Chapter 32

Two weeks later, it was the second week of October, and the last day of Charlotte’s first week at Rolling Stone magazine. Hustling from the offices, where she’d slaved over an article about an up-and-coming band reminiscent of Soft Cell, the ‘80s band, she met up with Randy for a quick drink, telling him the complex hierarchy of the editors and writers of Rolling Stone, and how it felt to finally be taken seriously.

“I know you’ll find your niche somewhere,” she told him firmly, over their second cocktail. “You’re a great writer.”

“It just sucks that you left us with Pamela,” Randy said, teasing her. “Because in the end, she’s treacherous to everyone. Her and Maggie have kind of bonded, maybe it’s their joint red hair—who knows—and Maggie’s been pushing to have Pamela write more for the magazine, even though I think she was hired for sales. It’s a whole, dramatic thing. Of course, Quentin’s stopping it in its tracks.” Randy paused, giving her a quizzical look. “How is it going with you guys, anyway?”

Charlotte couldn’t contain her smile. She leaned forward, her heart pushing against her ribcage, as she described her love for Quentin for the first time.

“I have never felt this way before,” she breathed. “Every night his daughter isn’t with him, I go there and we cook dinner and we laugh or we go out and see music and dance…” She trailed off, her skin glowing. “I can’t believe it all worked out. It felt like it never would, there for a bit.”

“Good thing you’re a baller writer,” Randy said, laughing. “Otherwise you’d still be pining for him from the tiny intern office. Let me ask you another question.”

“ Hmm?”

“What was it like to fuck in his office, knowing you could have been found out any second?” His eyes flashed with humor, making Charlotte’s face brim with red embarrassment.

“I’d like to plead the fifth on that one,” she said, giggling. “Now, this is my last drink. I have to run back to Q’s. We’re having a little dinner with his daughter before she goes to a week-long piano camp.”

“A whole week with Mr. Right,” Randy said, teasing her. “Now doesn’t that sound like a dream?”

It did.

Charlotte kissed Randy on the cheek and left a twenty, paying for them both. She dashed toward the street and hailed a cab, slipping evenly into the broken, leather seats and directing him toward her apartment building. Leaning her head heavily back, she gave thanks to the universe for opening to her. For giving her love.

When she reached Quentin’s door, Morgan flung it open and rushed headlong into her legs, wrapping her arms tightly around them. Morgan’s lips were coated with melted chocolate, making her look adorable, if clumsy. Charlotte lifted her into her arms and swiped her finger across her chocolate cheek, inquiring, “How on earth did this happen?”

“She got into her snack drawer before dinner. That’s how,” Quentin called, flipping burgers on a grill on the small balcony, toward the piano room. It was one of the last gorgeous days of the year, when October allowed blue to flood the sky.

“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “Guess that means I get her burger!”

“I don’t eat meat, remember?” Morgan said, sounding haughty. “You heathens.”

“It’s a veggie burger for her,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “The phase continues.”

Charlotte dropped a bottle of red on the counter and then entered into his firm embrace, reaching up and kissing him. She sucked at his lip for a moment, allowing her eyes to close. Would any feeling be as beautiful as coming home to this?

“How was the last day of the first week?” he asked her then, smacking her ass.

“Oh, wonderful,” Charlotte said, squealing slightly. She cranked open the wine, pouring them two glasses, before joining him on the balcony for good, listening as Morgan began her pounding. She’d begun Beethoven, and the emotions were strikingly different. “We had a big staff meeting at the end of the day. Lots of ideas swirling around. It made my head spin. But it was electrifying.”

“Yeah. We have those every once in a while,” Quentin answered. “I love how it ignites the writers. We should have them more often. Maggie doesn’t think they work. But she’s got a lot of interesting opinions.” He winked at Charlotte, teasing her, now.

The treachery of their affair seemed like years ago now. Their love blossomed each day, with Quentin sending her emails, music links, and even the new song he was working on, which he’d entitled, “She’s Here.”

Charlotte didn’t want to assume it was about her. But she sensed it.

Quentin, Morgan, and Charlotte sat at the dining room table, with two burgers and a veggie burger before them, all three steaming, with blackened marks from the grill. They ate heartily, speaking companionably, with Quentin refilling their glasses of wine with frequency. Charlotte felt her head spinning with a strange mix of inescapable joy and lust for future fucking.

Morgan would be leaving them soon.

The doorbell rang as Morgan chewed her last bite. Tossing herself from her chair, she raced to the door, opening it wide to discover her mother, Kate, standing nearly six feet tall, with tight thighs and a taut waist. Kate hugged her daughter stiffly, making eye contact with Quentin, then Charlotte.

Charlotte’s heart lurched. While she’d understood that Kate would be stopping by that night, nothing could have prepared her for what a stunning beauty she was. Morgan was going to be gorgeous.

