She can’t believe she’s doing this. Stepping out of the town car and into the balmy summer night her brain screams at her to stop, to turn around and tell the driver to take her home. But her body doesn’t listen, her heart taking its misguided steps to the front door where one mention of who she works for has her past the bouncer at the door and up a flight of stairs towards VIP.

What she finds there causes her jaw to drop. The air is dense with smoke, the smell of Cuban cigars mixed with a hint of marijuana assaulting her senses. The room is dimly lit but she can still see the naked girls grinding and writhing against men on couches, some doing more than just dancing and Charlotte can feel her heartbeat ratchet up, pushing against her throat at the thought of what she might find here.

She almost turns around then, almost makes her way right back down the stairs and out into the car, telling the driver to take her home but she hesitates, and the moment of hesitation is all she needs, conjuring up excuses and reasons why Justin would need her help. She never could get a hold of Trace and who else would come out to So.Ho in the middle of the night to get him?

She does her best to keep her eyes on the floor, ignoring the catcalls and the hands that brush against her as she passes men too drunk to know what they’re doing. She searches the room, trying to look for him but avoid seeing anything at the same time, the music loud enough to rattle her teeth, her body set on edge. She shouldn’t be here.

She nudges her way past a couple making out, finally making it to the back of the room where couches line the walls and even though it’s barely lit her cheeks still flame at the bodies moving against one another, the sounds around her. She turns, her heart hammering, stomach churning and that’s when she sees him, crumpled and half hanging off the side of a chaise lounge. Panic seizes her, tripping over empty bottles on the floor as she makes her way to him, grabbing his face and trying to pull him upright.

She says his name, patting his face gently and his jaw sags, head lolling on his neck. His hair is a wild slick on his head, his clothes rumpled and wet, and his shirt is unbuttoned nearly to his navel, twisted around his body. His undershirt is stained with brown and yellow liquid and the strong stench of alcohol radiates off of him. She holds his face, trying to keep his head steady and she can see that someone has written “Amelia’s Bitch” in pen on one of his cheeks.

“JUSTIN!” she yells, patting his face a little harder and he stirs, groaning, eyes fluttering open to gaze at her blankly.

“’arlie?” he questions blearily, struggling to sit up and she puts her hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“Are you alright?” she questions, holding his face in her hands and trying to get his hazy eyes to focus on hers. 

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice thick as if he’d just come out of a sleep he’d been in for hours, blinking around, trying to focus his eyes.

The last thing he remembers is Sasha setting a line of tequila shots in front of him, telling him to stay occupied as he pulled a dancer into his lap, a smattering of stars tattooed down her spine. One right after another he threw them back, watching those stars gyrate and roll, twist and spiral until blurred… and then there was Charlotte.

He looks at her then, her green eyes lined in black, lashes splaying out in a delicate fan and that little line is drawn between her brows; the one that shows up when Amelia is particularly nasty or he makes a flippant comment about something he’s unhappy with in his life. She’s concerned, frowning, her lips full and red and he feels the urge to lean in and kiss her then, his hand moving to cup her cheek.

She jumps, standing back from him and he looks up at her, taking in the black satin of her dress with the sculpted short sleeves, the neckline plunging but not as far as the zippered front bodice would allow. She’s looking at him uncertainly and then shakes her head, reaching for his elbows.

“Come on let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, pulling him up and his body feels foreign to him, his brain swimming in a sea of alcohol.

“Di’ ‘melia call you?” he questions, tripping over his own feet and somewhere in his mind he realizes that she’s supporting most of his weight, his arm slung around her neck while hers supports him under his ribs, her other hand holding him steady at the center of his chest.

“No,” she grunts, looking around for any sign of the bathroom and spotting a hallway just off the bar. She begins to drag him in that direction.

“Really, ‘m oka’” he slurs, concentrating very hard on making these words true, placing one foot carefully in front of the other so as not to fall.

Charlotte snorts taking her hand off his chest to open the door to the bathroom and there’s not much room inside, the walls a fire-engine red, scared with deeper reds and oranges and yellows, the mirror above the black marble vanity misshapen and warped seemingly by the heat of the flame colored walls. Justin is reminded of hell as Charlotte pulls him inside, closing the door behind him and maneuvering him so that he’s leaning against the sink. This is the worst kind of torture, being closed in this small space with her, the scent of her shampoo surrounding him as she reaches behind him to wet a towel she’d snatched from the vanity. He studies her face, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the slant of her eyes, the bow of her lips and that longing tugs in his chest and his groin, the want for her.

He yelps when she brings the towel to the side of his face, scrubbing at his cheek and he tries to twist away from her, letting out an annoyed growl. She’s persistent, scrubbing his skin hard and he reaches for her wrists, tugging them away.

