Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  She settled down on the pillows next to Quinn. “They’re right,” she said to him, “and I feel terrible. I never meant to act that way.”

  “You’re hanging out too much with Quinntila here,” Dan said, “and you’re picking up his bad habits.”

  “Not much chance of that,” she assured him, “unless I acquire a taste for inflatable blondes.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I never said I was opposed to an occasional brunette.”

  He loved her curly hair and was always ruffling the shiny locks playfully. There was one little curl in particular that fascinated him. It dangled down her forehead just over her right eyebrow. Even when she pulled the rest of her hair into a braid, that one curl escaped defiantly.

  He grabbed that little curl now and gave it a tug, but she tossed her head to yank it out of his grasp. “I’m not your type,” she said. “You’re just as rigid with your women as you are with your music.”

  “I’m all for equal opportunity, though.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Ty chortled, “especially when you’re rigid.”

  Quinn rose and flipped the cover over his keyboard.

  “Are we stopping?” Ty asked.

  “Might as well. You’ve completely destroyed my concentration.” Quinn dropped to his haunches to wind up the power cable to his Kurzweil. His T-shirt slipped out of the back of his jeans, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. Shan stared, transfixed.

  “Give it a break,” Dan said. “We’ve been at it three and a half hours already. Don’t want to get stale, right?”

  Quinn laughed. “Right.” He stood back up, and turned to check the clock. “What do you want to do about dinner?” He looked at Shan.

  She quickly pulled her eyes up to his face. “You read my mind.”

  “Why, you cooking?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nope. I’m not a den mother. How about Chinese?”

  “You’ll never make a good wife,” he told her. “You rely too much on take-out.”

  “So do you. I’ve never eaten so much pizza in my life.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to be a wife,” he said with conviction. “Or get one, either.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “Why should I have to cook some guy’s food?”

  “I like the Chinese idea,” Dan said. “But I’d rather go out. How about if I call Denise and tell her to meet us at Big Wong?”

  “Speaking of wives,” Quinn snorted. “Works for me, as long as you keep the missus at the other end of the table.”

  Shan rolled her eyes. “Yes, call her,” she told Dan, ignoring Quinn.

  Later that night, they came back to the loft for a coaching session. Quinn assumed his customary position on the futon while Shan stood in front of a mic stand with her hand on her diaphragm. He watched her mouth formation as she began the scales.

  As her lips shifted position with each note, he noticed again how lush and sensual they were. Watching them positioned against the cylindrical mic led him to idly wonder how they’d feel pressed against another cylindrical piece of equipment.

  His erection was instantaneous. And obvious, he realized with dismay. If she happened to glance up, she couldn’t help but see that he was standing at full attention.

  Abruptly, he rolled over on his stomach and tore his gaze away from her mouth. Instead he concentrated on her breathing. It was a hot night and she was dressed in a cropped white tank that stopped just above her navel. Her hand was resting over her diaphragm and, with each breath, the thin material tightened over her chest.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Suddenly his jeans felt two sizes too small. He had to get out of that stifling little room before he grabbed her and let her have it, right there on the convenient futon.

  Shan broke off in the middle of a ti note. “Are you all right?” she asked, with some concern. He’d broken out in a sweat and his face was flushed.

  “Fine.” He rolled off the futon and scrambled to his feet.

  “Are we stopping?” she asked as he stalked into the living room.

  “Yes, we’re stopping,” he said testily, snatching up a stack of sheet music and positioning it strategically in front of his groin. “I’m done coaching you. I have better things to do than listen to you sing the goddamn scales.”

  Shan drew back, stung. “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem is that I’m sick and tired of being cooped up in this goddamn place and I’m sick and tired of you, too.”

  Shan watched, openmouthed, as he stomped out of the loft, slamming the door behind him.

  Quinn was preoccupied during the subway ride from SoHo to his sublet in the East Village. When he switched to the F train at Washington Square, someone sat next to him and he didn’t even notice.

