Chapter 22

The next day, Charlotte appeared at work along with everyone else, dressed in a fine-cut black dress and high heels, her hair falling in bright curls down her back, and her skin almost glowing from nearly twelve hours of intercourse and cuddling with Quentin.

Randy was already seated at his desk, his neck arched as his eyes ate up the social media on his phone. Charlotte sat primly beside him, her eyes dancing with light. She cleared her throat.

Turning swiftly, Randy gazed at her, shocked. “Shit, girl. What are you doing here?” he whispered, his voice harsh. He stabbed his phone into his back pocket, looking anxious. “You’re fired.”

“I’m not,” Charlotte said, thrusting her right shoulder forward. “I got the email from Maggie last night. They had a change of heart.”

“Wow,” Randy breathed. “I’ve never seen a turnaround like that. I mean, once you’re fired, you’re fired.”

“I think Maggie just made a flash decision,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “Might be difficult with her in the future. Doesn’t seem to like me very much. Said I had an attitude.”

“Ha,” Randy said, his face still bright with shock. “Jesus. I was wondering how I was going to get through the next few months without you. And to think, your idea was actually better than our editor-in-chief’s.” He shook his head, looking aghast. “It doesn’t seem like something you should get fired over, ultimately. It seems disgusting.”

Pamela entered the intern offices and stood, stock-still, staring at Charlotte. Her tongue slipped from between her lips, looking snake-like. Again, her hair was in wayward curls, clearly trying to attract some sort of attention—perhaps from Quentin. “What the…” she murmured.

“She’s not fired!” Randy cried out, sounding flamboyant. “It’s a miracle.”

“Miracle is one word for it,” Pamela said, her voice tart. “I mean, you clearly spoke out of turn. I, for one, thought you had good reason to be fired.”

“Great opinion, Pam,” Randy said sarcastically. “I hope you’ll grace us with more of those opinions in the future. That would be really helpful.”

Pamela rolled her eyes, clacking her heels toward her desk. She grumbled inaudibly to herself, sounding like a crazed valley girl, on the brink of insanity. “Who the fuck does this girl thinks she is?”

The other interns had mixed reactions, using curt nods to welcome her back or else skirting their eyes away, sensing she was now spoiled meat and best avoided. Confident after her night of lovemaking, Charlotte remained jolly, typing up a press release for an event the magazine was hosting in a few weeks and even exploring new bands, which she’d write about in the coming afternoon. She bobbed her head, finding pleasure in each unique sound, and took tight notes on her notepad, reminding herself, over and over again, that she was being paid to write about music.

Her heart bled with the joy of it.

That night, Morgan spent the night with Quentin again. Charlotte offered to cook them dinner—sans shellfish—and she busied herself in their apartment, listening as Morgan and Quentin played a duet on the piano, tinkling the high and low keys and creating a stunning melody. Quentin even used that gruff singing voice of his, made famous on five records and two EPs over the years. Charlotte felt warmed and caught up with the private performance, almost allowing the lasagna noodles to boil too long.

As she splayed the lasagna noodles and the ricotta cheese in a mighty patchwork pattern, she felt Quentin approach her from behind, pressing his lips into the back of her neck and wrapping his firm arms around her thin waist. He inhaled the scent of her, causing her to giggle.

“You guys are sounding pretty good in there,” she whispered, moving her lips into his on the side. Her pussy ignited with sudden pleasure, yearning for his touch. Slowly, he moved his hand down the flat of her stomach, dipping beneath her jeans and finding the warmth between her legs.

“I can’t handle playing piano in there when I know your body’s in here,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s too much.”

Charlotte giggled. “How’s Morgan feeling?”

“Better than ever,” Quentin answered. “Aren’t you feeling good, Morg?” he called.

“Just fine, Dad. Stop asking me that!” Morgan answered from the piano room.

The vibrant blonde girl pounded into the kitchen, causing Quentin to release Charlotte with a sad motion. They stood like islands. Charlotte slipped the lasagna into the oven, grinning sheepishly.

“Well, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Charlotte said stupidly.

“My class sent me a bunch of chocolate. Do you want some?” Morgan asked her brightly.

“Um…” Charlotte began.

But Morgan raced past her, into her bedroom, and drew out a box of French chocolates, which someone’s rich mother had probably picked out to impress Quentin. She pressed a single mint chocolate piece into Charlotte’s outstretched palm, watching her intently as she ate it.

The mint and chocolate melted in a chorus of flavor on Charlotte’s tongue, bringing a slight smile.

“See. It’s damn good, isn’t it?” Morgan demanded.

“Language, little thing,” Quentin said, tossing her blond hair around with his firm hands. “And what did I say about the chocolate? No more before dinner. Charlotte here is slaving away to make you some really good lasagna.”

“Oh! I love lasagna,” Morgan said. “Mom never lets me eat it. Carbs,” she whispered, almost conspiratorially.

“As if she really knows what carbs are,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “Hop back to the piano, Morg. We eat in forty-five minutes.”

She did, leaving Quentin and Charlotte to make out heavily in the kitchen to the sound of Mozart and Bach, drummed with the fingers of a seven-year-old.

They ate companionably at the table, getting to know one another more intimately and laughing outrageously at Morgan’s silly school stories, along with her apparent distaste for the hospital nurses.

“Oh, she was nice to you!” Quentin declared, pointing his fork. “She fluffed your pillows!”

“She always messed them up,” Morgan insisted. “Mom did it perfectly, then this nurse comes along and… bang.”

“Wow. She should definitely lose her license,” Charlotte joked.

“Ha,” Quentin said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t handle you women. I have a constant headache.”

But his eyes gleamed with sure pleasure, obviously surrounded with people who ignited joy into his once dark and drug-addled mind.

This was a new chapter for him, Charlotte felt sure. And perhaps she could be semi-responsible for making it whole.