Chapter 25

“That interview,” Randy said the following Wednesday morning, hours before Charlotte was meant to leave to meet with Keith from Thick Soled. “That’s soon?”

They were standing at the coffee machine, with Charlotte clinging to her steaming cup and Randy filling his, watching as the dirt-brown trickle came from the tiny slot.

“Today,” Charlotte affirmed. “I’ve been working on the questions literally non-stop.”

“I can tell something’s on your mind,” Randy said, touching his temple. “Can feel the nerves coming off you. You’re all jittery.”

“Ha. I know,” Charlotte said, her voice soft. “I’m an anxious wreck. But once this is over, I can start writing the damn thing. If it’s just me and a computer, then it’s not as intimidating.”

“Ha. You sound like an artist, with some paint and a canvas,” Randy said, teasing her. He lifted his coffee mug and pattered toward the hallway, with Charlotte following like an injured dog. The secret was beginning to eat at her, nibbling at the edge of her heart and causing her shoulders to slump. Her only friends in New York City were a few of her intern friends, along with Randy. And she couldn’t divulge the secret of her love life without destroying her relationship with them.

She felt poisonous.

“Anyway, nobody deserves this like you do,” Randy said, assuring her. “And you’re completely personable. I would open up to you, at least.”

“Ha,” Charlotte said, laughing. “You don’t need much to open up to anyone. You just spew it out, like a drunk girl. Which is something I appreciate, by the way.”

“Good. Because I’ll keep telling you all the horrible stories about my ex-boyfriend until I get you to open up about your love life. I know you’re fucking. I can see it on your skin.”

“People keep telling me my skin looks good,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. “It makes me think my skin didn’t look good before.”

“Before what? Before you met Mr. Right?” Randy asked, teasing.

“No. I mean. No,” Charlotte said, tossing herself into her desk. She gave him a secretive smile, wanting to keep the silliness up. “Now, no more questions. I have to focus.”

“Whatever. Just don’t get married without telling me,” Randy said, joining her. He began to type furiously on his screen, diving from line to line on his notes for the feature he was pitching at the next writers’ meeting.

Charlotte knew it wouldn’t get picked up. It was too imprecise, too last year. Perhaps, when she found time the following day, she could help him stretch it out a bit. She’d become his editor, fueling him as far as she could in the industry. Even if he didn’t have the skills, she wanted him by her side. Their friendship was beginning to mean something, even outside the office.

Charlotte met Quentin outside his office at two that afternoon, armed with a notebook, three pens, and a recorder, which she planned to use during the interview. She grimaced in panic as he joined her, looking cool, suave, unfettered.

“Somebody looks anxious,” he said.

“Let’s just not talk about it,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

Around them, the other editors and writers gave them sideways glances. Since Maggie’s “chat” with Charlotte the previous week, she’d kept a wide berth, perhaps assuming that Charlotte would go straight to Quentin if she tried to “put her in her place” again. Charlotte was clearly gaining power with Quentin. This much was obvious to anyone.

“Ready?” he asked.

They entered the elevator together, standing at least two feet apart. The air around them sizzled, with Charlotte’s fingers twitching expectantly. The moment the gray doors closed, she felt Quentin’s hand on her ass, swirling her into him. She kissed him languidly, with wet lips, closing her eyes. Her body went lax with longing. His lips parted hers, darting his tongue within her mouth and causing a wayward moan to draw up from her throat.

“Wow,” she breathed, breaking the kiss.

“Impressed?” he asked, sounding playful.

Her eyebrows rose high. “Cocky today, huh?”

“You should be the one who’s cocky,” Quentin told her firmly. “It’s your first interview, babe. Get a little confidence. Stand up straighter. You’ve fucking got this.”

“Ha,” Charlotte breathed. “I just want—“ She stopped, feeling emotion brim through her. “I want everyone to think I’m a proper journalist. I want to be taken seriously.”

“And you will. After this,” Quentin said.

They still had a few hours before the interview and had left the office early purposefully, wanting to prepare with a drink and a bit of chatter about her interview questions. They went immediately to the Brooklyn bar Keith and the others had agreed upon, with its exposed brick walls, its cement bar top, and its mustached bartender, who served them both cocktails with slices or lime and orange floating at the top. Charlotte sipped hers evenly, feeling an immediate rush in her brain. “Damn,” she breathed. “This is really going to knock me out.”

