Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  That irritated her. Why was it up to him to decide which ride she went on? Why was every decision always up to him? “You could have asked me first.”

  “Why?” He shrugged. “I knew you’d hate Space Mountain. It’s a roller coaster.”

  “Maybe I like roller coasters,” she said although she did, in fact, hate them. They made her sick, a weakness with which he was well acquainted since she’d thrown up on him once when they rode the Cyclone together after a gig at Coney Island. “Couldn’t you at least give me the courtesy of deciding for myself?”

  He stiffened. “Fine,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Let’s go on Space Mountain, then. Did I mention that it’s high speed and entirely in the dark?”

  Shan’s stomach flipped over. “No, this is fine. I just don’t appreciate you dragging me off without even consulting me.”

  “Well, I wanted a chance to talk to you privately. What is your problem today?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” she said coldly as the line inched forward.

  “Yes, you do. Your face is about as subtle as a signal fire, Shan.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her lips together.

  “Okay. Be miserable, then,” he said dismissively. “Just don’t try to bring me down along with you. We’re at Disneyland, for Chrissake. It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “That’s right,” she agreed, “and you’re ruining my fun.”

  “I’m not doing a damned thing. You’re the one acting like a spoiled brat.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” she snapped. The lady in line in front of them turned around and glared at Shan, who flushed apologetically. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Infant,” Quinn snorted, not quite under his breath.

  They maintained a mutual mute hostility, standing side by side without looking at each other for the next forty-five minutes, which was how long it took them to get through the line. Shan wasn’t about to admit it, but Quinn was right, the attraction was really cool. Even waiting in the line was cool, because it wound past an atmospheric graveyard filled with elaborate headstones and sculptures of ravens and gargoyles. Tendrils of Spanish moss trailed down from the cyprus trees, brushing her hair when she passed underneath.

  Once inside the mansion it became even cooler, with eerie, single-note organ music, shifty-eyed portraits, and a mysterious grandfather clock striking the hour thirteen. The sonorous tones of someone called the Ghost Host narrated their progression through the spooky manse.

  A sudden clap of thunder made Shan catch her breath. The lights went out and a delicious shiver ran down her spine when she saw a skeleton dangling from a noose overhead, illuminated by flashes of lightning. Seconds later she jumped when the room resounded with a bloodcurdling scream. Oh, this is super cool, she thought, her spirits beginning to lift for the first time all day.

  When they stepped back into the murky light, it was onto a moving platform shrouded in mist. “I thought we’d never get through that line,” she said to Quinn, breaking their taciturnity.

  “I’ll pass your complaints on to the management,” he said and, when she looked at him, she saw that he was still seething. “Anything else you’d like to bitch about?”

  Shan pointed her nose in the air. “No,” she said, climbing aboard the little black car apparently called a doom buggy. “I really don’t have to say anything at all.”

  “Fine. Go back to the silent treatment you’ve been giving me all day,” he said, getting in alongside her. They were private cars, so they could continue their argument uninterrupted as they were transported into the dark interior.

  “I haven’t been giving you the silent treatment.”

  “Yes, you have, and I’m sick and tired of it. Why can’t you just grow up and tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I’m nervous, all right?” she blurted. “This gig is too big for us, Quinn, and you should have cleared it with the rest of us before you booked it!”

  “I knew that was it.” He slapped his hand against his thigh. “I knew it! You’re wigging yourself out and it’s made you crazy!”

  “I’m not wigging out,” she lied. “I’m mad!”

  “I never consult any of you when I book a gig, so don’t try and bullshit me. You are wigging and that shit ends right now. You get it together, Shan. Fast.”

  The doom buggy was carrying them past spectacular creepy displays. There were rattling suits of armor, a ghostly teapot pouring ectoplasmic tea, and a flock of holographic ghost couples waltzing through the air alongside them. The special effects were staggering, like nothing she’d ever seen, but Shan was too upset to enjoy any of it.

  “You’re right,” she said in a shaky voice. “I’m not even mad, really. I’m terrified.” She made a sound of panic. “This is totally out of my league.”

  “No, it isn’t. Just relax, before you freak yourself out.”

  “I’m already freaking out!” she cried. Somebody in a neighboring car called to her to shut up so she lowered her voice, but it still shook. “This is huge, Q. Huge. It could change our lives. This could be our shot and you know what you said before, about being ready? What if I’m not?”

  “You are.” She shook her head. “Even if you aren’t,” he continued, “sometimes you have to just jump. This is what we’ve been working for, so don’t fuck it up.”

  She made a low moan. He put his arm around her and she shifted closer, to bury her face in his shoulder. “I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you,” he said softly. “You’re so fucking amazing.”

  His nearness worked as a tonic, soothing her, and she could feel her trembling begin to still. “You’re so talented,” he murmured. “So special and so beautiful. There’s a light that shines out of you, angel, so bright I think it’ll blind me. Sometimes it does.”

  She experienced a wave of tenderness powerful enough to overcome the other emotions, the ones that had held her captive all day. “I…I think I’m okay now,” she said, flustered. “Yes, I’m better. Definitely. Thanks, Q. I’m sorry for being such a basket case.”

