by Kira Blakely
A jolt of emotion passed through him. Just let her stay in bed. Let her into your life.
“You have to leave. Now,” Quentin said, his words curt. “I have to head to the hospital. There’s been an emergency.”
The chill of him caused Charlotte to rise swiftly, no longer making eye contact. Standing naked, poised, she hunted for her clothes and then donned them swiftly, clearly confused. Quentin felt sliced down the center, yearning to wrap his tired arms around her impossibly thin waist. He stood sullenly in the kitchen, his mind racing. His feet itched for the trek to the hospital.
Charlotte passed before him, fully dressed, her eyebrows diagonal, almost cartoonish above her eyes. The gray light of the coming morning gave her a ghost-like appearance. Her perfect lips parted, hunting for an explanation. But after shaking her head a final time, she dropped her chin, shaking it tenderly. Her body language said there was no use.
Finally, she burst toward the door, without speaking, and entered the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar. Quentin could hear the soft padding of her feet as she found safety and solace, alone. And the moment her door clicked closed, he throttled toward his keys and wallet, grabbed his leather jacket, and fled from the apartment building, already sensing it was too late.
Emotions were dangerous. And his growing emotions for Charlotte needed to be squelched immediately. Already, he’d probably poisoned his daughter with something she was newly allergic to; he’d not been there when she needed him most. And he’d already abandoned much of his upright affairs at the magazine, insisting to Maggie that the non-fraternization policy was all-powerful, while fucking an intern, of all people.
Jesus. What was he doing?
Outside, he miraculously found a taxi immediately, hailing it with a single dart of his arm. The driver took him to the hospital, blasting past the still-lit streets, making him feel outside of time.
“It’s going to be chilly soon,” the taxi driver told him, demonstrating a fake shiver. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Quentin didn’t answer.
The taxi skirted in front of the hospital minutes later. Quentin smacked several bills into the driver’s hand, probably too many, and then blasted into the hospital doors, pressing at the fingerprint-spattered glass. He fled down the hall, listening to the chorus of hospital machines, beeping from room to room, before finding the waiting room of the emergency area. His stunning, fatigued ex-wife was slumped in a far chair, her spider legs in strange angles in front of her. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
In this moment, Quentin understood: this was real. This was happening. Their baby girl.
Kate stood up silently and wrapped her arms around his chest, giving him the first hug they’d shared since Morgan had been an infant. She felt unfamiliar, foreign. But after Charlotte’s quick rush away, he was grateful for someone to cling to.
“Do they know anything?” Quentin asked.
“Just that she’s going to be fine. We got here in time,” Kate whispered, her voice raspy. “And they think she’s allergic to shellfish. I know she doesn’t eat it, but—“
“But the Chinese restaurant. It cooks everything with everything else,” Quentin said, fearing the worst. “Jesus. I’m so, so sorry. You always tell me not to fucking order from there.” He gasped slightly, conscious that he’d nearly destroyed the one thing he held dear. “Morgan is paying for my idiocy. Christ.”
Kate slipped her hand across his shoulder, kneading at his bones. “Shh. There’s no use feeling this way right now. She’ll be awake in about an hour, they said, and we can go in and talk to her.”
A man appeared beside them, then. He was broad-shouldered, with blond hair and a blond mustache, wearing a black turtleneck and tan pants. He pressed a coffee cup into Kate’s hands, whispering into her ear, “You should sit down, Kate. You’re visibly shaking.”
Curious, Quentin’s eyebrows met in the middle. His head tilting, he began to form the question. Who was this asshole, whispering into his ex-wife’s ear?
The man skirted his now-free hand forward, shaking Quentin’s. He flashed a winning, Wall Street smile. “Hi, there. I hoped we’d meet under better circumstances. I’m Jason. Jason Wiley.”
Quentin had forgotten about Kate’s new boyfriend. Momentarily, his eyes flashed toward her. The man’s grip was stern, heavy, wanting to send a message.
Quentin gave him a half-smile. “Good to meet you. Thanks for taking care of Kate until I could get here.”