“It’s going to loosen you up,” Quentin corrected, leaning closer to her. “Let’s see those questions.”

Charlotte pressed her notebook into his hand, watching as he flipped through it evenly. His eyes coursed down the lined page and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders readjusting. Above them, a grunge song from the ‘90s blared from the scratchy speakers. Charlotte approved.

“These are good, Char,” Quentin said, smacking the notebook back on the counter. “Really. I think your questions alone are going to set you apart from the other assholes they normally interview with. Including myself.” He smirked.

“You aren’t just saying that, right?” Charlotte asked, almost demanding an answer.

“No,” he said. “I promise. And you’re about as passionate about this as Morgan is before her piano recitals. I always have to talk her down from a bridge before each one. ‘Dad, I’m going to mess up and no one is going to respect me and I’m going to die.’ Every single fucking time.”

Charlotte grinned. “A girl after my own heart.”

“She hopes so, at least,” Quentin said. Her eyelashes flickered. “You know, I haven’t dated anyone seriously while I’ve had Morgan.”

“That’s kind of shocking,” Charlotte said. “She’s seven. You haven’t had anyone?”

“I’ve devoted my life to her. And the fact that this human who’s my entire existence respects you this much—I mean, that says everything. It tells me I’m not wasting my time.”

“Good,” Charlotte breathed.

They hadn’t spoken so heavily about their attraction, not since they’d begun. It had been nearly three weeks, although it felt like much longer, perhaps months. She sipped her cocktail, simmering with electricity, hopeful that the afternoon ahead unfolded evenly, without her saying the wrong thing or overstepping or making herself look a fool, especially in front of Quentin.

The band arrived about an hour later, while Quentin sipped on his third drink. Charlotte had ordered a water with lemon, wanting to retain some semblance of a sharp brain. She rose when she saw their rugged figures, watching as their eyes skirted from Quentin, back to her, confused, really, why she was taking the lead.

“Hi, boys,” Quentin said, rising and shaking their hands. “Keith. Martin. Cody. This is Charlotte. She’s one of our interns, and she’s taking the lead on this. I hope you’ll give her the respect she needs.”

“We aren’t that breed of rock star, Q,” Cody said, chortling and sitting beside Charlotte. “Not like you were.”

“We respect women,” Martin said, teasing him. “Charlotte. Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I heard you’re writing your first feature?”

“That’s true,” Charlotte said, her voice deep. If she didn’t believe in herself, who would? She slipped her recorder to the ON position and then grabbed her pen, beginning to take notes. She knew she looked harried and tried to focus on her breathing, feeling her tongue dry.

“And I appreciate you guys agreeing to do this. I know last time it was just Keith who came out to the interview, but I do think the article will breathe with more of your voices.”

“Cool. Yeah, people normally just want to talk to Keith,” Martin said, rolling his eyes playfully. “But whatever. Even when we were kids, girls only ever wanted to talk to Keith.”

“He’s our hidden factor. Our secret weapon,” the other band member, Cody, chimed in.

“Come on, guys,” Keith said, knocking his rugged forehead forward, clearly wishing they’d move from the topic. “I know you’re both obsessed with me, but this is a bit too much.”

“Ha,” Cody said.

“You’re actually on a pretty good theme, here,” Charlotte began, feeling vibrant, ready. “I wanted to discuss your initial trajectory and your experience with music as kids, growing up together. Your influences. And then, how your band links back to this nostalgia trip, upholding bands like Orpheus Arise and so many others.”

“Oh, hey, Orpheus Arise,” Cody said, nodding his head toward Quentin. “Good to see you. Although would kill to see you behind a guitar again.”

“Those days are over, boys,” Quentin said. “I only operate a computer these days.”

“Damn. Grunge is dead,” Martin said.

“It’s not. You guys are keeping it alive,” Charlotte murmured.

“That set you guys played. In the basement in Brooklyn in 2006 with the Beehives. Shit, man. I saw that on YouTube and I nearly lost my mind,” Keith said.

“It was a baller show, man. Seriously,” Martin added.

“It’s not dead,” Charlotte interjected. “Because you guys are keeping it alive. Talk about why it’s worth it to you. Why do you insist on blasting it with electricity and energy and bringing it to a new generation?”

Quentin splayed his hands forward, palms up, gesturing to the boys. Perhaps they spoke the same language, Charlotte thought. Quentin seemed to interject, saying, “Talk to the girl. Not to me.”

