by Kira Blakely
“Great,” Quentin said, his eyes snapping past each of their faces. “I think we have a good interview here.”
“We really need good sales for this new record,” Mark, the lead singer, began. “People don’t buy CDs like they used to, when you were in the business. It’s fucking tough to get by.”
“I’ve seen the sales,” Quentin said, his voice booming. “But you’re making it up in concert tickets, aren’t you? That Brooklyn crowd is probably as hot as ever, these days.”
“These fucking girls, man,” Connor, the guitarist, said. “Dude, you remember, what was it, ten years ago? When we were playing that show in Queens and you were on MDMA? You grabbed that girl in the front row, lifted her onto the stage, and just started making out with her in the middle of the song. You missed the second and third verses, and the chorus. But the band had your back, just improvising until you let her go.”
A mad smile stretched over Quentin’s face in memory. He remembered the stink of that girl, how she’d pressed her lips onto his and lifted her legs around his waist. That had been before so many things had changed in his life. That had been before he’d gotten “serious.”
“That was around when you got that tat. Of your girlfriend at the time, that model from Paris,” Connor said, leaning closer. As he did, Quentin could see how rough the years on the road had been to him, aging him horribly, and causing tight lines to form between his eyebrows. The Morning Stars hadn’t had to give up on the party. They hadn’t had to go home. And they were destroying themselves, becoming assholes in their mid-thirties who still did lines of coke before shows and hooked up with girls in their late teens.
“I still have it, of course,” Quentin said gruffly, lifting his bicep. He swept his suit jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his white button-up, revealing several black inks on his forearm, all the way up to the big-titted woman on his upper bicep. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t remember her name, now.”
“She probably doesn’t have those tits anymore, that’s for sure,” Mark said, laughing. “Good thing you got them inked to you forever. For the memories.”
“For the memories. That’s all I live for now, boys,” Quentin said, tipping back in his chair.
“Right. You’ve got that kid, now,” their drummer, Will, scoffed. “Cute little thing.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she definitely changed my life more than the others. That’s for sure,” Quentin said, snapping out of his reverie. He rolled his sleeve back down and slid his arms into his suit jacket, ready to send the boys home. “Well, thanks for this interview. Sure is nice to see you guys.”
He didn’t sound the least bit sincere, and he knew it. He swept his hand out and shook theirs, making momentary eye contact with each of the men before him. The men of his past; the men who’d picked him up from bathroom floors, coated in cocaine and other, unknown drugs, and plugged him up with alcohol and watched him make drunken mistake after drunken mistake.
“And that little intern we saw out in the main office—“ Connor said then, making deep eye contact with Quentin before snapping his eye in a wink. “Don’t suppose you have big plans for her?”
“Oh. Charlotte?” Quentin said, sounding blasé. “She’s a kid. You saw her.”
“I did,” Connor said, his words filled with meaning. “And I know exactly what the old Quentin would have done with her.”
The Morning Stars left, then, leaving Quentin to brood, with the blinds closing him off from the rest of the office. He sat back in his chair, knocking his feet up onto the desk and pressing the back of a pen against his lips. His mind raced back to an image of Charlotte, bending down to retrieve her notebook. His member pressed against his pant leg, becoming insistent.
God, that ass. The curvature of it, dipping out from beneath her little business dress. Her thin, stick-like legs had been reminiscent of any groupie from his former band days, ones that had wrapped around his waist countless times as he’d fucked them from above—almost never remembering their faces, nor their names. Seeing Charlotte out there had forced him through countless memories, gorgeous ones.
But no. God, no. He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d stopped with the drugs. He’d stopped with the sex addiction. He’d gotten married, briefly, and they’d had his daughter, Morgan, seven years before—when he’d been twenty-nine years old. Sure, he hadn’t been ready to have a kid back then. Half-drugged, out of his mind, he’d blasted into the hospital room to find his large-breasted model wife stretched out on the bed, holding onto that tiny infant. Her eyes had bled red with anger. “You missed the birth of your daughter,” she’d hissed, no longer seeing him as the amazing rock star on stage, the lead singer of Orpheus Arise. In that moment, he was just a small, bruised little man who wasn’t there when his wife and daughter needed him most.