“Sure. As you know, we were planning on doing the introduction this week. I can’t wait to meet little Morgan,” Jason said, clearly trying to say the right words, so as not to get on the father’s bad side. “This stuff… this is no one’s fault.”
Quentin nodded, although he didn’t agree. His stomach held a brick of guilt. He excused himself from the couple, watching side-eyed as Jason slipped his arm around Kate’s thin shoulders, comforting her. But Quentin was a lone wolf; he didn’t need that kind of solace. His entire world was his daughter.
He bought a burnt cup of coffee and paced near the front desk, where they’d call their names soon, telling them Morgan was ready to see them. Although he didn’t ask for it, he still felt the image of Charlotte pass through his mind, a reminder of how frightened she probably was, right then. He’d literally kicked her from his bed at four in the morning, without an explanation. He’d probably made her feel two inches tall.
But whatever. Treating her this coldly was essential, ridding her of any lingering emotion for him. In a week’s time, she’d be screwing some barista in Brooklyn, like all the other twenty-somethings in New York. He’d be a passing memory, a story she could tell her friends. They wouldn’t even say hello in the hallways. And perhaps Morgan would forget about her, as well.
“Morgan McDonnell!” the woman at the front desk squeaked out, sending Quentin rushing toward her. Kate wasn’t far behind, leaving Jason with two steaming coffee cups and a ripped-up copy of Golf Digest. She shivered, placing her hand on Quentin’s back.
“Can we see her?” Quentin asked the woman.
“The doctor’s on his way out to speak with you,” the lady said, her words blasé. “Wait here.”
Quentin and Kate stood like people waiting for a train, their eyes at the door. They felt the rush of the doctor’s feet before they actually saw him, listening to the rushing taps of his feet across the linoleum floor. Quentin couldn’t control his racing heart.
Doctor Andrews was balding, with graying, blue skin, and sad, tiny eyes. His large hands were confident, drawn together at his chest. He greeted them both, Kate for the second time, and Quentin for the first. “You must be the father.”
He led them through the double, white doors, through the hallways.
“She’s conscious, now,” he told them. “We’ve reduced the allergic reaction, and she can breathe on her own again. Honestly, the shellfish was in trace amounts, which definitely saved her life. But I would avoid any trips to this restaurant—or any other dodgy place in the future.”
“Of course,” Quentin said firmly, wanting to instill the fact that he was a good father. “If I only would have known—”
Dr. Andrews opened the final door in the hallway, revealing his tiny daughter, with her blond hair whipped back on the pillow, her large eyes hunting the room, and a little tube in her arm. Her vital signs blasted on three different screens around her, dwarfing her. Immediately, Quentin’s chest felt squeezed.
“Hi, Daddy!” Morgan said, her voice bright. “Check it out! I’m a robot!”
“Ha,” Quentin said, trying to yank back his tears. “Finally, you’ve beat the humans at their own game. You don’t need us any longer. You’re bionic.”
Morgan giggled, trying to lift herself to a seating position, before failing from fatigue. “I’m so, so tired, Daddy,” she murmured. “And they said I can’t even go home till tomorrow.”
“It’s for the best,” Kate interjected, always the voice of reason. “They want to monitor y
ou. Make sure you’re not sick anymore.”
Dr. Andrews appeared behind them, then, excusing himself. He bowed toward the hallway, explaining, “Just had an emergency down the hall. But you can reach me via the front desk. Morgan will be moved later this afternoon to a smaller room, without the machines. And then, as she’s already told you, we’ll release her tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Doc,” Quentin said firmly, making intense eye contact with the man. “This means more than you could possibly know.”
He returned to his daughter, sliding into a chair beside her bed and grabbing onto her little, chilly hand. She gave him a tight smile, revealing chapped lips. “Daddy, I just couldn’t breathe. It was stupid. And now, I won’t be able to practice for my piano competition today. I’ll fall behind!”
“One day off from practice isn’t going to kill your chances,” Quentin said, laughing. “Trust me. I didn’t practice for two weeks before I performed at Madison Square Garden, and I killed it.”
