“Quinn?” she whispered. Her green eyes were smoky, reflecting the passion in his gaze.
“Mmm?” He raised his hand to play with a soft curl dangling in front of her ear.
“What are your golden rules?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your golden rules.” She was watching him closely. “What are they?”
Quinn’s eyes shot toward the front seat, where Denise was scolding Dan about something. When he looked back at Shan her face was clouded, revealing something close to disappointment.
The overhead light flashed and he blinked, then realized the van had stopped. Shan twisted out of his grasp. “We’re here,” she said, suddenly cool as ice cream.
He got out and turned to help her, but she jumped down without his assistance, holding her long skirt up in one hand and passing him without a backward glance as she proceeded toward the back of the van. He scratched his head and followed her.
Ty and Dan were stacking the gear on the sidewalk. Shan reached for a couple of guitar cases and headed for the service entrance to the Grotto. Quinn grasped a pile of equipment and followed her. She was at the bar talking to Oda, so he continued to the stage and knelt, setting down the gear. In a moment Shan came up behind him, put down the guitars, and moved away without a word.
“Hey,” he called after her. She stopped, looking back over her shoulder. He crooked his finger and she retraced her steps. Still kneeling, he watched her approach, her face expressionless.
“I can usually tell when I say or do something to piss you off,” he said, “but I can’t think of anything during the last five minutes. Am I missing something?”
“No,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not pissed off.”
“Bullshit, angel. You,” he pointed at her forcefully, “are pissed off at me about something or other. I’d like you to tell me what it is. We have to be onstage in an hour. I don’t need this kind of crap right now.”
“But I’m not pissed off,” she repeated. “I haven’t said a word.”
“I know. That’s my point exactly. Why the silent treatment?”
Her face changed, just a touch, and he thought he saw a hint of regret in her emerald eyes. “Let’s just say I gave you a test and you didn’t pass.” She turned and went back outside to the van.
Forty-five minutes later, Quinn snagged an empty pitcher off the amplifier. “I’m going for more beer before we start. You want another Coke?” Shan shook her head as he headed for the bar.
They’d struck a tacit truce, each recognizing that any tensions between them had to be put aside, at least until after the gig. It was hard to fight with someone and play with them at the same time. Another good reason not to mix it up with her, Quinn decided. Nothing good could come of it, no matter how hot they were for each other, and it wasn’t like he was in the market for a girlfriend. As a rule, he only saw women whom he felt could appreciate a good bone dance without getting syrupy on him.
He misread them occasionally and wound up in the uncomfortable position of having to extricate himself from the clutches of some smitten female. He always backed off fast in such situations, his powerful aversion to attachment causing whatever desire he felt for the lady in question to evaporate. He had one focus in his life—music—and the last thing he needed was a lovesick chick demanding his time and energy.
He felt a light touch at his elbow. Turning, he found himself face to face with the object of his uneasy reflections. “We’re finished with sound check,” she reported. “Are you ready?”
“Yup. Are you?” She nodded and he followed her back to the stage, gave a high sign to Bruce at the sound board and the lights dimmed as they swung into their opening number, a hot Santana cover that usually got people moving.
Quinn brought his mouth close to the microphone. “Hi there, ladies and gents. We’re Quinntessence. Here’s a little fire to light up your dancing feet.” He launched into the opening vocal, his hands flashing over the keys with lightning-like precision, although the rest of his body didn’t move much. Some musicians were big on emoting physically, but he wasn’t one of them. At most, when a tune really rocked him, he’d sway a little on the balls of his feet.
Not like Shan, who played with her whole body. When they switched to a classic Beatles medley, the intensity of her voice was mirrored by her lithe, fluid movements as she waltzed around the stage with her guitar. It was a synchronicity of sight and sound, musician nearly indistinguishable from instrument in the perfection of their union, and Quinn congratulated himself again on his decision to put her out in front. By the end of the song the whole place was singing along with her.
They shifted to one of his tunes next, which was his usual formula. Two covers to grab the crowd’s attention, then an original. This one was a forceful rock ballad called “Voluntary Exile.”
Fire lines the road I walked, consuming me with shame
Burning all that once was good can only bring me pain
For simple peace of mind I turn to total isolation
It may be weakness but I find a sort of strange salvation
It was one of his favorites. The lyrics were deeply personal and hearing them sung so powerfully by such a tiny, fragile-looking girl made them even more compelling. The song wound to a close with a hearty round of applause.
By their first break, they had the crowd grooving. Shan turned to Quinn as he emerged from behind his keyboard. “How do you think it’s going?”
“Okay,” he said with a nod, “but watch the edges. Tight, remember?”
“I remember.” He watched her stomp off toward the bar, wishing he’d said something a little nicer.