And the boys behaved. They began to answer her, drawing inspiration from stories of their joint past and telling the tale of how they’d become the present-day Thick Soled—a name they’d arrived on when Keith’s mom had bought him thick-soled shoes and everyone at school had made fun of him.

“Keith hasn’t allowed anyone to make fun of him since then,” Martin said, laughing. “He’s not terribly thick-skinned, to say the least.”

The interview carried on from there, with all five of them ordering several rounds of drinks. Quentin hardly talked, only answering questions about “how things were” when he was a top-tier rock star. Charlotte brimmed with pleasure throughout the conversation, sensing the truth: she was damn good at this. This was what she was meant to be doing. And despite the fact that she’d probably gotten the gig through sleeping with Quentin, she still saw nowhere else she belonged more.

Thick Soled excused themselves after the third drink, shaking Charlotte’s hand with verve and then clapping Quentin on the shoulder blade, telling him, once more, they’d “kill” to see him perform again. They trudged from the bar table, exiting into the flurry of passenger traffic, leaving Quentin and Charlotte in the shadowy bar, the only drinkers in the establishment.

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, holding out her fingers. They were quaking. She flashed a bright smile, aware of how silly she looked. “Shit. I’m shivering. But that was absolutely—incredible.”

“I can tell you loved every second,” he answered, leaning closer to her. “I was falling for you more and more every second. You reeled them in when they got too far away from a question topic, and you allowed them to dance through different anecdotes, having fun with it.” He clapped his hands together, almost aghast. “Shit. It’s going to be a much better article than the one I was planning to write. It’s going to be about a million times better.”

Charlotte leaped to her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulsed herself into his lap, unable to rein in her joy and sexuality, and then brought her lips around his, kissing him passionately. He wrapped his arm around her back, cupping her close.

When their kiss broke, Charlotte placed her palm on his cheek, feeling at his five o’ clock shadow. His musk flooded her nose.

“What do you want to do now?” she whispered.

“I want to take you out to celebrate,” Quentin said. “I want you to divorce yourself from all that worry you’ve been holding onto, and I want you to have a good time with me.”

“Where do you want to go?” Charlotte whispered.

“I know just what you’ll love.”

Quentin paid for the massive tab with a flourish of his credit card and then grasped her hand, leading her into the sun-drenched, early fall streets. She slipped a cardigan over her shoulders, retrieved from her bag, and added her sunglasses atop her nose, conscious that all the panic she’d had, jostling around her heart for the past week or so, was receding quickly.

And she hadn’t even made a total fool of herself.

“God, I just want to shout it from the rooftops,” she breathed, giggling. “I want to tell the world that I fucking did it. I fucking killed that interview.”

“Hah,” Quentin said, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I love seeing you this happy.”

He led her down a side alley, toward a rusty set of steps. Although Charlotte was a bit hesitant, she trudged up behind him. Music built up in her ears slowly, gravitating from the rooftop.

“Is this a roof party?” she asked, breathless. She hadn’t yet seen this “side” of New York, although it had certainly been something she’d dream of.

Quentin didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand firmly and pulled her up the final few steps, delivering them to a landing. A man stood out front, wearing dark sunglasses and balding in the center, front part of his head. He wore a rugged leather jacket; his jeans were holed and too tight on his rather thick frame. But the man grasped onto Quentin’s hand and then gave him a masculine hug, one that spoke of years of partying, of raucous times.

“Q,” he said, his voice booming. “Good to see you again, man. You’ve been out of the scene for years.”

“That’s true, that’s true,” Quentin said. “Thought it wouldn’t be a bad time to rejoin. This is my friend Charlotte. Charlotte, this is Peter. Pete.”

“Pete,” Charlotte said, a smile snaking across her lips. She shook Pete’s hand, feeling suddenly like a specimen.

“You always did have the prettiest girlfriends,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Back to your old tricks, I see.”

“Nah,” Quentin said firmly. “I’m a changed man. A dad. And a professional. Fuck, it’s been a while. I need a drink.” His eyebrows rose high. He joined Pete’s raucous laugh, both of them seeming to fall into reverie. Charlotte shifted her weight, listening to the rock music, revving from just over the fence.

“No entrance fee for you guys, then,” Pete said, gesturing inward. “Just go have a good time.”