“You were a rock star, Daddy. Not a classically trained musician. I’m sure you made some mistakes,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.
“Somebody hasn’t lost her spunk,” Quentin said, turning toward Kate and grinning madly. His heart fluttered with love for his daughter. She was going to be all right.
Kate appeared in the seat on the other side of the bed, taking Morgan’s other hand and rubbing at it. Wrinkles and darkness formed under her eyes, probably from not applying makeup before racing to the hospital. It was strange seeing time make its way across her face, especially when she took such care not to show it.
“Daddy, are you going to work today?” Morgan asked him then, her voice growing softer.
“Not unless you want me to,” Quentin said firmly, already divorcing himself from his tight schedule of meetings. This was more important. This was everything.
“No. Stay here. Watch cartoons with me,” Morgan said, her words insistent. “Please?”
“Of course, darling. I owe it to you,” Quentin murmured, leaning forward and kissing her palm softly. “I wouldn’t leave your side today for the world.”
17
Charlotte couldn’t sleep once she returned to her apartment. She lifted a wine glass from the countertop, half-wanting to smash it to smithereens on the hardwood floor. Anger and sadness throttled through her, both working to reign. Quentin had kicked her out of his apartment at four in the morning, like a ragdoll, a plaything he no longer wanted. And he’d given her no real explanation, besides grumbling something about it being an “emergency.”
She couldn’t linger on it. He was just done with her. That had to be it. And now, she was stuck as his intern, probably having to fight to stay relevant at the magazine, when he would probably want her gone at every turn.
Of course, what was worst of all, was that she was falling for him, head-over-heels. When he’d fucked her against the countertop, blasting his mighty, rock-hard dick between her pussy lips, she’d sensed a growing love in her heart. It was bigger than lust; it was stretched larger than a crush. Gazing into his eyes, she’d sensed that he felt it, too.
At least, she’d thought so.
After showering off the musky scent of him, she sat, a towel wrapped tightly at her breasts, and wove through the countless writing jobs on the Internet in New York City. Perhaps she could leave the magazine, start anew. She’d royally fucked up her first experience, potentially ruined her career and life.
But none of the listings she caught compared at all to her position at MMM. Frustration brimming, she dressed in a simple black mourning dress and donned makeup with intensity, wanting to look hot and almost wicked at the office. Red lipstick flashed into a near-evil smile in the mirror. She would show him she was more than just his plaything.
Entering the magazine offices, however, she noted that Quentin’s office door was flung wide open, without him in his familiar position. Curious, she headed to the coffee machine, finding that Pamela was filling her cup. Her hair hung in tight red curls down her back, and she’d clearly bought a new black dress, one that revealed a bit more cleavage.
Was Pamela trying to copy Charlotte, just to attract Quentin’s attention?
“Oh, hello,” Pamela said tartly, slipping to the side. She swept a tad of sugar into the coffee mug, twirling a spoon in the center. “How was your night?”
“My night? Oh. Fine,” Charlotte murmured, not wanting to discuss it.
Had she been speaking with Rachel, she would have said, “Well, I’ve been fucking the boss, and now he seems to want me out of his life for good, which is great. Just great.” But of course, this would negate her contract.
“And yours?” Charlotte finally managed.
“Oh, fine. Just been working on a few pitches for the writer’s meeting this week. I think I’ve cooked up some pretty good ideas,” Pamela said, her eyes flashing. “You have some good ones. Don’t you?”
Honestly, Charlotte had a few ideas jotted down at her desk, but hadn’t given the writer’s meeting much thought, beyond that. Now, fire burst up and down her spine, reminding her. If she embarrassed herself in that meeting, in front of Quentin himself, she’d never live it down.
“I have some stuff up my sleeve,” Charlotte said, sounding mischievous. “Meeting at eleven?”
“Yes, apparently,” Pamela said as they continued into the hallway and toward the intern offices. “But Quentin still isn’t here today, which has everyone nervous. He’s normally always here by eight or nine. And it’s already almost nine-thirty.”
