as the lead singer of Thick Soled.

“Hello, interns. I wanted to introduce you to Keith, here, the lead singer of Thick Soled,” Quentin said, not even glancing toward Charlotte. “We just had a pretty wonderful chat, wouldn’t you say, Keith? And in the hours that follow, I’m going to show you how I’m taking that conversation and honing it into a story. It’s what we do here, professionally, at MMM, and I would be remiss not to clue you into my technique.”

“Good to meet you all,” Keith, the singer said. His voice was quieter, more demure than Quentin’s. Charlotte felt sure that he didn’t like being in front of crowds. “Quentin, it was wonderful to hang out with you again, but I think I might hit the road.” He stretched out his arm and shook Quentin’s hand, almost as if this moment was for show, for the other interns. Quentin just wanted to impress them with the big names he knew, just to reinstate his power over them.

Perhaps that was it?

Charlotte couldn’t tell.

As Keith left, Quentin smacked his palms together, causing a quiver of nerves to ease through the seated interns. Their boss made them anxious. Each face revealed tension. They didn’t want to fuck up.

“Now, as you all probably know, Thick Soled has been up and coming for about a year, especially in the Brooklyn area. Can anyone tell me who they opened for that got them noticed by a top-selling label?”

The room was quiet, with Maggie shifting her weight uncomfortably. Pamela stared at her hands, and Randy swiped the sweat from his forehead, visibly shaken. Charlotte’s heart hammered with the answer. She knew it! Didn’t anyone else?

Fueled with wine, she thrust her hand into the air. Quentin’s eyes danced around it, not wanting to call on her.

“Anyone?” he asked.

Randy pointed toward Charlotte with a child-like finger. “I think Charlotte knows.”

Finally, Quentin nodded, without looking at her. His eyes were far above her head, drilling into the wall behind her. “All right. Which band?” His voice was stern, reminiscent of her father’s.

“They opened for the White Rabbits, last year in a June basement show, when a member of the label Thayers was watching. They signed them shortly thereafter, although they fought with them briefly about wanting to replace the drummer. A kind of Beatles-ish dilemma, I suppose. But Thick Soled refused.” Charlotte’s words were confident. Her eyes danced around Quentin’s face, trying to connect with him. Her pussy seemed to press against her insides, beating with insistence, knowing he was so close.

“Shit,” Randy breathed, clearly impressed. He’d hardly heard of the band, Charlotte knew. She was revving with dictionary-like knowledge of the music scene.

Quentin nodded slowly, not wanting to acknowledge how informed she was. His avoidance of her was making Charlotte feel cold, alien.

“Sure. That’s a pretty good assessment,” Quentin said.

“I’ll say,” Maggie blurted. Quentin gave her a stern look, causing her to bow her head. The tension in the room grew. Did Quentin want to squash Charlotte out, like a bug?

“Anyway, throughout the meeting with them today, we discussed several elements of their future trajectory, along with their recently released album. For the article, then, I want to plot their career path, from tiny indie grunge artists, all the way to their expected, top-tier status. In essence, then, I want to tell the future of them, based on what we know about these bands’ trajectories. And I think you’ll see, from the dialogue transcripts, that the content’s there for this type of article…” Quentin began to lift his notes from his side pocket, his movements cocky.

But Charlotte’s brain began to feel that similar, electric current again, as she’d felt the last time she’d had a great idea. She shivered, shooting her hand into the air once more. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, sounding half-sarcastic. She hoped no one else on her team noticed it.

Quentin frowned, still skimming through his notes. “Just a moment.”

“I’m sorry. I just think that’s a really weak idea for a story,” Charlotte said firmly.

Quentin lifted his head swiftly, glaring at her and making eye contact with her for the first time since they’d seen each other two nights before. He smacked his notebook onto the conference room table, allowing the silence to fold over the room like a thick blanket. Pamela, a few seats from Charlotte, gasped into her hands.

Had anyone been fired from MMM before?

“Oh?” Quentin finally answered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “You think so?”

“I do,” Charlotte said primly, bringing her fingers together in a kind of prayer-pose.

“Care to share it with the class?” Quentin said, anger fueling him.

Charlotte grimaced, sensing she was on the brink of disaster. “I think there’s a better story to tell about the band’s return to old-fashioned tactics, regarding making music, getting famous, moving up the ranks. The guys have been friends since they were pre-teens, right?”

“I’m not… I didn’t ask…” Quentin blurted, suddenly sounding stupid.

“Well, they did. And instead of worshipping new trends in the music industry, they’re returning to old habits. Even their chords are similar to those used ten, fifteen years ago. They’re akin to chords used by your band, dude. Orpheus Arise. It’s pretty clear they’re taking your band as inspiration. Write a piece about the romance of grunge bands in basements. Write a piece about romanticizing the grungy past. That’s the piece people want to read. They probably won’t remember Thick Soled three months from now; that’s just the nature of things. But they remember their pasts. And they want to link these young boys with something that mattered to them.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. Charlotte sensed she’d either ruined her career or boosted it for good. The surrounding interns shifted in their seats, clearly uncertain of which path she’d taken, as well. Pamela seemed to smirk, as if she knew she’d blast to the “top” of the interns, now. She couldn’t wait to squash Charlotte out.

“Charlotte, again,” Maggie began. “Speaking out of turn at a meeting like this. Quentin’s the editor in chief. You can’t just—”

But Quentin held up his hand, halting her, clearly captivated with Charlotte. As their eyes linked, it was as if they were the only two people in the room, alone, ready to undress each other—stripping each other bare, licking at the salty skin below.

“Let’s cancel this meeting,” Quentin said then. “It’s clear I can’t keep my own interns in check.”

Charlotte’s cheeks grew pink with fright. She bowed her head, breaking the spell between them. Still, her pussy lips seemed to open wider, yearning for him. Quentin cut from the room, slamming the door closed behind him, either outraged or too focused to close it correctly. The interns began to titter around her, feeling the drama as it shivered in the air.

“Shit,” Randy finally said, directing it toward Charlotte. “What on earth was that about? You spoke like you had a vendetta against him.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, suddenly frightened. “I don’t know. Shit.” She pressed her fingers against her forehead, suddenly conscious that she was spiraling out of control.

Maggie approached her, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor. She leaned down in a swift motion, revealing her tired breasts and the cavern between them. “Charlotte. Do you mind if I speak with you in my office?” she asked swiftly.

Charlotte’s cheeks reddened even more. She pushed herself from her chair, feeling all intern eyes upon the small of her back. For the first time in months, she had an intense sugar craving and imagined herself shoving several cookies down her throat and sobbing on the subway.

Fuck. She was going to lose her job.

Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

She marched behind Maggie, her shoulders slumped, her mind bending. How would she tell her parents what had happened today? How had she allowed her emotions to spin so far out of control?