by Kira Blakely
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.
23
The next week, on Thursday, Quentin called Charlotte into his office. The secret pair had successfully avoided each other’s presence at work the previous few days, only catching one another’s eyes across rooms and stewing with tension and desire for the other. Faced with “what to do” regarding the non-fraternization clause, they’d apparently decided to avoid it for now. They’d known each other less than two weeks and already they brewed with a sense of purpose, with growing love.
“I’m falling for you,” Charlotte had told him in the hotel room the week before. And she’d meant it.
Charlotte entered, choosing to keep the door ajar slightly, so as not to attract attention.
“Hello, sir,” she said, her eyes bright. She was playing the role of intern, now, despite her frequent appearances at his apartment and her growing friendship with his tiny daughter. “You wanted to see me?”
Quentin’s voice boomed. “Sure did. I was thinking about your pitch last week, regarding the article about Thick Soled.”
“Ah, yes. The pitch that nearly got me fired,” she joked, crossing her arms over her breasts. “How could I forget?”
“If only our interns didn’t speak out of turn,” Quentin said firmly, his eyes still playful. “Then we would get a lot more done around here. But alas…” He shrugged. “It’s a changing world. I can’t pretend to keep up with it.”
“You’re an old man,” Charlotte breathed, her tongue slipping from between her lips. She imagined drawing it around the tip of his cock, forcing it to grow rock-hard, veiny. She’d begun to know his body with intimate detail; what made him stir, what caused him to moan. She’d never had this with a man before.
“Anyway,” Quentin continued, his eyes flashing. Could he tell she was thinking about his rock-hard staff? Was that it, bulging up at his crotch? “I want to change the article completely. I want you to take the lead on the second interview, and I want you to write it. Yourself.”
Charlotte’s lips parted. Her heart hammering, she hunted for words. Taking this on… Wouldn’t it alert the other interns that she had “special favor”? She reached back and pressed the door closed, giving them privacy, allowing them to talk as equals.
“Won’t they guess something’s up if I take the article?” she asked tightly. She struggled to inhale completely.
Quentin shook his head. “They know you have ideas. They all heard your pitch. I think they’d assume it was the next relevant step.”
Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She shifted her weight, imagining what Pamela would say, faced with this information. “It’s just that they already don’t trust me very much. I was fired once, and then brought back on.”
“Let me ask you a question, Charlotte,” Quentin said, speaking with more dominance, more like her boss than her lover. “What do you want out of this internship?”
“I want to be a real music writer. You know that,” Charlotte said, her eyebrows lowering. “You know that.”
“I do. But I also know you need to take this opportunity, and fuck the others. You’re a damn good writer, and you have insight, and you have angles. That’s stuff that many writers take years to hone. Use your skills, and blast ahead of your peers. I’m just giving you the tools to do it.”
Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t interviewed an actual musician before, and panic throttled through her, sending bumps across her forearm. “When is the interview?”
“It’s whenever you schedule it,” Quentin said.
“But they’re friends with you,” Charlotte said pointedly.
“I’ll come with you, if you want,” Quentin said. “But I won’t say anything except hello, goodbye, refill our drin
ks. I’m there with the money. Nothing else.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. Silence stretched between them, but it was not unkind or weighted with any kind of disdain.
“I think I’m just nervous.”
“That’s natural.” He swept his chair out from beneath his desk and patted his lap, drawing her closer to him. She slipped off her shoes and straddled him, drawing her crotch close to his bulging one. She kissed the tip of his nose tenderly, her heart bursting with lust in seeming fireworks against her ribcage.
“I’ll see you tonight?” she breathed.
“Only if you set up this damn interview,” Quentin said, squeezing her ass playfully.
“Fine,” Charlotte said, sounding half-whiny, but knowing, inwardly, it was time for her to step up her professional game.
Returning to her desk, she typed up a careful email to Keith, the lead singer of Thick Soled, conscious that asking him to do a second interview for a magazine was a big thing—one that robbed him of time he thought he’d already given.