  She raised her head from his shoulder to give him a contrite peck on the cheek, but he turned his head so she encountered his mouth. Their lips met. And held.

  It was no peck, this kiss. It was deep and sweet and sensual, like their kisses before The Act had been. Shan could dimly hear the monologue of the Ghost Host issuing from the speaker behind her head, the haunting voice nearly obscured by the pounding in her ears, and then she felt Quinn’s tongue in her mouth.

  She wasn’t prepared for this now, today, and she pulled away, alarmed. “Wait,” she began, but his lips clamped down again, smothering her words.

  His mouth was like a drug and she surrendered to it, matching his ardor, kissing him again and again with an absolute abandon. He was brushing his lips over her hair, her neck, kissing any part of her that his lips came in contact with. She felt high on his taste, his scent.

  Shan opened her eyes as a shaft of light appeared. Quinn was still dappling her face with fierce, burning kisses, now the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the bridge of her nose.

  “The ride,” she said, her voice shaking again, “is over.”

  He released her and as they rolled into the light. She ran her tongue over her lips, swollen and tender now, and snuck a surreptitious glance at Quinn. He was staring straight ahead, silent and pensive.

  When their doom buggy came abreast of the rolling platform, he disembarked first, then turned back to offer her his hand. “Time to jump,” he said. “Ready?”

  chapter 30

  “Ready?” Quinn asked, leaning close to look into her eyes.

  Shan took a deep breath and nodded. Quinntessence was scheduled to go on at eight. It was nearly that now and they were charged up, in tune, and ready to play.

  While there was no actual stage in Club 33, a riser had been installed in the northeast corner of a private function room. The gear was in place, although very little of it belonged to either them or
Valentine. They had their guitars, but the rest was provided by the club: an elegant Pearl drum kit much nicer than Dan’s Ludwigs, a Kurzweil even higher end than Quinn’s, and an imposing Marshall stack that made the guitar players salivate.

  If the equipment was impressive, the venue was overwhelming. They’d been transported to the present room via an antique elevator, a magnificent brass and glass contraption that the hostess referred to as a “French lift.” Upstairs the club was resplendent, appointed with dark wood, crystal chandeliers, and Victorian antiques. Quinn was particularly captivated by a graceful harpsichord, which had reportedly been played by both Paul McCartney and Elton John. Even the restrooms were over-the-top sumptuous, equipped with gilded and caned toilets suitable for Cinderella herself. The club was bedecked for the holidays in greenery and red velvet, poinsettias, and shimmering lights. The effect was magical.

  The lingering aromas of chateaubriand and butternut bisque made Shan’s stomach growl, although they’d been treated to a perfectly delicious meal at the Cajun restaurant next door. The staff were clearing away the remnants of the feast, galloping about in a fashion that reminded her of the waiters in Hello Dolly!, which she’d seen on TV the week before.

  As expected, Quinn’s folks were in attendance. George greeted her warmly, but Quinn’s mother’s nostrils flared in dislike even as she critically eyed Shan’s attire, a bright red and green tie-dye print with a handkerchief hem that floated when she moved.

  Shan took up her guitar as Quinntessence prepared to take the stage, but she was distracted by a stir in the corridor outside the dining hall.

  Ty nudged her. “Valentine,” he whispered. When a flash of platinum hair and black lace confirmed that the headliners had arrived, Shan turned to Quinn, her eyes wide.

  He frowned. “If you start to panic, I want you to sing to me, just to me. I don’t even care if you have to turn your back on the audience. Pretend we’re at home, singing together.”

  His gaze was so intense it hurt her to look into it. She turned her own eyes away to fasten the strap of her Peavey around her shoulders. When she looked up, Quinn was still watching her.

  “Life comes down to a few moments. This is one of them. You’re ready?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded.

  He reached for her chin, cupping it in his hand, and briefly traced her lower lip with his thumb. It felt like a kiss. “Time to jump, then. Make me proud, angel.”

  Flash your smile, the magic charm

  That shelters me from certain harm

  I’m coming back to your loving arms

  They’re home to me, baby

  The only home I ever knew

  Shan struggled to maintain the harmony that she and Quinn usually achieved so effortlessly. Her voice was traitorous and she could hear herself scooping on the high notes as he doggedly stretched his range to match her uneven vocals.

  As they came to the end of “Shelter Me,” she glanced at Quinn. He smiled, with an encouraging nod, and inwardly she cringed. She must have sounded pretty damned bad to get that kind of a response out of him. He rarely signified approval when they were onstage, even when she was at her best.

  They were playing a short set, thirty minutes, all originals. For this performance Quinn had chosen not only their very best tunes but those that would showcase the skills of each individual band member. Everyone had solos, although the set was heavy with Quinn’s keyboards and Shan’s guitar.

  Shan timidly checked out the audience as Quinn commenced the opening roll of notes of “Voluntary Exile.” It was a relatively small group to be so intimidating, fewer than a hundred people. She’d played bigger crowds by herself, but the number didn’t really matter. It was who they were that counted.

