by Kira Blakely
“That’s great, honey!” Quentin said, reaching for his daughter and spinning her through the air. “Really, really wonderful. And now you’re probably not even hungry for dinner…”
“Not so fast,” Morgan said, interrupting.
Charlotte laughed, taking a step back. She watched as Quentin and Kate exchanged last-minute parental information, ensuring that they kept tabs on one another. Kate had announced the previous week that she and her boyfriend, Jason, were breaking up—much to Morgan’s unhappiness. “She’s been a lot easier to be around since she started dating him,” Morgan had admitted over dinner one night. “And now she’s going to be lonely and sad and probably not eating anymore.”
Quentin and Charlotte had eyed each other over the dinner table, both surprised that Morgan was so insightful.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Quentin asked Kate then, leaning his hand against the edge of the door.
“I have plans with friends,” Kate admitted, looking demure, tiny. “But thank you.” She turned toward Charlotte, her eyes bright. She’d been extending the hand of friendship more and more, becoming a stronger force for good in Charlotte and Quentin’s relationship. “By the way, Charlotte. I read your recent Rolling Stone article on that new band—the one from Tokyo—“
“Right. The Jamaicans,” Charlotte said, laughing. “What a name, right?”
“Quite,” Kate said. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it. You’ve got a remarkable voice. I don’t think it’ll take long before you’re an editor somewhere. Like Quentin was.”
“I’m happier now,” Quentin told her. “Making music without the drugs… It’s actually quite a bit easier, believe it or not.”
“Doesn’t that go against everything you’ve ever believed?” Kate asked him, laughing.
“Sure does,” Quentin agreed. “But I suppose that’s part of growing up. Taking on responsibility. Falling in love.”
“I’m glad you finally did,” Kate whispered, swiping her hand across her cheek.
Morgan groaned beside Charlotte. Charlotte whisked her hand to Morgan’s back, rubbing at the tense muscles. “Somebody’s hungry,” she said, biting her lip.
“Shall we order pizza?” Quentin asked.
Kate left moments later, giving Charlotte and Quentin a final “thanks” before rushing into the night. “A thirty-something woman without a boyfriend, without a career—“ She shuddered, before stepping into the elevator. “Damn. I wish I had just a bit more sense.”
“You’re still as gorgeous as ever,” Quentin told her.
Quentin allowed Morgan to call the pizza place, ordering them three pizzas—a pepperoni, a supreme, and a Margherita, which was Charlotte’s favorite. Charlotte giggled, knowing they always ordered far too much food for the three of them, then casually ate through it the next several days, becoming the very portrait of a “family,” eating leftovers. She’d never imagined it with someone like Quentin.
Certainly, not with the type of man who’d thrust her with such force into the wall of the studio, nearly destroying her with his prowess.
As they waited for the pizza, Morgan practiced the piano in the side room, allowing Quentin and Charlotte to sit quietly with one another, gazing out at the wide blue sky outside their penthouse apartment. A picture of the three of them, along with Charlotte’s aunt, who had already returned to Florida, was on the mantel. The four of them had spent countless BBQs together over the summer. Charlotte’s aunt, who called her Lottie, could hardly believe she’d settled in with Quentin, “that rock star.” “Don’t you know his past?” she’d asked her initially.
Charlotte did. And she was even more attracted to him for it.
On Sunday night, Quentin had a gig as a solo artist as a basement club in Brooklyn. It wasn’t widespread news that the lead singer of Orpheus Arise was embarking out on his own—and Quentin liked it this way. He wanted to toy with the fact that people didn’t yet know him; that perhaps they could learn to like him as a different, more grown-up musician. Maybe without the heroin, this time around.
Charlotte dropped Morgan off at her mother’s house that afternoon, after sneaking in a round of ice cream on the way there. “Don’t tell your mom how much ice cream we’ve eaten this weekend,” Charlotte said, grinning. “She’ll have my head. And she’ll probably call me fat, too.”
Morgan laughed mischievously.