Keith,
Hey, there. My name’s Charlotte Barracks, and I’m taking the lead on our Thick Soled feature, ultimately angling it toward our more nostalgic audience, given that you clearly take great stock in old indie and grunge. For this purpose, I’d love the chance to interview you next week, at a time that’s convenient for you. Quentin says he’s got the drinks, as long as you show.
All the best,
C”
Confident, Charlotte shot the email across the Internet and then leaped from her seat, confidence sizzling through her. Randy gave her a confused roll of his eyes, becoming more accustomed to Charlotte’s quirks.
“Girl, you’re nuts,” he murmured, tossing his head. “If you weren’t so damn good at this, and so hilarious, I’d move over by Pamela.”
Pamela shot her eyes toward them both like daggers, anger causing her lips to part. She’d been a fanatic since Charlotte had been fired and rehired, slicing into the coffee line in front of Charlotte and even mocking her proposals at the writers’ meeting. For the record, Randy and the others had shot back at Pamela, telling her that Charlotte’s ideas were grand and forward-thinking, unlike Pamela’s tired, oft-done features. It seemed the writers were taking sides, standing aligned with Charlotte, confident that she was their champion intern.
Charlotte didn’t know what she would do if they ever found out about her and Quentin.
“Shhh,” Charlotte breathed, hushing Randy. “Don’t tempt her.”
Keith emailed back just before Charlotte left for the day, setting up an interview for the following Wednesday afternoon. This meant that the article wouldn’t be ready till the release of the magazine a few weeks from then, which would require some reconfiguring of the writing schedule. Quentin affirmed that this was “no big deal” and often happened, emailing Maggie with the change of schedule. “Charlotte’s taking the lead on the Thick Soled piece, meaning we’ll need to give her adequate time to prepare. I think we’ll move up the piece about the Atlanta music scene. Brent’s writing is always smooth.”
Of course, the moment Maggie understood that Charlotte was taking on a feature, alone, she appeared at her desk, without so much as an email notice, and demanded Charlotte come to her office immediately. Charlotte rose, again feeling the aching eyes of the interns on her back, recognizing that, somehow, she was in trouble. She felt the warning signs, saw the bright lights. “Turn back,” her muscles screamed.
Maggie opened the door to her small, closet-sized office, which she hardly used and certainly never invited anyone into—except, apparently, when she was firing them. She pressed her lips tightly together, looking like a strange, turtle-like creature, her anger pulsing out from every orifice.
“Quentin’s informed me that you’re taking your first lead,” she said, her voice curt.
“I am,” Charlotte said, not sitting.
“Please. Have a seat,” Maggie said, gesturing.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Right. Well. I wanted to… give you your due congratulations, for the feature. It is a marvelous idea, and it seems you’ll take it where it needs to go. But I wanted to give you advice.”
Charlotte’s toes curled in her shoes, feeling suddenly trapped. Her inhales came sparingly, making her dizzy.
“What is it?” she murmured.
“Well, first of all, darling, I know just how you feel about Quentin,” Maggie said, her eyes flashing. “I can see it in every crevice of your body. You’re attracted to him, and you’re not the first one. No.”
Charlotte’s lips parted, suddenly. She throttled with panic.
“But that’s not to say he’ll take to you, Charlotte. I know you’re a gorgeous girl. Everyone can see it. But he’s already fired you once, remember. I had to fight, tooth and nail, to get you back on the payroll.”
Charlotte knew Maggie was bluffing. Maggie had fired her out of turn, out of jealousy, perhaps. She quivered, not wanting to argue. If she revealed what she actually knew, she’d be showing all her cards. And that was against the non-fraternization clause, completely and totally. That would destroy her for good.
“I got the feature because he liked the idea,” Charlotte whispered. “I’m not trying to… to be with him.“
“Ha. I can see right through you,” Maggie said harshly. “I just wanted to tell you to watch yourself. Don’t make yourself out to be a fool. You could ruin your career, which is proving to have quite a bright future, isn’t that right?” She mocked, making Charlotte out to be a fool.