  He jumped when an elbow nudged him and when he turned, he discovered his neighbor Steve Markowitz. Steve was doing his residency at a clinic over near St. Vincent’s and Quinn had gotten to know him a little when he’d gone to have a suspicious burning sensation checked out. He had an absolute horror of STDs and was relieved when Steve diagnosed a minor urinary tract infection.

  “I said hi,” Steve said, “but you seemed lost in thought.”

  Quinn shrugged. “Long day.” He liked Steve. During his visit to the clinic, he’d gotten the third degree regarding sexual history and the young doctor had been taken aback at the number scribbled under partners. “As a doctor, I’m appalled,” Steve had told him. “As a man, I want to know your secret.”

  They both disembarked at east Eighth Street. “I’ve had a long one, too,” Steve admitted. “Think I’ll stop for a beer. Want to join me?”

  He indicated a tavern on the corner of Astor Place. Two women were getting out of a cab in front. One was a tall blonde, but it was the other woman who caught Quinn’s eye—a petite brunette with curly hair almost the same color as Shan’s.

  “Sure,” he said and followed Steve into the tavern.

  chapter 10

  Just as Shan slipped the tooter into her mouth, someone rapped on her bedroom door. She jumped, stuffing the foil back in the drawer and slamming it shut. “Yes?”

  “You almost ready?” Quinn’s voice. “Time to get moving.”

  “Be right there!” She waited until she heard him move away before retrieving the foil. She finished the hit, then reached for a bottle of Visine to camouflage the redness in her eyes.

  “Just in time to watch us finish packing,” Dan teased when she came into the living room “Just leaving it to us roadies, huh?”

  “She always hauls her share,” Ty defended her. “Besides, she looks real cute.”

  Quinn was carefully fitting the microphones into a cushioned box. There were a dozen of them, Beyerdynamic and Sennheiser. Shan had learned that they were specially ordered and quite expensive. The band had purchased them the year before at Quinn’s insistence. They had another set of mics, as well, perfectly respectable Shures, but Quinn was a stickler about sound equipment. “It doesn’t matter how well we play if the sound is bad,” he’d lectured, more than once.

  When Quinn finished arranging the mics, he glanced at Shan. “That new?”

  “Yeah. What do you think?” She spun to model her violet slip dress. It was almost sheer, decorated with beaded fringes that gave it a twenties flair, and she’d acquired a pair of sexy spike heels to go with it. Her hair fanned out as she turned, revealing that the dress was backless. Ty whistled and Quinn slid a hand beneath her curls to run his fingers across her bare back.

  “Hey!” She leapt away. “No groping!” Every so often, he’d slip out of his usual nonchalance and flirt playfully with her. She found it disconcerting, to say the least.

  “You’d better not turn your back on me, then. That little number is way too hot.” He began fingering the row of fringes that adorned her neckline.

  Denise came out of her bedroom, resplendent in pink pleather and black mesh, and frowned when she saw Quinn’s hand on her roommate. “Go slo
bber on someone else,” she told him, catching hold of Shan’s arm and tugging her out of his reach.

  The guys began inching the stack of equipment toward the door. Shan took up two of the guitar cases and waited while Denise gave her spiky red hair a last spritz. Together they descended the stairs. “You must be getting sick of hearing the same songs night after night,” Shan said.

  “A little, but Dan likes it when I come. Besides,” Denise added, “it’s entertaining to see what Quinn plans to drag home.”

  “He never takes any of them home, remember? He always goes to their places, so he can get up and leave when he’s done.”

  Denise wrinkled her nose. “God, he’s disgusting!”

  As they reached the street, Shan noticed that Denise was still grimacing with distaste. “You really do hate him, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Denise said.

  “Why?” Shan asked curiously. “I know Quinn can be tough to take sometimes, but your reaction seems way extreme. I mean, he’s never done anything to you, has he?”