He stamped them both with black images on their inner wrists and then swept them toward the roof party, with Quentin slipping a firm hand around her waist. Charlotte buzzed with the previous bar’s cocktails, feeling herself transported to a different world: to Quentin’s old world of drugs and sex and abandonment. This was the world she’d craved, from her lonely position in Ohio. The world she’d expected for herself, as a music groupie.

She’d arrived.

As they entered the rooftop party, Charlotte gaped, in awe of the gorgeous guests. A band strummed guitars in the corner, wearing the height of hipster cool, their eyes covered in sunglasses and their jeans sucking close to their skin. Girls leaned heavily against tables, their breasts glowing in the soft light of the late afternoon. Drinks were poured heavily and passed to men in hip hats with mustaches, bringing white wines back to their girl companions. It was clear that everyone had a purpose, everyone had money, everyone was creating a kind of show, for all their peers to see.

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, whispering into Quentin’s ear. “I don’t think I’ve been to such an exclusive party before.”

Quentin laughed, guiding her to the bar. He ordered them two craft beers and then carried the frothing glasses to the edge of the roof, giving them a grand view of Manhattan and the sun, lingering at the height of several of the skyscrapers. He clinked his glass with hers, congratulating her with a firm nod.

“I’m saying this as your boss. You’re a marvelous journalist,” he said.

Charlotte eyed him. “And what would you say if you weren’t my boss?”

Quentin leaned heavily into her ear, whispering, “I’d say I want to fuck you against the edge of this roof, for everyone to see, just so they know that I have you, I’m the one taking you home.”

Charlotte shivered, feeling her heart rate quickened. “I’ve always wanted to fuck in front of people,” she answered, her eyes dancing. “Kind of a fantasy of mine.”

“Oh?” Quentin asked her, smirking. “Maybe we can make that dream come true.”

Quentin and Charlotte sipped their beers, chatting amicably and heightening their friendship and lust for one another. Charlotte found it difficult to stop giggling, surprised, at a certain point, at how hilarious she found Quentin. “I wouldn’t have assumed you—the king of grunge—would be so funny.”

“When you’re as famous as I used to be, you have to have a sense of humor about it. Otherwise, you’ll go absolutely crazy.”

Mere minutes later, the band quit playing their set. The lead singer wrapped his microphone with the cord, passed it off, and then shuffled toward Quentin and Charlotte, his eyes centered upon Quentin. He gulped audibly, despite his seeming put-together chicness.

“Quentin? Quentin McDonnell?” he breathed, reaching out his hand.

Quentin shook it, probably used to this type of interaction. Charlotte watched as the younger man slipped his sunglasses from his nose, lending Quentin his dark green eyes. “I just wanted to come tell you thanks for listening to our set. We all grew up with Orpheus Arise. And it’s really a dream come true to meet you.”

“You guys partying after this?” Quentin asked him.

Charlotte’s eyes shot toward Quentin, curious. Quentin was off drugs—wasn’t he? The air sizzled around them, anticipating the younger man’s answer.

“Sure. We have some stuff.” He gestured back toward his band, who were packing up and moving aside for the next set. “We’ve just been doing it on the side of the roof. No use for the bathroom up here. Everyone’s fucked out of their minds. Everyone who’s cool, that is.”

Quentin pushed forward, following the younger man, who introduced himself as Miller. The other boys shook Quentin’s hand, giving him firm nods, a sign, apparently, of respect. Charlotte quivered beside him.

“And Morgan’s with her mom the rest of the night, right?” she whispered into his ear.

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be out here if she wasn’t,” Quentin said, giving her a half-dark look. As the brief moment of tension passed between them, Quentin shrugged it off, gesturing. “I’ll just take a little bit. It’s been years. And you, baby, you’ve ignited something in me. I want to live again, you know?”

Charlotte nodded, her hesitance drawing a frown across her face. “Sure. I trust you,” she lied. Her nostrils flared as she tucked closer to the band, where the drummer drew white lines of powder across a book

As her eyes danced around the room, Quentin wrapped his hands around her waist, trying to catch her back in his embrace. “Come on, baby. You want a little bit?” he asked, preparing to go next, after the drummer. “I promise, it’s good shit. It’s only good at these parties.”

Charlotte’s heart yanked at her brain, fueling panic. She looked up into his eyes, small tears drawing themselves from the corner of her eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry. Maybe I’m too much of a novice to handle this.”

