“Those days are over, boys,” Quentin said. “I only operate a computer these days.”
“Damn. Grunge is dead,” Martin said.
“It’s not. You guys are keeping it alive,” Charlotte murmured.
“That set you guys played. In the basement in Brooklyn in 2006 with the Beehives. Shit, man. I saw that on YouTube and I nearly lost my mind,” Keith said.
“It was a baller show, man. Seriously,” Martin added.
“It’s not dead,” Charlotte interjected. “Because you guys are keeping it alive. Talk about why it’s worth it to you. Why do you insist on blasting it with electricity and energy and bringing it to a new generation?”
Quentin splayed his hands forward, palms up, gesturing to the boys. Perhaps they spoke the same language, Charlotte thought. Quentin seemed to interject, saying, “Talk to the girl. Not to me.”
And the boys behaved. They began to answer her, drawing inspiration from stories of their joint past and telling the tale of how they’d become the present-day Thick Soled—a name they’d arrived on when Keith’s mom had bought him thick-soled shoes and everyone at school had made fun of him.
“Keith hasn’t allowed anyone to make fun of him since then,” Martin said, laughing. “He’s not terribly thick-skinned, to say the least.”
The interview carried on from there, with all five of them ordering several rounds of drinks. Quentin hardly talked, only answering questions about “how things were” when he was a top-tier rock star. Charlotte brimmed with pleasure throughout the conversation, sensing the truth: she was damn good at this. This was what she was meant to be doing. And despite the fact that she’d probably gotten the gig through sleeping with Quentin, she still saw nowhere else she belonged more.
Thick Soled excused themselves after the third drink, shaking Charlotte’s hand with verve and then clapping Quentin on the shoulder blade, telling him, once more, they’d “kill” to see him perform again. They trudged from the bar table, exiting into the flurry of passenger traffic, leaving Quentin and Charlotte in the shadowy bar, the only drinkers in the establishment.
“Wow,” Charlotte breathed, holding out her fingers. They were quaking. She flashed a bright smile, aware of how silly she looked. “Shit. I’m shivering. But that was absolutely—incredible.”
“I can tell you loved every second,” he answered, leaning closer to her. “I was falling for you more and more every second. You reeled them in when they got too far away from a question topic, and you allowed them to dance through different anecdotes, having fun with it.” He clapped his hands together, almost aghast. “Shit. It’s going to be a much better article than the one I was planning to write. It’s going to be about a million times better.”
Charlotte leaped to her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulsed herself into his lap, unable to rein in her joy and sexuality, and then brought her lips around his, kissing him passionately. He wrapped his arm around her back, cupping her close.
When their kiss broke, Charlotte placed her palm on his cheek, feeling at his five o’ clock shadow. His musk flooded her nose.
“What do you want to do now?” she whispered.
“I want to take you out to celebrate,” Quentin said. “I want you to divorce yourself from all that worry you’ve been holding onto, and I want you to have a good time with me.”
“Where do you want to go?” Charlotte whispered.
“I know just what you’ll love.”
Quentin paid for the massive tab with a flourish of his credit card and then grasped her hand, leading her into the sun-drenched, early fall streets. She slipped a cardigan over her shoulders, retrieved from her bag, and added her sunglasses atop her nose, conscious that all the panic she’d had, jostling around her heart for the past week or so, was receding quickly.
And she hadn’t even made a total fool of herself.
“God, I just want to shout it from the rooftops,” she breathed, giggling. “I want to tell the world that I fucking did it. I fucking killed that interview.”
“Hah,” Quentin said, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I love seeing you this happy.”
He led her down a side alley, toward a rusty set of steps. Although Charlotte was a bit hesitant, she trudged up behind him. Music built up in her ears slowly, gravitating from the rooftop.
“Is this a roof party?” she asked, breathless. She hadn’t yet seen this “side” of New York, although it had certainly been something she’d dream of.
Quentin didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand firmly and pulled her up the final few steps, delivering them to a landing. A man stood out front, wearing dark sunglasses and balding in the center, front part of his head. He wore a rugged leather jacket; his jeans were holed and too tight on his rather thick frame. But the man grasped onto Quentin’s hand and then gave him a masculine hug, one that spoke of years of partying, of raucous times.