When Quinntessence returned to the stage for the second set, they were charged up and ready to rock. They started off with a Faith No More cover, then upshifted to Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” Shan adored Queen and worshipped Brian May, but she privately felt that the Quinntessence playlist relied a little too heavily on this type of music: artsy, prog rock–inspired stuff that was complicated and interesting, but not particularly fun or danceable. She hoped that down the road the band would be willing to add a few more sprightly tunes, some Madonna or Cyndi. Throw in some Springsteen, maybe, or Guns N’ Roses. She’d love to try her hand at “Welcome to the Jungle” with such a talented group.
Of course, this particular Queen song was a classic, so people were up and moving. When they switched to “Wanderlust,” the crowd was ready to rock, just as Quinn had said they would be.
A lifetime of time before me
The open road is what I see
The wanderlust is beckoning
It’s the thing that keeps me free
And, when they finished the bluesy tune, the response of the crowd was so enthusiastic that the intro to the next song was barely audible over the applause.
It really was annoying, the way Quinn was always right.
At the end of the night, Quinntessence was called back for three encores. When they were finally allowed off the stage, they concentrated on celebrating. Shan hung out at the bar with Oda, feeling distinctly out of place. Dan and Denise were huddled in a cozy, private conversation and Ty had hooked up with a cute hostess who liked bass players. She didn’t know where Quinn was.
Onstage, he’d slipped back into the role of lofty instructor, signaling with a frown when she made a mistake and giving her barely perceptible nods of approval when she pulled off a difficult piece. During the breaks, he’d mostly ignored her.
By two a.m., Shan wasn’t even sure he was still there. Her legs had begun to cramp, so she slipped outside for a quick fix. When she came back, she spotted him at a remote corner of the bar. He wasn’t alone. There was a woman beside him. She had long, straight blond hair and long, tanned legs; everything about her looked long and slim and tight except her breasts, which were huge, straining the tiny tank she wore. Shan could see down her cleavage from halfway across the room. She could also see Quinn’s hand on her leg. His th
umb was massaging her inner thigh.
She joined Denise, who gestured at Quinn. “See? There’s his ‘frequent flyer’ for tonight. That’s what he calls them.” She wrinkled her nose.
Shan didn’t answer. She couldn’t have even if she wanted to, since the pain blossoming in her chest seemed to have lodged in her throat.
Dan was chuckling as he rose. “Ready to call it a night, ladies?” Denise followed him outside while Ty went to check in with Quinn. Shan paused, then trailed after Ty.
Quinn looked up as Ty gestured toward the door. “We’re splitting. You coming?”
“No. I think the road ends here tonight. Right, Jillian?” he said, fixing the blonde with a questioning smile. She giggled and simpered, clutching his arm.
“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Ty headed for the door and Shan followed, keeping her face impassive.
Quinn watched Shan turn away and wished with all his might that he was going with her. It wasn’t even that he wanted to fuck her right now—he just wanted to hold her. His breath caught as he realized that he’d never had a thought like that about anyone in his entire life.
“Hey, angel?” He waited until she looked back. “You made me proud.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then she took a step toward him, and another, and suddenly her arms were around him in a spontaneous hug. He froze, startled, then held her slender body close for just a moment. When she moved away, he gave her waist a regretful little squeeze.
“Good night,” she said wistfully and then he watched her walk away.
The “good night” had sounded like “good-bye” and he supposed it was, in a way. Good-bye to something that wasn’t going to happen. Nothing had been said directly, nor did anything need to be said. Through the odd connection they’d forged, they seemed able to communicate perfectly well without words.
He summoned up a smile and turned back to the leggy blonde.
chapter 9
“There’s no point in pretending we’re composing together if I’m going to wind up doing it all myself,” Quinn said. He was in Shan’s bedroom where he’d spent the better part of two days. They’d been experimenting with a melody he’d come up with, but he had yet to wrest a single constructive comment from her.
“You’re my mentor,” Shan said. “It’s hard to think of myself as an equal.”
“You know, during band practice you’re on my case constantly. Why are you sitting there like a mute now, when I’m actually inviting your input?”
“No, I am not on your case constantly during practice,” she told him heatedly. “You just can’t stand it when anybody disagrees with you.”
“Well, all you’re doing now is wasting my time. I didn’t ask you to do this for the pleasure of your company. I don’t need a goddamn fan hanging around.”
That pissed her off, as he’d expected it would. “Fine. I think the hook on this tune sucks.”
He suppressed a spurt of annoyance. This was what he’d asked for, after all. “All right. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s completely predictable, so it’s dull,” she said. “Why not do some kind of a fake out on the bridge? Let the music rev up as if you’re going into the chorus, then shift into the second verse instead.”
She had his attention now. “Like how?”
“Like this,” she said, picking up her guitar.
The change Shan suggested added an appealing groove to the tune, especially after she produced a set of lyrics, a storytelling song about hope and thwarted expectations that she’d been working on for quite some time. “I conceived of it as a folk rock song,” she told him, “but I think it could work as hard rock.”
Quinn thought so, too. He liked the lyrics, enough to modify the lines to fit his hard-hitting tune, and within a few days they had a rollicking, balls-to-the-wall piece they christened “The Only Perfect One.”