  “I still can’t stand him,” Denise snapped, her face flushing. “He’s such a dick, so rude and self-centered and full of himself.” She scowled down at the ground, tracing the curb with the toe of her strappy sandal. “I wish he’d go back to Boston and stay away from us, because—”

  She broke off in midsentence and her blue eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Shan said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s mutual, you know,” Denise sniffed. “He hates me just as much as I hate him.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t true,” Shan said although she wasn’t, entirely. Quinn and Denise sniped at each other constantly, a fact that had become even more apparent since he’d been spending so much time at their apartment. She’d noticed it was always Denise who started it, though.

  “Yes it is,” Denise swiped at her eyes. “Quinn despises me and he doesn’t like that I’m with Dan, either. He seems to think I’m going to pull a Yoko and break up the band, but I’d never do that. I’m behind Dan one hundred percent, because he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” she concluded with a sob, “so of course I have to go to every gig. Quinn always has so many girls hanging around him. That means they’re hanging around Dan, too.”

  Shan pulled a tissue out of her bag to wipe the dots of mascara from under Denise’s eyes. “Oh, Denise, Dan adores you. Anyone can see that. I’ve never seen him even look at another girl.”

  “Well, I still worry.” Denise took the tissue and mopped her eyes. “Why can’t Quinn just get himself a real girlfriend? Then he’d be more like a normal person instead of a slut magnet.”

  Shan laughed. “You’d better not count on that.”

  “I won’t.” Her eyes shot over Shan’s shoulder. Quinn was coming down the stairs, laden with a stack of equipment. Her face hardened. “Just fuck ’em and forget ’em. That’s all he can handle.”

  “Talking about me again?” Quinn inquired. “You’re way too interested in my sex life, Denise. Does Danny maybe need a little instruction?” He smirked at her, but his grin evaporated when he saw the traces of her tears. “Hey, are you all right?”

  “None of your business,” Denise snapped. “Fuck off, Quinn.”

  He drew back, startled. “I’m just trying to…I mean, you look upset.”

  “Since when have you cared?” He frowned and opened his mouth to respond. “Just shut up and stay out of my face.” She turned her back on him, climbing into the van and slamming the door behind her.

  He looked at Shan. “What’d I do this time?” he asked, clearly mystified.

  Shan shook her head. What was up with this? she wondered, then reached for the cymbal case that topped the pile of equipment in his arms. “Here, let me help with that.”

  By the time they got to the club, Denise seemed to have recovered. When they arrived, Quinn jumped out of the van and glanced around doubtfully. “What a crummy neighborhood.”

  Shan slowly climbed out behind him. Crummy was an understatement. The Fuego Club was on 111th Street, right in the heart of Spanish Harlem. Jorge lived just a couple of blocks away. She hadn’t seen any sign of him since that night, but to be this close made her uneasy.

  The entrance to the club was between a dilapidated liquor store and a market with the word Jódete! spray-painted across its pull-down metal door. There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk. tonight, it proclaimed in blue chalk, quingentésimo.

  Shan pointed at the sign. “Doesn’t that mean ‘fiftieth’?”

  “I think it means ‘five hundredth,’” Ty replied, and looked to Quinn for confirmation.

  Quinn was glaring at Dan. “It’s a happening spot,” Dan said as he started extracting the drum kit from the back of the van.

  There was a group of seedy-looking characters milling in front, waiting for the doors to open. Shan recognized a couple of them from Jorge’s place. She knew them only by their street names, White Julio and T-Bone. White Julio had a distinctly Native American cast to his features, so she had no idea how he’d earned his name. T-Bone at least was tall and skeletal, with limp hair and watery eyes. She remembered seeing him the last time she’d been at Desperado’s.

  She took the guitars then lingered, waiting for Quinn and Dan. “Yo, Shan,” T-Bone said. He stretched his lips in a gap-toothed junkie smile.

  Shan nodded briefly, running her tongue over her own teeth, and hurried down the steps into the club behind Quinn and Dan. “Friend of yours?” Quinn asked.