  She looked over at the table where Brandon Terry presided. He looked in his late sixties, balding, a big man with a belly. His elegant suit was rumpled and he had the benevolent air of a grandfather, utterly at odds with his powerhouse reputation.

  Terry was an industry legend, having founded the juggernaut Cardinal Records and presided over it for thirty years. The label had been born in the 1960s, when it played a pivotal role in the psychedelic rock movement, and since then had been a musical groundbreaker. Terry was a true innovator and over the years his artists had generated literally hundreds of hit records. Over 60 percent of Cardinal releases consistently made the national charts, Quinn had told them, an awesome figure in the bottom-line-driven world of popular music.

  He was watching, but didn’t seem particularly impressed. She knew he had an eye for female rockers; he’d been the one to pluck Valentine out of obscurity and steer them to their current pinnacle. There was no telling what he could do for Quinntessence, should he choose to.

  The mere thought made her stomach jitter again. She tore her eyes from Brandon Terry, then found herself staring at Judith Marshall Merrick. Quinn had told her that tonight would be the first time in more than five years that his mother would see him perform live and she was transfixed. Her eyes, glued to her son, even looked a little misty.

  Then Judith was looking at her and her expression changed, eyes narrowing. Her lips moved. Do something! she seemed to be saying to Shan.

  Oh, screw you, too! Shan’s lip raised in a sneer.

  She grabbed on to that feeling and plunged into “Voluntary Exile” without a thought except to blow away that ball-busting bitch. She sang with something closer to her usual intensity and shot another glance at Judith. Her raised eyebrows signified approval, an expression so like Quinn’s that Shan nearly laughed. She’d caught her attention and, just past her, Shan saw she also had caught the eye of Brandon Terry.

  Shan’s throat tightened as she was flooded with a panic attack of major proportions. Her hands shook. How was she supposed to form chords when all feeling had mysteriously vanished from her fingertips? As she struggled to regain her composure, she suddenly remembered Quinn’s words. Sing to me, he’d said. Just to me.

  She swiveled and fixed her eyes on his, willing away the club, the crowd, and especially the music mogul seated just a couple of tables over. Her surroundings gradually dissolved until all she could see was Quinn and she sang to him just like he’d told her to. It was a torcher, one of her favorites of his originals, and she performed it with a visceral intensity as she went into its chorus.

  It’s my way

  It’s my voice

  And, though it hurts

  It’s my choice

  When they finished, the audience was silent for a beat before they broke into a hearty wave of applause and then Quinn was swinging into the next song, “Big City Heat,” a perfect showcase for his own considerable vocal chops. The song’s chorus took his rich tenor into the stratosphere, while the arrangement incorporated some flashy drum licks, a thundering bass line, and a blistering guitar solo that Shan played like Yngwie Malmsteen.

  After “City Heat” won even more enthusiastic plaudits, Quinntessence segued into “Echo Flats,” which spotlighted Dave’s lively tremolos, and then it was time for their finale. The last song was always the most critical and, when they swung into “The Only Perfect One,” Shan was more than ready. She switched guitars, taking up the Angel, and launched into the rollicking melody that invariably enticed their audience out of their seats.

  Prince-in-training at the beach building dreams out of the sand

  Up rose a mighty fortress shaped by his own hands

  But at the eleventh hour the waves of war rolled in

  Smashed his dream to hell and took it back again

  The only really perfect one

  Is the one that got away

  As always the song made her gyrate. Her dress was perfect to accentuate her lithe movements as she pranced, whirled, and shimmied around the stage. By the time she reached the final verse, the entire place was on their feet, grooving along with her.

  They took their bows to thunderous applause, but had to clear out fast to make way for Valentine. Flushed and vibrating with grat
ification, Shan swept a low curtsy at the audience, then hurried offstage with the Angel. As she did, she ran smack into another guitarist. When their instruments brushed with a jangle of strings, she stepped back, but her apology froze on her lips.

  Carole Grayson was smiling at her, signature black Rickenbacker in her hands. “Fab,” she pronounced in a clipped British twang. “Nicely done, sister.”

  Shan, unable to form a single word, just stepped back to let her pass. She turned around to watch and encountered Quinn, looking dazed but grinning from ear to ear.

  “Fucking-A fab,” he said. Then he grabbed her, hugging her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  Valentine’s performance lasted until close to midnight, at which point the audience dispersed for the final event of the evening, fireworks over Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Some people went to the balcony to watch, but Shan escaped down the stairs into New Orleans Square.

  There were few people there, the throngs having massed around the river for the show, but there were still too many for her overwrought state of mind. She made her way into a small courtyard that was charming, brick and pastel stucco with a spiral staircase painted periwinkle blue, and thankfully deserted. She lingered there, grasping at the brief moment of solitude.

  “You okay?”

  She turned to find that Quinn had followed her. “Yeah. Just a little…overwhelmed. I needed a minute, that’s all.”

  He nodded. “I get that. Would you rather I left you alone?” She shook her head, sat down on the periwinkle steps, and patted the spot beside her.

  He joined her on the steps and they sat together in companionable silence for a few minutes. “I wonder if New Orleans really looks this way,” she remarked after a time, looking through the brick archway that led into the square.