“You have stuff written on your face,” Charlotte protests, trying to struggle against his grip, reaching to scrub again with the towel and he huffs, annoyed, the alcohol on his breath causing her to cough. “Jesus Justin you’re gonna hate yourself tomorrow.”

She shakes her head, still dabbing at his cheek and she’s surprised when he lets out a laugh, his head falling back, bloodshot eyes sinking closed.

“That’s everyday, darlin’” he drawls heaving another sigh and she shivers at the term of endearment, biting her lip as she smudges the last of the pen from his face.

“There,” she says softly, placing the towel down next to him on the vanity and she avoids his eyes, looking down at the stains on his undershirt, reaching to straighten his button down and hesitating just a moment before beginning to do the buttons for him.

He watches her, remembering this exact scenario only in reverse. He lets the slideshow of her body and skin run through his head but it’s short, replaced by her smile and the pout of her lips when he says something particularly smart-ass. His head is overrun by the sound of her voice and her laugh, longing for her, for what they used to be and he’s perilous to fight it.

Charlotte makes a slight gurgle of protest when his hand weaves its way into her hair but Justin swallows it, his lips pressing hard to hers. She whimpers against his lips, her hands falling to his chest as the familiarity of kissing him again washes over her, that warmth settling in her belly as his hands smooth down her neck and over her shoulders. Her mind is screaming at her to stop and while her heart trembles at the thought of the pain that’s to come it still calls out for him, wanting him and loving him even though she knows it’s wrong.

She gasps when his clumsy fingers find the zipper at her chest, tugging down until it won’t go anymore, exposing her breastbone in a way that she couldn’t bring herself to do in public. That’s when the fear hits her, ice cold and shocking and something inside her screams that she can’t do this. She can’t let him hurt her like this anymore.

“Justin…” she breathes shakily as the warmth of his palm presses to her breast bone, fingers wiggling under the fabric of her dress to cup her breast. “Justin,” she tries to protest between his insistent kisses.

He groans softly, turning her so that she’s pressed against the vanity, one hand still stuck inside her dress, fingers squeezing at her breast while his other hand tries to find the hem of her dress, fingers skimming up her thigh.

“Justin no,” Charlotte says finally, practically yells as she wrenches her mouth from his and he freezes, looking at her wide eyed.

She sighs, resting her forehead against his and biting her lip as she pulls his hand out of her bodice, zipping it to a more comfortable spot and nudging him back from the counter. He looks down at her, his eyes hazy and she wonders if he’ll even remember this tomorrow. She shakes her head, the throbbing in her chest telling her that she won’t have that luxury.

“’harlie, I-”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off with a wave of her hand, shaking her head and pressing against his chest with the tips of her fingers. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

He lets her drag him back through the club, his arm curled tightly around her neck and his brain is a swirl of fragmented thoughts. He wants her, that burn in his chest threatening to set him ablaze and all the months they’ve been apart, every forced smile and awkward hello, feels like an eternity. He knows he shouldn’t be feeling this way about her, that he’s getting married in mere days and in his drunken state the truth finally floats to the surface of his mind.

He stops dead in his tracks at the revelation, Charlotte slipping out of his grasp and they’re standing on the city sidewalk, the town car at the curb and she looks back at him questioningly, holding her hand out to him.

“Justin-”

“I lo’ you,” he blurts, blinking slow as he sways unsteadily on his feet and her neck jerks as if she had been physically struck.

Charlotte looks at him dumbfounded, her heart thundering in her chest but instead of feeling elation, or even relief she feels angry and hurt. Standing there in the middle of the sidewalk outside some stupid club where the smell of garbage and piss fills the late night air he tells her he loves her. When he’s so drunk he can barely stand and he’s getting married in five days.

She clears her throat and forces down the lump lodged there, wiggling her fingers at him, urging him to take her hand and when he does she pulls him to the car, opening the door for him and guiding him inside, holding his head so he doesn’t whack it on the roof of the car. He tumbles into the back seat, scooting himself over inelegantly so she can slip in next to him and she leans forward telling the driver to take them to his hotel. He watches her, the dim city lights playing across her face as they pull away from the curb and he reaches a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear clumsily.

“I miss you ‘harlie,” he murmurs, the gentle motion of the car making him drowsy and his eyelids droop, head lolling until it rests against her shoulder.

Charlotte turns her face to the window, squeezing her eyes shut. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, won’t even remember it tomorrow, hell maybe not even twenty minutes from now. His head is heavy on her shoulder, his steady breath fanning down her chest as his hand finds its way to her thigh resting there innocuously. She covers it with hers, her stomach rolling at the mixed emotions mingling in her chest. She never should have come to get him, should have gone home and just sent the driver. Justin isn’t going to be the only one hurting in the morning.