  “Acquaintance,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. He looked dubious, but made no further comment. He proceeded down the stairs, which led to a corridor. Dan disappeared into a room marked oficio and Shan followed Quinn through the set of doors that led into the club. They went to the stage where Quinn deposited the pile of equipment before surveying the interior.

  It was startlingly bright, a cavernous space lit by stark fluorescents that Shan hoped would be dimmed when they went onstage. The place had the look of a warehouse, with a cement floor and concrete walls coated with layer upon layer of sprayed-on graffiti. It smelled like an old basement, musty and damp, laced with the fumes of ammonia, cigarettes, and stale beer.

  When Dan appeared, Quinn lit into him. “This place,” he declared, “is a dump. You are never to book us again unless you check with me first.”

  “You wait. It’ll be packed by ten,” Dan said. “We’ll make a bundle.”

  “That’s not the point. When you book a gig, you have to consider the quality of the venue.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Dan shot back. “I thought this was about making money.” Denise nodded vigorously, slipping her hand through Dan’s arm and glaring at Quinn.

  “It’s not only about money,” Quinn said, ignoring Denise. “It’s about image, too.”

  “Salsa clubs are hot these days,” Ty said, but Dan looked crestfallen.

  “Great,” Quinn said. “We’ll play the one Santana tune that we know over and over, all night long.”

  Ty tried again. “Look, we’re here. Can we just play the gig?”

  Quinn grumbled under his breath, but pulled out a handful of microphone cables.

  By the time they finished setting up, the club had begun to fill. To Shan’s relief, the fluorescents were shut off once they took the stage, replaced by softer illumination augmented by a strobe show. The flashing lights made the spray-painted walls shimmer, which Shan thought looked pretty cool. She had to admit the place wasn’t all that bad, even with the stink.

  Quinn turned out to be right about the crowd, though. They danced, but with a lack of enthusiasm that indicated a clear dissatisfaction with the music. They wanted Latin sound and the Quinntessence brand of hard rock did little to get them fired up. They liked the Santana cover that the band managed to jam on for a full twenty minutes and Shan got them grooving during a sprightly rendition of “Iko Iko,” but, aside from those moments, it was a thoroughly
uninspired night.

  They finished to spotty applause and the whole band was despondent as they broke down their equipment. “I told you,” Quinn said to Dan.

  “We made a bunch of money,” Dan said, “just like I told you.”

  “But the crowd hated us. None of these people will ever come hear us again,” Quinn said. “If they talk about us at all, it’ll be ‘Quinntessence? Oh yeah, they were that band that sucked at Fuego.’”

  “Don’t cha mean ‘Quingentésimo’?” Ty snickered.

  Shan stayed out of it. She finished packing her guitars, then busied herself putting the mics away. She closed and latched the lid, then turned to the audio cables.

  When she was done, she had a neat pile of items to be carried out to the van. She glanced around for Quinn and saw him at the bar hitting on some fake-blond Latina. Ty and Denise were outside and Dan was puffing up the stairs with the snare drum. Shan slid her purse over her arm, took up the mic box, and went out to the corridor that led to the exit.

  Just as she reached the stairs, someone grabbed her, hard. Before she could react, she’d been dragged into a room marked hombres. She blinked in the brighter light, then froze. The mic box slipped out of her hand, dropping to the floor with a thunk.

  Jorge had her by the arm, his lips twisted in an ugly sneer. “I been on the lookout for you.”

  Shan didn’t respond. She felt herself shaking and knew he could feel it, too.

  “Nobody’s seen you in so long I thought maybe you took off,” he said, “but then my man T-Bone told me he seen you playing here tonight.”

  She found her voice. “Jorge, I know I owe you money.”

  “You bet your sweet ass you do, querida.” He gave her arm a painful squeeze.

  “I can give you some of it now. Here.” She fumbled at her purse with her free hand, pulling out the wad of bills that was her cut from tonight. “It’s almost four hundred. I know it’s not enough, but—”

  “No, it ain’t.” He pocketed it anyway. “You owe me another two grand.” His fingers were like a vice around her wrist. She could feel her bones grinding together.