When he’d first held Morgan, he’d decided to change. For good.
But, Jesus, seeing someone like Charlotte forced him to reconsider.
He turned to the office roster on his computer, then, and found her name: Charlotte Barracks, interning in music writing. From western Ohio, near the Indiana border. Majored in writing and music in college, listed her top favorite bands in her résumé, and didn’t include his.
Digging a bit, Quentin typed her name into a search engine, discovering a photograph of her easily on a social media page. That stunning, angelic face peered back at him. She was an absolute knock-out and, best of all, didn’t even know it. She looked as if she’d been born and bred in the very shadows of Ohio cornfields, hidden from the world for over two decades. Naïve. Young. Fresh. Easily destroyed.
Insistent, his cock pulsed up against his pants once more. Slowly, methodically, he reached for his belt and undid it, unzipping his pants and wrapping his hand around his veiny, rock-hard member. He remembered getting naked on stage, over ten years before, and penetrating some raucous groupie in front of the drum kit, as fans watched nearby.
SEX-CRAZED ROCKER had been the headline. He remembered reading it, from this very magazine, before he’d known he’d be any kind of “suit” in an office. Before he knew he’d ever grow up. He’d loved the title, slicing the magazine pages out and hanging them in his shitty, studio apartment in Brooklyn.
As he thought back to these glory days, all the women in his memories transformed into the little Ohioan intern. He yanked his cock from his pants fully, now, and began to ease his palm up and down gruffly, imagining her lips wrapped around the tip. He imagined those bright red lips bobbing up and down, her eyes gazing up at him from between his legs. He would shove his cock deeper between her teeth, watching as she deep-throated him.
Shivering with lust, his eyes turned toward the clock. It was nearly three-fifteen in the afternoon. His phone began to blare with the alarm he set, always certain he’d be too caught up in writing to remember. Shocked, he dropped his cock, slipping it back into his pants and re-zipping, re-buttoning, re-clasping.
He had to pick up Morgan from piano lessons. It was his day. It was his turn.
Shaking his head gruffly, he stood, tapping his muscled ass to ensure he had his wallet and keys. He sent a brief email to Maggie, that poor, rough-looking thing, who—yes—he’d fucked ten years ago. She was a stunning writer, a real asset to his team at MMM. But she always brought up the issue of them once copulating, never considering that he’d been too addled on mushrooms at the time to know if she was an actual woman or just a figment of his unending imagination.
Had to pick up Morgan, he typed furiously for Maggie, already running a bit late. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, early, to approve the rest of the magazine spreads. Good luck with the interns. I know they drive you wild. He tapped send swiftly and forced his laptop closed, bolting for the door. He avoided Maggie’s glance before escaping to the elevator. He couldn’t afford the time she required, half-casually flirting with him.
The tension and jealousy she created was sometimes an assault to his office frame of mind. He certainly didn’t want to give her any cues that
it could happen again, although he knew she wanted that. He could feel the simmer in her glances, sense the way she shoved her breasts upward when they spoke.
By the time he reached the sidewalk in front of the Manhattan office building, his brain was diluting itself from the hard day at the office, even allowing him a slight reprieve from thoughts of that hot intern, Charlotte. He was transitioning, now. For the next few hours, he would be a father. And damn, he’d be a good one.
3
Morgan’s school was close to Quentin’s penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side, a place he’d been able to afford after he’d stopped cashing all his checks for drugs, cleaned up his act, and begun writing at MMM officially, at the age of thirty-one. The royalties for the music continued to roll in, graciously, like echoes from a near-forgotten time. And suddenly, at the age of thirty-six, he was a very rich man, with a Music Editor title and acclaim from several journalistic award groups.