“You know what? Mom’s lightened up quite a bit since you’ve been around,” Morgan told her. “She says it’s good that Dad’s happy again. It takes the pressure off her shoulders.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, frowning. “You know, I’m really in love with your dad.”
“I know,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve known it ever since we first met you in the elevator. And that was a million years ago! Why don’t you guys get married already? And seriously. I need a sibling. Only children are usually kind of crazy.”
Charlotte laughed, knocking at Kate’s door. Had Kate once imagined that she would have a second, third, or perhaps fourth child with Quentin? Had she thought they would create a family together—the kind of family Charlotte and Quentin were building, at least in “feel” if not in biology?
Thin, tight-faced Kate opened the door, stretching a near-false smile between her cheeks. “Hello there, Charlotte,” she said.
Morgan bounced past her, tossing her backpack upon the floor.
Charlotte pointed, shrugging her shoulders. “I keep telling her that she needs to clean up after herself,” she said. “Not drop her backpack on the floor.”
“Of course, her father’s exactly the same kind of messy,” Kate said.
“Oh, believe me. I know.” Charlotte shifted her weight, realizing she needed to forge a friendship with this woman sooner, rather than later. She would be linked with her—perhaps for life.
“Wish Quentin luck for tonight,” Kate said, her eyes growing bigger. “I know how much his music means to him. It’s my hope that he can find a way to choose that path without the stuff that made him crazy.”
“I’m sorry you got the brunt of that,” Charlotte told her.
“It’s okay. Marrying him, having his kid, it changed my life. But for the better, definitely. I can’t say that I would wish him to be with anyone other than you.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Kate, giving her an awkward hug. After shifting uncomfortably away from her, she grinned sheepishly. “You know what? We’ll get better at hugging. I’ll make it a mission.”
“No. It’s really okay,” Kate laughed.
Charlotte left Kate’s home, rushing home to change into a leather jacket and a black dress, before taking a taxi back down to Brooklyn. The show was meant to begin at eight in the evening, with an opener she and Quentin had both discovered at a recent party in Queens, of all places, and Charlotte wanted to cover the entire evening for Rolling Stone. She’d told her boss it was a necessity that they catch the beginning arc of Quentin’s return to music. “Not just because he’s my partner,” she’d told him. “But because this will be one of the single-greatest events in this decade’s music scene. I can promise you that.”
Her boss had said she’d never led her astray before.
In the crowd, Charlotte sipped a dark beer, shifting her weight. She was surrounded by Brooklyn hipsters who were around her age or older, each with an air about them that assured their “asshole” status. They spoke about bands that “nobody had ever heard of,” saying that the main act of the evening was going to “blow up in the next few months.”
Charlotte grinned inwardly, knowing they couldn’t even comprehend what they were about to see.
As she sipped her drink, a man who looked to be in his late twenties approached her. He was thin, with broad shoulders and a stern face. He’d grown a beard, perhaps recently, and gave her a half-confident smile. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to stand with?” he asked her
.
“Not really,” she responded, sounding sweet, yet wanting him to back away.
“Why not, honey? Haven’t you ever been to one of these gigs before? You’re supposed to bring a date. I could be that date for you.”
“Ha,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. She wanted to tell him the truth: that she worked for Rolling Stone, that her boyfriend was the main act. But she kept her lips sealed, taking a firm step to the left. “No thanks.”
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The first band came onto the stage, looking youngish, yet spritely, beginning to play their guitars in a deep, rough way, with the lead singer blaring into the microphone. Charlotte became caught in the music, writing a list inside her head of what to talk about in the article. Certainly, the atmosphere was right, rogue, with just the right energy. They were youthful, yet wise in their lyrics. She shivered, already writing half the piece in her mind.
When the first act finished, she found she’d finished her beer. Peering into it, she sensed someone beside her. As she glanced up, she realized the guy from before—who she’d completely forgotten—had purchased her a second beer. She grasped it unconsciously, frowning. “What?” she asked.