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I just want to write the feature.”
“My eyes are on you, Charlotte,” Maggie whispered. “You may think you’re queen of the interns, but that can fall apart in a second.”
She flipped her red hair, returning to her chair and beginning to highlight things with a bright blue marker. She hummed evenly, like an evil villain.
Charlotte stared at her stupidly, trying to remember to breathe. What the hell?
“You can leave, now,” Maggie said primly. “I have tons to do before I leave. Unlike you, I have actual job responsibilities, besides flirting.”
Charlotte spun from Maggie’s office and shut the door a bit too loudly, causing several editors and writers to snap their heads toward her. They’d surely noticed her in the previous few weeks, perhaps even sensing the tension between her and Maggie. None of them made eye contact with her, not choosing to include her, as she reeked of intern status.
Entering back into the intern office, she made momentary eye contact with Pamela, who grinned madly, like a clown.
“Somebody had a bad meeting with Maggie,” Pamela said, her voice heavy with snark. “I don’t suppose you got fired again, did you?”
Charlotte ripped her purse from her desk and snapped her laptop closed, anger zipping through her.
“Actually, she just wanted to discuss the feature I’m writing for the magazine. About Thick Soled,” Charlotte said, her eyes dancing with anger. She felt on the brink of insanity.
Pamela’s jaw dropped. Interns didn’t get features—this was a hard and fast rule. She shot up from her desk, clearly trying to think of some kind of haughty response. But Charlotte was already bursting from the intern office, seeking solace in the silence of the elevator, where she finally collapsed in a fit of tears.
She was a mockery. She was a scam. She was nothing.
24
Friday afternoon, there was a slight crispness to the air, an assurance that fall was coming, easing into their summertime, soon to rob them of afternoon warmth and evening sun. Quentin left the office early enough to pick up Morgan at school. She’d been back since the previous Monday, brimming with frustration at being “a few days behind on piano” after her hospital stay, but generally content to be elementary-school-popular, having been one of the only kids to stay the night in the hospital.
Quentin waited out front, a small, brown paper sack in his hands, holding two chocolate croi
ssants he’d picked up at the local French bakery. Perhaps ice cream was out of the cards for a while.
As he waited, he checked his phone, finding a small message from Charlotte. Immediately, a smile flickered across his face and his heart palpitated, showing his lust and growing intense affection for this girl. As they’d grown increasingly emotionally attached to one another, they’d also found ways to sneak around their schedules, hooking up in his office at work or making love after Morgan left to visit her mother. He found that he felt lighter, more even-keeled than he had in years, and he knew it was a result of this budding relationship.
In truth, he’d never felt this way.
When Charlotte brought up the non-fraternization policy, Quentin always talked over her, teasing her, telling her not to worry, they would figure it out later. And he was certain, somehow, they would. Or perhaps he was just too giddy to care, really, what the future held. He was enjoying the lust-filled waves of the present.
Morgan leaped into his arms, becoming a flurry of long blond hair and sticky fingers, which she confessed was due to the snack she’d just eaten. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to have my croissant,” she said, her eyebrows high.
“If you say so,” Quentin said, guiding her toward the sidewalk and into the swarm of children and parents, picking up and rushing away.
“Is Charlotte coming over tonight?” Morgan asked, ripping a slab of crispness from her croissant.
“Do you want her to come over tonight?” Quentin asked, curious. Morgan had brought up Charlotte more and more often, recently, leaving him to believe she was falling for her, just as he was.
“I mean, definitely. She’s way cooler than you,” Morgan said with certainty.
“Oh. Well, that hurts,” he said, grinning.
“She’s just younger, Dad. She gets it.”
“What, exactly, does she ‘get’?” Quentin asked.
“I don’t know. Me, I guess,” Morgan said simply.
Quentin held his daughter’s hand as they bounded across the street. Clouds began to coat the sky, growing gray and filling with rain. He stopped briefly and yanked Morgan’s zipper up her torso, closing her coat tightly. “Brrr,” he said. “It’s getting chilly.”
