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“Tommy, hey there,” Quentin said, sounding jovial, almost false. “What can I do for you?”
“Yes. Uh huh. Well, thank you. Thank you. Yes, actually. New here. She’s an intern.”
Charlotte frowned, uncertain. She whisked her fingers through her hair, drawing her head forward. Who was he talking to? And why did she feel he was definitely speaking about her?
“I’ll pass along her details, then,” Quentin said, laughing. “And let me know if you want to grab a burger some other time. Had a good time seeing you the other night. All right. Bye.”
Quentin hung up the phone. He closed his hands over his desk, gazing down at Charlotte with glowing, almost loving eyes. Despite all they’d been through the past week—when they’d been tested, strung out—it seemed the growing affection remained.
“You’ll never guess who that was,” he began.
“You’re right,” Charlotte said, shrugging. She gave him a half-smile, feeling uncertain, lost.
“That was the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone magazine. He wanted to know who the hell you were and where you came from,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “You really got the music writing industry talking this morning with your piece.”
“That was Tommy Burson?” Charlotte said, shocked. “Seriously? I can’t—I don’t—” She shook her head tentatively, bursting from the chair. “Why would he care who I am?”
“Well, he was shocked you were an intern,” Quentin said. “And he wanted to know if you’d be interested in a real job. One that actually pays more than your barely-living wage as an intern for MMM.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She leaned toward him, unable to resist him any longer, and strapped her legs around him, straddling him. She brought her hands to his gruff cheeks, gazing into his eyes, unable to deny how good it felt to touch him. Beneath her, she felt his cock, the tip rubbing against her clit, making her pussy lips part with intense desire.
“He wants me to work for him?” she whispered.
“Well, he wants you to come in and talk to him,” Quentin said, giving her a devilish smile. “But I can’t imagine he won’t love everything about you. Especially your writing. But this…” He grabbed her ass, squeezing it till she giggled with glee. “This won’t hurt your chances, either.”
“This would solve everything,” Charlotte whispered, incredulous. “We could do this for real, without skirting around a bunch of rules.”
“Shhh,” Quentin murmured, pressing his nose against hers. “Don’t psych yourself out. Just go talk to him. If you like the job, if it suits you professionally, then take it. And if you don’t, you’ll just work here. And we’ll keep publishing your features until you tell us to stop.”
Charlotte kissed him, slipping her tongue against his and rubbing at him with her crotch, yearning to hump him properly. She felt his hands on the small of her back, grasping her, easing his nails into her skin. He broke their kiss after several impenetrable moments. “You fucking gorgeous specimen,” he whispered. “Go email Tommy Burson. There’s no time to waste.”
Charlotte did as she was told, racing back to her desk to email the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone to set up an interview for the following day. He called her back immediately, upon receiving the email, introducing himself with a gruff voice and even telling her he’d been in bands when Quentin had been a rock star, over ten years before.
“Oh, we sure knew each other,” Tommy said. “But back then, none of the girls knew my name. Only his. It got kind of frustrating, as you can imagine.”
“Sure,” Charlotte said, feeling as if she were floating. “Although I’m sure he didn’t deserve it.”
“No, no. He did. But he’s even more handsome now, the asshole. Anyway, I’d love it if you could pop into the offices this next week, just to meet me, get a feel for your job, and maybe even claim a few bands that you’d like to write about, yourself. They’d be your beats, essentially.”
“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, unable to hold in her excitement. “I’d love to. Does Monday work?”
“Sure does, Charlotte. How about nine in the morning? We start the day right at Rolling Stone, with big, beautiful donuts. I hope you’re not gluten free.”
“Never.”
Hanging up the phone, she turned, brimming, toward Randy, and then tossed her arms around his neck. Unsuspecting, Randy bucked back, nearly falling to the ground, but caught her, all the same, in a firm hug. “Wow,” he said, laughing. “This might go without saying, but you’re stronger than you look. What’s all the hubbub about?”
“Oh, nothing,” Charlotte murmured, grinning inwardly. “Just appreciate you being around, is all. Drinks this weekend? I need help celebrating my article. And I want to do it with my newest, closest friend.”
Randy agreed heartily, lifting a flask from his business suit jacket pocket and passing it to her, causing her to giggle outrageously, not knowing he’d been sipping dark whiskey throughout nearly every work day.