“I ordered you a new beer so I could talk to you,” the guy said. “I’m TJ. You lived in Brooklyn long?”
“I actually don’t live in Brooklyn,” Charlotte said.
“Queens, then,” TJ responded.
Charlotte shook her head, her nostrils flaring. “No.”
The lights dimmed again. Charlotte glanced toward the stage in surprise, knowing that it was Quentin’s turn. Shivering, she eased away from the guy beside her, hoping he’d get the hint. “Come on,” she breathed. “Just leave me alone.”
Quentin appeared at the center of the stage, then, without his band. He stood holding a single acoustic guitar, staring down at the crowd, his jawline set and his eyes focused.
“Hello,” he said, his voice booming into the microphone.
The crowd responded, with several of them tittering. “I recognize him from somewhere,” they whispered. “But where? Was he famous before? Is he in another band?”
“Don’t be stupid,” another said. “That’s Quentin McDonnell. From Orpheus Arise.”
Charlotte’s lips pressed into a smile.
“Some of you might know me. Some of you might not,” Quentin said. “I don’t really mind which camp you fall into. Truth be told, I didn’t really know who I was until about a year ago, when I fell in love with someone—maybe for the first time.”
Charlotte’s throat constricted with sudden fear. She hadn’t known he’d be bringing her into this. She felt TJ approach her from behind once more, becoming a kind of shadow at her back.
“Come on. Leave me alone,” she whispered.
“Charlotte,” Quentin began. He strummed the strings on his guitar, smiling down upon her. “This is for you.”
He began to sing, then, creating a gorgeous melody that he’d kept a surprise for this specific evening. The song was about falling apart for years until finding yourself on your deathbed, almost unable to breathe, and looking up to see an angel.
“That angel is you,” he whispered into the microphone, causing shivers to gravitate up and down Charlotte’s spine. “It was always you.”
In a flourish, Quentin ripped the guitar from his shoulders. He bounded from the stage, falling before Charlotte’s feet. TJ stepped away from them, aghast, making an outrageous noise—one of surprise, of shock. “What the fuck!”
“Charlotte,” Quentin began. He reached into his back pocket, drawing out a black box. “I was lost before I met you. I was bound to fall back into drugs. I was bound to repeat old problems, old symptoms. But now, I know that you’ll keep me in line. You’ll keep me in love.” He opened the box, gazing into her eyes. “I want to know if you’ll marry me.”
The entire underground bar was silent, with Brooklyn hipsters holding their breath, collectively turning their eyes from the older rocker and the young, beautiful woman.
Charlotte began to nod, then. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’ll do it,” she whispered. “Of course, I’ll marry you, Quentin McDonnell.”
Overjoyed, Quentin reached up, lifting her into the air and spinning her, his movements joyous, confident. Everyone in the crowd began to cheer, except for TJ, who stomped away, irritated. Quentin kissed his new fiancée in a grand display, sucking at her bottom lip and then parting her lips, allowing their tongues to knot and toy with one another. With a final flourish, he set her back on the ground, knowing his place was on the stage.
“She’s going to marry me!” he cried out a final time, before leaping back onto the stage and grabbing his guitar. “Can you fucking believe it?”
The crowd roared again, clapping wildly, until Quentin began to play a louder, grungier second track. Charlotte blinked back tears, hardly able to listen to the music as Quentin played—knowing that her life had just changed forever.
She’d been alone for so much of her life, and now, she’d be with Quentin, her favorite person on the planet, the only one for her.
After the show, Charlotte weaved her way through the crowd and into the back, where she found Quentin slipping his guitar into its case. Several other journalists were behind her, including a once-friend from MMM, named Henry. Henry slipped in front of her, shaking Quentin’s hand.
“It was good to see you in action again,” Henry said, looking confident. “It hasn’t been the same at the magazine since you left, though. I have to admit.”
“I just felt I couldn’t do anything else there,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “Charlotte opened my mind when she started interning there. I realized I didn’t have to be stuck to a desk the rest of my life. It wasn’t my place.”