He and Morgan’s mother, a once-model named Kate, had decided upon the school because of its commitment to music. Nearly every day, the kids had a music lesson, with piano, guitar, voice, and even some of the brass or woodwind instruments on offer. Morgan had decided upon piano, since Quentin had a large grand piano in his penthouse, and she’d grown up with him tinkering on it, writing songs and crooning.
“She’ll grow up to be just like her daddy,” Kate had said once, giggling as Morgan had practiced in the other room.
“You apparently don’t remember that isn’t a very promising thing to become,” Quentin had said, his words brimming with meaning.
Kate had rolled her eyes, her moods on a constant cycle. “Quentin, of course I remember what an asshole you were to me. And to her, too, before she could form memories. I was trying to say that she’s going to be a good musician, like you. That’s all.”
Quentin hadn’t responded. He’d maneuvered into the main room, watching as his tiny blonde daughter had banged away on the keys, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He’d clapped when she’d finished. She’d whirled from the keys into a dramatic bow, her bright blue dress swinging around her knees. Jesus Christ, he loved that girl.
When he reached the school, he waited, his hands flickering at his pocket, searching for a cigarette that was no longer there. He’d given up the habit when Morgan had been an infant, knowing that the fumes and the preservatives and the smoke would ruin her tiny pink lungs. He’d wanted to give her a chance.
Morgan bounded from the school moments later, her backpack bouncing at her spine, half-unzipped. Her blond hair flung back behind her, tangled and vibrant, her eyes glittering. She wrapped her thin arms around her dad’s waist, hugging him with unlimited passion—like a wild animal, bounding from the forest.
“Daddy,” she said, whispering. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Hi, baby,” he answered, leaning down and brushing her hair behind her ears in a delicate motion. “You’re looking ravishing today, I must say. Although it doesn’t look like your mom decided to brush your hair before you left.”
Morgan’s nose scrunched. “I didn’t want her to,” she said. “I screamed and cried until she stopped. And I’m sorry I did it.”
“Morgan,” Quentin sighed, rising up and taking her small hand in his. “You have to let your mom do this stuff.”
“But she brushes too hard,” Morgan insisted. “Not like you. You do it soft and easy. It never makes me cry.”
“Well, your mom cares about you. She always makes you look very pretty. Don’t you want to be pretty?”
“I don’t care,” Morgan said, sounding confident and cocky—so like Quentin as a kid. “I just want to be famous. And you can be famous doing almost anything, Dad. Trust me. Some people get famous just because they grow their fingernails out really, really long.”
“Ha. That’s true.”
“And you were famous. But not because you were beautiful,” Morgan said, blinking up at him. “Mom showed me some of the photos of you, when you were a famous rock star. You had long, tangled hair, too. And you were wild. Mom said you were nuts.”
“Did she?” Quentin said, his stomach turning over.
Quentin half-thought he should tell her some wild stories about her mother, but held them in.
“Mom’s boring,” Morgan said, swiping her toe against the sidewalk. “I can just tell.”
Quentin’s heart warmed for a moment, although he knew he’d have to set the record straight soon enough. He was a responsible, doting father, no longer that crazed, drugged fiend. He shuddered at the thought of his daughter falling down a similar path.
“Let’s grab ice cream,” he said, easing her toward the side street near the park, where they sold two-dollar cones. They stood in a short line before ordering one strawberry, one chocolate-vanilla swirl, and then walked slowly together back home, their tongues lolling against the iced treat. Each time Morgan licked hers, a dab of strawberry dotted her nose.
“I learned some new scales today,” Morgan told him, chatting companionably and filling space and time. “And I’m working on a Beethoven. I mean, it’s an easy Beethoven. One made for kids. But still.”
“That’s great, honey,” Quentin told her, whisking her into the safety of their apartment foyer. He nodded quickly to the doorman, Angus, who’d stood long hours at the door since Quentin had moved in three years before.
