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1
Charlotte shuffled up the front steps of the downtown Manhattan office building wearing black, pointed shoes. She held her head high, her chin sure and firm, her eyes glazed with false confidence. After moving to New York City just a week before from her small, sleepy town in Ohio, she was beginning her first “adult” gig as an intern at Mad Music Magazine—MMM—a writing gig she’d coveted since she was a girl. Peeking at her figure in the side mirror of the building’s foyer, she inspected her taut, tight waist, her firm, rounded breasts, and her long, swirling brunette hair. If she hadn’t chosen to write about bands and music, she would have been welcomed as a groupie, unquestionably. But she felt herself to be too intelligent for that.
The rest of the interns were huddled, quivering, in the far corner of the MMM offices, wearing similar black business jackets and standing unsteadily in heels. Redheads, blondes, a few quirky gay guys wearing dark, thick glasses, all stood like deer in headlights, peering up at the woman who’d hired Charlotte. Maggie. The intern-organizer. The woman who’d half-bragged about her outrageous party days in her twenties, when she hadn’t thought for a moment about taking a job in any office like this. Not until Quentin McDonnell took over as editor, of course. That’s when Maggie had known the magazine was going to take a turn. That’s when she knew the street cred would shine. Of course, Quentin wasn’t who he was when Maggie had first known him. He was grown up. Older. Responsible. No longer the rock star he’d been before he’d become editor.
Quentin McDonnell had been editor of MMM for the previous two years and had virtually revamped the magazine, giving it back to musicians and artists, moving away from supporting top-tier labels and other “moneymakers.”
“Man, fuck those guys,” Quentin had been quoted as saying, ten years before. And he’d stuck by this statement, obviously.
Charlotte slipped in line beside a redhead named Pamela, gripping her notebook tightly against her breasts. Maggie took attendance with sharp jolts of her pen across a white sheet of paper, her eyes piercing across the top of their heads. Charlotte leaned quickly, rabbit-like, toward Pam.
“Have you seen him yet?” Charlotte asked.
Pam shook her head lightly, not allowing her eyes to sway from Maggie’s gaze. “Haven’t spotted him. Think he’s in his office. Had a meeting with a band this morning. The Morning Stars.”
“Shit. They’re huge,” Charlotte murmured, impressed. “Of course, he collaborated with them, back in the early ‘00s. Must be how he knows them.”
“Right,” Pam said, her eyes dancing, as if she were pretending to know this.
Charlotte had been studying Quentin McDonnell for several years, since she’d been a ragtag teenager and constant listener to his grunge rock band, Orpheus Arise. Back then, he’d been a drug-addled sex-addict, with long, black, scraggly hair, taut muscles, and wild, black eyes. He’d had those kissable, pink lips, hidden there against his dark black beard. He’d been anxious, destructive, dominant, going through every model, female rock star, and actress throughout the ‘00s. Charlotte had followed his every move, becoming a kind of fan girl, obsessing over his hot body and his clearly tormented mind.
“All right,” Maggie, the intern organizer said, scratching the last mark on her attendance sheet. “Ladies. Gents. I’d like to take you into the office and show you your desks. Several of you are social media, and you’ll be working together, while the rest of you are up-and-coming writers with aspirations to become actual music journalists. Quite an aspiration. I’ve been there, myself. And look where I stand today.” She gave them a little smirk, obviously confident.
Charlotte’s face twitched with a brief feeling of jealousy. Becoming a writer intern at a music magazine meant she was a badass writer, sure. But it didn’t necessarily mean she’d “make it” in the industry. You had to have balls. You had to have gumption. And, quite often, people from Ohio just weren’t born with all that. They were born with shy sensibilities and too many bright, white teeth.
Maggie ushered the interns into a side room, telling them she needed to take a pause and leave them for a few minutes. She gestured wildly, saying, “Talk amongst yourselves, now. Make friends. Don’t be shy.” She winked and then scurried out into the larger office, walking with abrupt movements and tossing her hands back as she walked.
“Well, well,” said a particularly flamboyant, blond-haired intern who had introduced himself as Randy, off to Charlotte’s side. “I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Where’s the man of the hour? Mr. Quentin McDonnell himself?”
The interns all tittered, eyeing the door. The flamboyant intern continued, his voice rising. “I mean, we all got into music at around the time he was a fucking rock god. I certainly had my first little boy wet dreams about him, as a teenager. Oh, boy. Good days.”