“Hey,” Quentin said, his voice becoming quieter. He spun toward the band. “I’ll be back in just a second.” He drew Charlotte from the band, into a far corner, and then cupped her face with his hands in an intimate motion. “You think I’m going to get addicted again, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, realizing, suddenly, how much she truly cared for him. “I want you to be safe is all. I don’t want to lose you, the way the other girls did.”

Quentin’s eyes grew softer. He leaned closer to her, kissing her deeply and sucking at her bottom lip. He only broke the kiss to breathe. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

After an intense moment of silence, during which not even the band played, Charlotte turned her eyes toward the entrance of the rooftop party. Still wrapped in Quentin’s arms, she watched as a redheaded girl, approximately her age, dressed in a bright pink skirt, stared at her, mouth agape, her eyes filled with anger and darkness.

It was Pamela.

“Shit,” Charlotte exhaled quickly, shoving Quentin from her grasp. She parted from him, still staring at Pamela.

Befuddled, Quentin knocked his arms on either side of his torso, glancing to where Pamela stood, but not recognizing her. “What’s going on?”

But before Charlotte could explain, Pamela ducked toward the side steps, disappearing from sight. Charlotte felt her stomach drop out; her knees grew weak. She fell against the side, half-wall, quivering down to the ground. Quentin began to call her name, recognizing her panic.

“Charlotte? Hey? Are you okay? Baby? Char?”

But he sounded as if he was a million miles away.

“Shit. Shit, shit,” Charlotte finally exhaled, visibly shaking.

Quentin laughed, in spite of himself. “Morgan always makes that face. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

“Can we just go?” Charlotte begged, not wanting to explain the horrible thing that had just occurred. In her mind, the world had just split in two. In another reality, in another timeline, she and Quentin were snorting cocaine till dawn, celebrating her successful interview into infinity. But in this one, Pamela was racing home to call Maggie, to tell everyone the truth, that Charlotte had only gotten the feature because she was sleeping with the editor-in-chief. And beyond that, she was busting the no-fraternization clause, thinking she would get away with.

Quentin hailed a taxi outside the rooftop party, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, becoming a pillar on which she could lean. The moment he tucked her into the back, he swept her hair behind her shoulders, easing her cheek against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I wanted to do that back there,” he answered firmly. “It won’t happen again. Really.”

“That’s not it,” Charlotte murmured, watching as they laced through the darkening streets, darting through cars, racing the sun. “We’ve been found out.”

“What do you mean?” Quentin asked, seemingly not dismayed.

After all, losing his job probably wasn’t a big issue for him, was it? He was a millionaire, perhaps more. He’d fought his battles. He wouldn’t fight to pay for groceries again.

But Charlotte, no. Her battle had just begun. And she’d just fallen on her sword.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. You’ll find out soon enough,” she whispered, cutting her head closer to his chest. “Just hold me for now, won’t you? I want to be as close to you as possible. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. And I don’t know what I’ll feel when it all falls apart.”

“Charlotte. I can’t resist you,” Quentin said, after a long pause. “You might be single-handedly saving my life. I’d given up on love.”

But Charlotte couldn’t find the words. She began to shake at the beauty of what he’d revealed to her. Devastation clouded her mind. She held her tongue, waiting till they arrived back at their apartment.

Her shoulders aching with the horrible promise of tomorrow, she wrapped herself tightly around Quentin, ripping his pants to his knees and wrapping her perfect lips around the tip of his cock, rubbing her tongue in a light, flirtatious circle around the tip. She listened to his moan, and then dove down to his balls, sucking on their perfect, circular shape. He caught her head with his hands, bringing her upward, kissing her again and then ripping her dress above her head, revealing her bra and underwear beneath. Her underwear was slightly wet, as her pussy had begun its insistent pounding, its silky lips separating, its clit poking out from above. Quentin slipped her panties to her feet, then unhooked her bra, watching as her tits bounced casually in front of his face. He wrapped his mouth around the darkness of her nipple, sucking at it insistently, with need.

They dove into bed with each other, making passionate, end-of-the-world love, with only Charlotte recognizing what had occurred. She humped him wildly from above, her lips parting, and his wide girth filling her, pushing up against the softness of her G-spot. He placed two fingers against the small clit, expounding on her pleasure centers and pushing a long, easy moan from her throat.

This is what she’d given up her career for, she told herself as she fell into a chorus of orgasms. This had to be worth it. This had to be everything.