“Hi, Angus!” Morgan cried to him, between ice cream licks. “Only 162 days left of school!”
“Wow,” Angus said, his grin flashing brightly. “That’s not that many, now, is it?”
“I mean, it’s only September,” Morgan said, exasperated. “So, basically, we still have the whole year left.” She shrugged quickly, speaking like a know-it-all seven-year-old.
“I guess she’s got me,” Angus said, making eye contact with Quentin. “Ya’ll have a good evening, now. And study up for those next 162 days.” He winked.
“I’m going to practice tonight, Daddy,” Morgan said, chatting once more. “I have to be the best in my class. If Monica beats me at sight-reading next week, I’ll just die.”
“Somebody’s being dramatic,” Quentin said, laughing and ushering her down the side hallway toward the elevator. His heart brimmed in his chest, jolting with happiness.
He’d never imagined this kind of life for himself, certainly not in the throes of sexual or drugged passion. Certainly not when he pressed the heroin needle into his vein, nor when he took his eighteenth shot. But the simplicity of licking ice cream cones companionably with a little girl who looked surprisingly like him, with her spunk and love for him didn’t compare to any other thrill. Nothing on the planet.
4
Charlotte’s best friend from college, Rachel, had moved out to New York City immediately after graduation. Charlotte had helped her pack, stretching duct tape over boxes and stacking them in Rachel’s rusty red caravan, which she’d sold immediately upon her arrival. In return, these four months later, in September, Rachel was helping Charlotte move into her temporary apartment. The difference, of course, was that she was accustomed to the city and had a million New Yorker complaints and bits of advice, unasked for, that were making Charlotte’s head spin.
“You really have to watch out for pickpockets in the subway,” Rachel said knowingly, hoisting a suitcase from the steps of the nearby stop, sweating lightly in her blue-striped business dress. “I know you’re not used to this stuff in Ohio. I was really shocked when I first moved out here and realized that everyone was out to get me, you know, if I wasn’t careful.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, faking shock. She’d read enough articles online about New York living that nothing shocked her. She steered the conversation from Rachel’s half-bragging about her four-month leap on Charlotte’s arrival, hoping to halt her annoyance at her friend.
“I’m so lucky my aunt left her apartment open,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to start a new job and hunt for apartments at the same time. I think it would have destroyed me.”
“You could have stayed on my couch for a bit longer,” Rachel said. “But we’re already pretty packed in as it is. Too bad you can’t stay in Brooklyn, though.”
“Yeah. I loved the bars around you. I’m going to come over there all the time,” Charlotte said, checking the map for her aunt’s apartment building. “Thanks for leaving work early to move me in, by the way. We had literally nothing to do today at the office.”
“Right. First day as an intern is always really weird,” Rachel said. “They don’t know you or trust you yet, so they just show you the coffee machine and give you some paperwork to sign. Pretty useless day.”
“You should see my boss.” Charlotte hoisted her backpack higher on her back, sliding the straps closer to her neck. “He’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen. I remember being a teenager and having a photo of him in my locker, when he was singer for Orpheus Arise.”
“My high school boyfriend really liked that band,” Rachel said. “He forced me to listen when he drove me anywhere. And he grew his hair really long, like that guy.”
“Right. That guy. Quentin McDonnell,” Charlotte said. “He’s my editor-in-chief. I can hardly look at him, he’s so attractive. And now he’s weirdly older, yet better looking. More muscular, less stringy and drugged out. And a dad, which is super hot to me. Ha.”
“Well, you might be in the right neighborhood for hot dads,” Rachel said, her eyes dancing around the Upper West Side. “Just in case you’ve already had your fill of Brooklyn hipsters. Oh, wait. You’d only be sick of them if you gave even one guy in your life a chance. But you hate dating. I get it.” Her voice was sarcastic, if playful.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t date right now. I want to focus on this job. I have to make it at this magazine. They only offer a few people full-time writing gigs at the end.”