Dancing last night at the ball, I bumped into a pretty girl
She had just one slipper on and a mile-high pile of curls
She said “Have you seen my shoe made out of glass?
If my stepsister took it I will kick her ass”
Oh, the only really perfect one
is the one that got away
“This song is what kicks ass!” Ty declared when he heard it. Dan nodded so vigorously he almost fell off his drum throne.
Quinn grinned and Shan could tell he thought so, too. They had their first collaborative song.
A week later, the whole band was working on their second one. As they practiced, the morning rain struck a staccato rhythm against the cast-iron exterior of Shan’s building. It was loud, but seemed only a backbeat to the music pounding inside the loft.
You’ve got to be tough, you learn to be mean
If you’re making your home in the big city streets
You give up your spirit but live on your dreams
When you have to survive in the big city heat
When Quinn raised his hand, the metal tempo ground to a halt. “Not bad,” he said over the rain. “It’s coming together pretty well.”
Shan tapped her fingers on the neck of her Peavey. “The arrangement is fine, but those lyrics need work.”
“You wrote most of them,” he reminded her, an edge creeping into his tone.
“I know. Now I’m thinking the song should end with a more positive message.”
“The lyrics are fine. In a metal tune, the music is what matters anyway.”
“The lyrics are just as important,” Shan insisted, “and I think they’re too dark.”
Quinn snorted as Ty heaved a deep sigh. “I didn’t realize we were going for social commentary here. Who are you, Joni fucking Mitchell, like you call your guitar?”
“Don’t knock Joni,” Shan said, as Dan rose from the drum kit and collapsed onto the pile of floor pillows. “She brings social issues into a public arena, unlike your heroes who are all form and no content.”
“Like who?” he challenged.
“Like Rick fucking Wakeman,” she shot back.
Dan sat up and flung a pillow through the air, whacking Quinn squarely in the face before he could respond. “Will the two of you please shut the hell up?” he roared.
It was such an uncharacteristic outburst from mellow Dan that both Shan and Quinn were startled into laughter. Dan wrapped another pillow around his head with a groan.
Ty set his Fender Jazz aside and cleared his throat. “It’s time we set some new ground rules.”
Quinn regarded him dubiously. “What do you mean new rules?”
“You’re spending too much time debating every fucking thing. We’re supposed to be practicing. That’s why we call it band practice.”
“We’re the ones coming up with the tunes you’re so excited about,” Quinn said.
“Q’s right,” Shan chimed in. “We’re doing the work. All you have to do is learn the songs.”
Dan sighed. “You know, I’ve noticed that it seems to be just fine for the two of you to insult each other, but if me or Ty state a different opinion, then one of you immediately jumps in to defend the other one. How is that fair?” Quinn shrugged and Shan thrust her chin out, frowning.
Ty tried again. “Look, we’re not saying anything negative about the music. It’s the balls—we’re all in agreement there. It’s your method that needs to change.”
“Ty’s exactly right,” Dan said. “When we’re together, we should be concentrating on learning the new material. There’s four of us, remember? It isn’t just the O’Hara-Marshall show.”
Shan’s eyes went huge with guilty realization. “I’m sorry. I never thought of it that way.”
“I’m not sorry,” Quinn said disagreeably. “The music we’re turning out benefits all of us, and you two”—he pointed at Dan and Ty—“are blocking.”
“Can’t we just go back to the way we handled your writing before? He always had it finished before he played it for us,” Ty told Shan.
“But we’re bringing it to you as
we go along so you can be part of the process,” Shan said. “This way, the whole band is contributing.”
“They contribute plenty after the songs are written,” Quinn said, “and that’s how it should be. You were the one who insisted on a group love fest, which I knew would turn into a cluster fuck.”
“But don’t you think it’s better if we all work together?” Shan persisted, ignoring Quinn. “It’s a more organic way of writing and then the songs belong to all of us, not just me and Quinn.”
“You two are having enough trouble collaborating just with each other,” Dan said. “If all four of us are involved, we won’t get anything done at all.”
“Right,” Ty said, “so let’s drink on it. All composing takes place outside of band practice. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Quinn said immediately. Shan nodded reluctantly and, as a clink of bottles carried the motion, she swiped a hand across her eyes. They were a little watery and she was perspiring, too. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Dan waited until she left the room, then leaned forward to fix Quinn with an evil grin. “Hey, Mr. Footloose,” he whispered, “who’s pussy whipped now?”
Quinn’s face turned to granite. “Certainly not me.”
“Bullshit,” Dan jeered as Ty chuckled. “I can’t believe the shit that little girl gives you. And you’re not even fucking her!”
Quinn scowled. He didn’t have a good comeback, because he definitely did put up with more shit from Shan than he’d ever put up with from anyone else, male or female. Dan’s barbs were right on, which made them supremely irritating.
Not that he was whipped, he assured himself as Shan came back, now dry-eyed and composed. Pussy struck, maybe, but not pussy whipped. There was a difference. A big one.
Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) Page 8