“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, her heart beginning that now-familiar hammering. Did he really want to avoid her this much? Was this an act, putting her in her place?
“Not that it’s any of my business, but the magazine does go to print in just over a week. He should be here,” Pamela said, sounding snooty.
Charlotte eyed her suspiciously as they entered the intern offices, feeling vaguely angry. She wanted to say something sarcastic about Pamela’s dress, alerting her that she looked foolish. But she was a good person, a girl with class. She held her tongue and turned to her desk, where she collapsed beside Randy. His blond hair glittered in the light.
“How’s it going?” Randy asked her, a smile stretching widely. “You look upset.” He leaned forward, whispering, “Did you see what Pamela is wearing?”
Charlotte grimaced. “It’s pretty bad.”
“You know she just wants attention from Quentin. But I suppose, don’t we all? You’re the only one who’s getting it.”
“Well, not anymore,” Charlotte murmured.
Confused, Randy’s eyebrows lowered. He leaned toward her, sounding conspiratorial. “What do you mean? What’s going on? You know something. You have a secret.”
“No, no,” Charlotte said, her cheeks reddening. “Of course not. I just mean… he paid attention to me yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’ll even look at me ever again. He doesn’t care about us interns at all. We’re just dust. And he’ll clean us out of here at the end of the semester anyway.”
“Wow. Someone’s depressed today,” Randy said, elbowing her softly in the upper arm. “If you want to talk today, let me know. I know transitioning in this city can be rough as fuck.”
“Tell me about it,” Charlotte murmured, feeling the heaviness of the past week shift on her shoulders. “I feel like I just want to sleep for the next three weeks.”
“They call it the city that never sleeps for a reason,” Randy said.
Charlotte worked swiftly throughout the morning, actually getting a bit of writing done, due to the fact that she wasn’t distracted by the intensity of Quentin’s presence. But still, she kept her eyes to the hallway, hunting for his return. Should she approach him, demanding why he’d toyed with her? She imagined this other reality, in which she was a strong, outrageous woman, blaring words of regret and anger at her boss.
Ha. She was nothing but a meek mouse.
Sometime after lunch, she inched from her seat, glanc
ing around the intern office. Pamela had yanked her red curls into a ponytail, finding solace in her tomboy nature. She scribbled roughly across a notebook, intent on “beating” Charlotte in the idea realm, whenever they eventually had the writer’s meeting.
Charlotte left and wandered down the hall, catching sight of Quentin’s office, which was still empty. Maggie was positioned outside of it, magazine spreads splayed out in front of her, her eyes dancing across the images. Charlotte approached her quietly, standing like a ghost.
Finally, Maggie flinched, realizing someone was beside her. She blinked wildly, trying to make sense of Charlotte’s face. “Shit,” she murmured, snapping the magazine pages closed. “You could have said something.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Charlotte said. She gestured toward Quentin’s office, trying to sound strong. “Where is the editor today?”
Maggie glanced toward the empty room, her face aghast. “He’s just stepped out for a meeting,” she said, her voice uncertain and wavering.
“But he hasn’t been here all day,” Charlotte stammered.
“He has,” Maggie said. “I had a lunch meeting with him.”
“Where did you go?” Charlotte challenged.
“That’s not your business,” Maggie began, before hesitating. “I mean, we went to the Trojan Horse. Up the road. Delicious Greek salad.”
“Huh.” Charlotte didn’t know whether or not to believe Maggie. Perhaps Quentin had already told Maggie that he’d been sleeping with Charlotte, and that Charlotte was to be let go soon. But why would they allow her to be on the premises, in the first place? Her eyes flashed. “Well, do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Not really,” Maggie said. “He tends to take a while with these big clients. They like to wine and dine, all that.”
“It’s only two in the afternoon,” Charlotte offered, arguing once more.
“Well. You know the rock star life,” Maggie insisted, turning away from Charlotte. The tension between them grew. “Anyway, I have to get back to this. Please, head back to your desk.”