“Hi, there,” Kate said, clacking forward and sending her hand into Charlotte’s. “I’m Kate. It’s wonderful to meet you. Morgan won’t shut up about you, so I know you’re pretty all right.”

Charlotte grinned, grateful for the introduction. “Well, I think she’s pretty all right, too,” she said. “Great to meet you, by the way. You’re driving her up to piano camp?”

“Well, the driver is. I’ll be in back.” She turned to Morgan, speaking in bright, mothering tones. “You should grab your piano books, babe. We’ve got a long night.”

“I want Charlotte and Daddy to come, too,” Morgan said, stuffing her lip out into the air, pouting.

“Aw, well, they can’t. But Jason’s coming with us. How exciting, right?”

“Sure,” Morgan said, stomping down to her room. “He always tries to teach me stuff.”

Kate blushed, shrugging. “He’s trying to help her understand the market. I tried to tell him, you know, she’s only seven. But connecting with kids might not be his strong suit.”

“He’s a good guy, regardless,” Quentin offered.

“He sure is,” Kate breathed, sounding hesitant. “You guys have big plans this weekend?”

“Just resting,” Charlotte said. “I’m exhausted. First week at Rolling Stone. And Quentin here… well. He’ll be working on new music.”

“You’re doing it again?” Kate asked, incredulous. “Really? That’s wonderful news, Q. Absolutely wonderful.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “But it does feel good to be in a studio again.”

Morgan reappeared, yanking her backpack behind her and looking sluggish. The father-daughter duo said their goodbyes, with Quentin lifting her into a firm hug and then giving her a light spanking on her way out, telling her “behave yourself,” with a slight wink. Kate waved from the door before slipping it closed, leaving Charlotte and Quentin alone in the echoing apartments, with nothing but their cranking brains and winding thoughts.

Suddenly, Charlotte spun toward Quentin, looking mischievous. “I want you to play it for me,” she said. “The song.”

Quentin smacked the back of his neck. “No. I mean… I don’t know why you’d want to hear it at such an early stage.”

“Because I do. I’m so proud of you for working on something you love this much again,” she whispered. “Please. For me?”

Quentin grasped her hand and led her toward the back, soundproof room, shoving the door closed behind him. Charlotte situated herself on a small chair in the corner, watching as Quentin moved in the familiar pattern, slid ing his guitar strap across his chest and beginning to tune the instrument. Charlotte had watched countless videos of the band on YouTube, had almost memorized his motions. And now, they were here. In front of her.

And her pussy grew wet with insistence, wanting those fingers on the guitar strings to touch her.

Quentin began to sing, then. The song was sorrowful, hinged on a sense of regret and longing. And as he sang, Charlotte stood, beginning to unbutton her dress for him, before allowing the black fabric to fall to the floor at her feet. She stood in a bra and a pair of black tights. He halted his playing, shoving his guitar to the side and rushing toward her, lifting her into him.

Charlotte wrapped her firm legs around his waist, closing her eyes quickly and then kissing him with eager, wet lips. He ripped at her tights, bringing his fingers to her already wet, silky pussy. He unhooked her bra, allowing her breasts to bounce against his chest, their nipples growing hard.

Their kisses grew more insistent. Charlotte unleashed his wide, rock-hard staff, pulling the skin over the tip and then back down again, causing him to moan with continuous pleasure. As he leaned her up against the soundproof wall, his hands cupped her ass, and he slotted his firm staff between her peach pussy lips, entering her and filling her, causing her eyes to grow wide.

They made love against the wall, and then on the floor, with Charlotte wrapping her arms tightly around his chest and abdomen, stretching her neck and arching her back, like an animal in the wild. Their moans were censored from all neighbors, and they cried out, howling with lust, and tearing at one another’s skin, finally freed of the shackles they’d begun their relationship with.

As they collapsed beside one another, huffing, their orgasms throttling through them in the time that was after, Quentin whispered into her ear, sending shivers up and down her spine.

“You know the song is about you. ‘She’s Here’ just means I finally found you. And in some ways, it feels like I was waiting for you all along. Throughout all those horrible years of drugs and partying and reckless mistakes, I was waiting for you. I’m so grateful I waited.”

Charlotte turned her head, rubbing her nose against his. “I love you,” she whispered, saying it for the first time. “I’ve never loved anyone before. But I know it when I feel it. And I know it now.”

“I love you, too,” Quentin responded softly, kissing her again.

Quentin wrapped his strong arms around her, lifting her from the soundproof room and carrying her to the balcony, where they stood in their underwear and coats, drank wine, and spoke about the many different lives, interacting and ending and becoming beneath them. As writers, their brains were always in action. And as lovers, they would always find common, sexual ground, with chemistry akin to the most intense rock star sound.