“It’s our place, though,” Charlotte teased, gesturing toward Henry. “The tireless life of a music journalist. Are you going to give this man an interview after that insane set or what?”
Quentin shook his head, his eyes holding enough space for only his fiancée. “If you don’t mind, Henry, I’d like to postpone an interview for later this week. I want to revel in the fact that this woman will be my wife.”
Henry bowed his head, looking understanding. “There’s no way I want to get between you and this beautiful moment. Who knows how many great songs tonight will lead to?”
“Who knew you’d launch this old man’s career?” Quentin said, whisking Charlotte to his side. “I’m sure you never saw it coming.”
As they walked from backstage, Charlotte and Quentin encountered TJ, the man who’d bought Charlotte a drink. He bowed his head, looking demure, slight. He gestured, allowing them to pass by him and rush into the street.
“That guy looked like he thought I was going to beat him up,” Quentin said, laughing.
“He kind of deserves it,” Charlotte said.
“Tell me what he did, and I’ll rip his fucking head off.”
“Not now. I want now to be beautiful,” Charlotte whispered, staring up at him. “I only want us to exist.”
“Then let us run drunkenly through the night, together,” Quentin said, rushing her toward a side bar, with exposed brick walls and a tattooed bartender who didn’t bother them except to grunt at them, asking what they wanted. They cozied up in the corner, against the wall, whispering secrets into one another’s ears and imagining the future they would build together.
“I want you to go on tour with me next year,” Quentin told her, his eyes flashing.
“What about Morgan?” Charlotte asked.
“She can be around for bits of it, especially in the late spring and early summer,” Quentin said. “The tour will begin in March and go until around July. We’ll go all around the world. Belgium. France. Germany.”
“Morgan would absolutely adore London,” Charlotte whispered. “All the music we could see—“
“She would die for it,” Quentin agreed. “When I went on tour before, as a younger man, all I wanted to do was hop from place
to place, see the women, do their drugs. But this time—it would be different. We’d have each other. And maybe we could even get married in Paris.”
“The most romantic place in the world,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes flashing.
“And I only want you and Morgan to be there with me,” Quentin affirmed.
After several more drinks, the couple grew drunk, but still simmering with anticipation for the coming years of their life. They hailed a taxi on the way back, leaping into the sticky seats and bringing their lips together, kissing as the taxi whisked them through the swirling lights of the city. Charlotte tasted the tang of alcohol on his tongue; she reveled in the strength of his hands as they gripped her, holding her tight.
Back at the penthouse, Quentin thrust Charlotte on top of their bed, watching her breasts as she bounced. She giggled, her eyes linking with his. But Quentin wasn’t messing around. He reached forward, slicing her dress down the center to reveal her naked body beneath—she hadn’t bothered to wear underwear to the bar. Using his tongue, he slid a line from her naval all the way up to her neck. His tongue sent shivers down her spine, making her nipples rock-hard.
With a rapid motion, Charlotte reached forward, unbuckling his belt and whipping out the width of him, which was red, pulsing, veiny to the touch. She slid the skin upward, before leaning down and wrapping her mouth around his cock. She slipped her tongue around the edge of it, closing her eyes with the pleasure of holding the incredible width and length of it in her mouth. Deep throating it, she felt Quentin’s moan grumble throughout his entire body.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “This is exactly what I want. For the rest of my life.”
They spent the rest of the night fucking, with Quentin whipping her around, choosing dominance and then choosing gentleness, causing her to cry out with multiple orgasms. In the light of the morning, they collapsed in one another’s arms, with Charlotte’s ring still sparkling on her hand.
Charlotte, Quentin, and Morgan celebrated the engagement a few days later, in their natural environment: their home, with hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. As she grilled, Charlotte remembered that Morgan had been a vegetarian just the year before. Morgan was changing constantly, rotating her personality, becoming who she was meant to be. And Charlotte would have a hand in helping her do that, from now on. It chilled her.