She shakes him awake when they reach the front of his hotel, tugging him out of the car by the front of his shirt, his body even less cooperative now that the alcohol is beginning to render him unconscious. He leans heavily on her in the elevator, nose nuzzling at her pulse point, lips smudging her skin and she does her best to ignore it, wishing that when the doors ding open she could just breeze away from him, but she knows he’d tumble right to the ground.

His nose nuzzles against her hair, hand smoothing across her stomach and she can feel the heat of his skin through the thin satin of her dress as they approach the door. She has to ask him twice for the key, holding him steady at the waist while his fingers grapple in his pockets before pulling out the small card which she takes before he has a chance to drop it.

They tumble into the suite, Justin chuckling as their feet get tangled, his arm clutching tighter at her neck as they nearly fall to the ground. She does her best to keep them upright, kicking off her heels as he leans heavily against her, his nose nuzzling at her ear.

“We have to get you to bed,” she says as evenly as possible and shivers at the chuckle he breathes against her ear.

“You wan’ me in bed?” he slurs and she fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“Come on,” she sighs, practically dragging him down the hallway to the master bedroom.

She lets him fall against the bed, his body tumbling backwards and his feet fly up which causes her to smile despite herself and then giggle at the confused look on his face when he struggles up onto his elbows. She hates that she can never stay mad at him.

“Come on,” she says with a sigh, walking forward to tug the comforter back. “Bed.”

“’m no’ tired,” he pouts letting his body splay back on the sheets and Charlotte sighs again, shaking her head as she rounds the end of the bed, crouching down to untie his shoes.

“You are,” she insists, pulling his shoes and socks from his feet. “Come on scoot up. You want your pants off?”

He giggles. “YOU wan’ my pants off?” He smirks at her and she shakes her head.

“There’s no way you’re having sex tonight,” she says, reaching to unbutton his shirt and he looks down at her hands dumbly.

“See, you sa’ tha’ and then you’re gettin’ me nekkid,” he wiggles a little smiling up a her playfully, his hazy eyes dancing.

“You’re a mess,” she says softly, her hand coming to touch his face and she lets herself love him just a little bit, watching him press his cheek into her hand, his eyes sinking closed as he sighs heavily.

She watches him for a moment, his head tucked into her hand and she wishes so badly that things were different. It’s her own fault for getting involved with a practically married man and she kicks herself everyday for falling into the trap every woman in her situation does; thinking he would eventually see that she is better for him than the woman he is engaged to. She shakes her head, pulling her hand away and his head falls, startling him awake and he blinks at her blearily. She urges him up the bed, aiding him in pulling his arms from his button down shirt and reaching tentatively to undo his belt and jeans. He lifts his hips, allowing her to tug the fabric down and she tosses his clothes on a nearby chair, reaching for the sheets, tucking him in like a child.

“Ge’ in with me,” he mumbles, his eyes heavy and she shakes her head. “Yes,” he insists, arms reaching for her, hands grappling at her arms clumsily.

“Justin you need to sleep it off,” she chides, her heart begging to just climb in and curl up with him like she’s never gotten to do.

“I miss you ‘harlie,” he slurs, hands pawing at her arms. “I mi’ you so much. I’s not the same wi’out you. You were mah bes’ frien’ an’ then you were more an’ I know it was kin’a fucked up but it was us, you know,” he rambles, his speech getting farther and farther away, the pawing of his hands getting weaker and he’s going to slip under at any minute.

“Shhh,” Charlotte whispers, gritting her teeth against the lump in her throat. “Go to sleep.”

“I ne’er mean’ to hurt you,” he mumbles. “I lo’ you. I’m no’ s’pposed to. I’m ge’ing married. But I lo’ you. An’ I lo’ her. I’m confuse’.”

His brow draws, his eyes closed and he looks like a little boy fighting sleep, his words slicing her apart inside and while she feels like she should hate him, seeing him like this, vulnerable and open she can’t bring herself to do it. She hates herself for not being able to do it.

“Go to sleep,” she whispers, reaching for the bedside lamp and despite her better judgment she leans down and presses her lips to his forehead, his back arching slightly, his nose nuzzling her jaw as she pulls away.

She hears it then, a soft thump of bone on wood and her head whips finding Trace standing in the doorway, a million questions in his bleary eyes. Her entire body stiffens, frozen with her hand under the lampshade and Justin begins to snore softly, settling more under the blankets. Trace looks from his best friend back to Charlotte, his eyes narrowing just slightly as his tongue works over his teeth, surveying her for a moment before cocking his head back, beckoning her to follow him.

She lets her eyes sink closed, dread icing her veins as she gives one last glance to Justin before flicking off his light and padding her way out of the room in the darkness. She looks around for Trace, the room lit by the lights from Time Square winking and strobing through the atrium windows. She sees him then, leaning over the balcony just outside the great room and swallows hard before taking cautious steps towards him.

His head turns at the sound of the glass door sliding open, Charlotte stepping barefoot onto the cool tile of the balcony, coming to stand next to him. She looks out over Time Square, feeling his eyes roving over her and waits.

“You fuckin’ my best friend?”

His question holds none of the playful suggestion it had at Christmas when he’d first asked it, his tone stating that he already knows the answer.

“How much did you hear?” she asks, sidestepping his question.

“Enough,” Trace replies, taking a deep swig from the can of beer in his hand and that’s when Charlotte notices all the empties littering the balcony floor. “Don’t worry I won’t rat on you.”

“It’s not what you think,” Charlotte tries to protest, although what she’s protesting she’s not entirely sure.

“You’re not fucking him?” Trace questions, quirking an eyebrow at her and she can feel her cheeks heat.

“Not anymore,” she replies quietly and Trace barks out a laugh.

They’re quiet for a moment before, “Can’t say I didn’t see it comin’” He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Glad you’re amused,” Charlotte replies bitterly, glaring down at the street below.

“He loves you.”

She cringes shaking her head. “No.”

“I heard him say it!” Trace argues and Charlotte’s head whips to him.

“He’s drunk off his ass Trace!” She bristles at her outburst. “He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s saying. He’d tell you he loves you right now.”

“He does love me,” Trace replies back with a nod. “He does he just forgets sometimes. Amelia has that effect on him.” He drains the rest of the can bitterly, crushing it in his palm and tossing it aside, listening to it skitter against its mates. “But you… you make him remember.”

“Trace-”

“You make him remember all the shit that matters, Charlie!” Trace says earnestly, his dark eyes piercing her and she can practically taste his desperation. “You can fix this!”

“Fix it? Fix what?” Charlotte exclaims. “Its not my fucking job to fix anything Trace. I tried to help him. I was fucking there for him. With all the shit with Amelia?” Her indignation swells when she sees him roll his eyes, reaching down and grabbing another beer off the chair. “I built him up and encouraged him and all she ever did was tear him down. And what did that get me?” She stops then looking out over the city, her heart tugging painfully in her chest and she can’t bear to even say aloud how she really feels for Justin. “A drunk call in the middle of a date because his best friend fucking bailed on him.”

Trace’s cheek twitches, hiding his cringe with a regretful smile. “I make mistakes, Charlie. That’s what I do.” He sighs. “Justin was always the star you know. He was always so fucking good at everything and yeah he took me along for the ride but I could never live up to him.” He pauses, looking down at his beer, turning it round and round in his hand. “He was always so calculating and careful and me?” He chuckles. “I speak without thinking and I jump when I should probably look first.” He pauses, taking a deep swig and then chuckles. “I drink too much.” Charlotte snorts, rolling her eyes. “I’m a fantastic lover though,” he adds and Charlotte quirks an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. It seems Justin isn’t the only one she can’t stay mad at, “and I try my damndest to be a good friend.” He shakes his head, heaving a sigh as he looks out over the city. “God knows I mean well.”

Charlotte sighs, reaching a hand over to rub up and down his back quickly. “I know you do.”

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says, looking over at her again. “You have to fix this.”

“What do you want me to do, Trace?” Charlotte questions, her voice defeated. “He’s getting married in five days. We… we aren’t even… we don’t-”

“Find a way,” Trace insists, the hard edge of his voice startling her and she blinks at him taken aback. “He’s gonna fuck up his entire life, Charlotte. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

“How the hell do you even know that?” Charlotte asks petulantly.

“Because he called you. On a date. When his best friend fucking bailed on him,” Trace replies and then adds softly. “And he loves you.”

Charlotte lets her head hang back, sucking in the warm summer air and shakes her head slow. Trace has no idea what he’s talking about. There’s no way that she can fix Justin. He has to fix himself and he’s not even willing to take the steps to try. But something about Trace’s words, his earnestness and his faith that she can do it, while blind and ill-thought pick and prod at her already weary heart.

“I don’t think I can,” she says softly and that’s when Trace shakes his head, draining the last of his beer before turning to her.

“You have to,” he says firmly, his eyes holding hers before tossing his can aside and turning to stumble back into the penthouse. “You’re the only one who can.”