Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  After the show, he hurried back and caught her as she was gathering her things.

  He hesitated. He still didn’t know what the fuck to say to her. “Can we talk?”

  “No,” she said, snapping her guitar case shut. “I have a plane to catch.”

  “You’re leaving?” His words caught in his throat. “Now?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to be away from Angie any longer than I have to.” She collected a couple of packets of strings and stuffed them into her backpack.

  “Well, I’ll go with you. We’re wrapped up here, so—”

  “No,” she said sharply. “I don’t want you with me.”

  Quinn frowned. “You have a right to be pissed, but don’t blow this out of proportion.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not.” She gathered up her things.

  He grabbed her arm. “Shan, you have to at least talk to me!” She shook his hand off and moved toward the door, but he was past her in a flash, holding it closed. “Don’t leave. Please?”

  She whipped her head around. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Quinn. Quite frankly, the sight of you is making me sick.”

  Her green eyes were icy. Over the years, those eyes had radiated a whole spectrum of emotions in his direction. He’d seen them blazing with anger and wide with fear. He’d seen them sparkling with joy and liquid with passion. He’d seen them tender with love, but he’d never once seen the emotion emanating from them now.

  They were narrowed with hatred.

  Did she really hate him? How could she? He let his hand fall away from the door.

  “I fucked up,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, angel,”

  She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “I’m going. Don’t follow me.”

  He didn’t, just stood to the side and let her pass.

  Quinn stayed on the bus, although he could easily have flown to LA. since they had a three-day break before they were due in San Francisco. When he called home, Shan refused to speak to him. “She told me to tell you not to come home,” Oda reported. “She says she won’t let you in the house.”

  “How bad is she?”

  “Bad,” Oda said. “You really fucked up this time, Quinn.”

  He stayed away to give her some space, but phoned every few hours. She continued to refuse his calls and he didn’t see his wife again until she appeared just before they were scheduled to go onstage in San Francisco. She looked through him as if he wasn’t there.

  When they hit the stage, they started off with “Big City Heat” and Quinn hit a wrong note, on the climb. He floundered for a moment, struggling to recapture his rhythm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ty glance at him sharply.

  He made another mistake. Two in one song? That was unheard of, for him. He brought his mouth to the mic and paused, waiting for Dan’s drum roll to conclude. He inhaled.

  And froze.

  He couldn’t remember the lyrics.

  Even as his brain blanked out, his hands took over and moved the music away and back toward the bridge. The rest of them stumbled, then caught up with him.

  He brought his mouth back to the mic. It was just a momentary glitch. He’d cowritten the song. He’d sung it a thousand times. How could he possibly forget the words?

  Except he had. His mind was completely blank.

  A surge of panic gripped him as the music again approached the vocal cue. He shot a pleading look at Shan, with an almost undetectable shake of his head.

  She immediately brought her mouth to her mic. “You’ve got to be tough…”

  She had his back. Thank God. She was always there.

  After the show he hurried backstage to find her, but she’d vanished like air. He headed for her dressing room, where the door was opened by a plump middle-aged man in a windbreaker. “Mr. Quinn Marshall?”

  “Yes,” Quinn replied, looking over the man’s shoulder into the room. It was empty.

  The man handed him a long manila envelope. “For you.” He bobbed his head. “Have a good evening, Mr. Marshall.” He waddled off, past Dan who was just coming down the hall.

  “She gone?”

  “I think so,” Quinn frowned.

  “She had a car waiting, I think. I guess she hasn’t calmed down yet. You can’t really blame her,” he admonished gently. Quinn didn’t respond, just followed him into the greenroom. Ty was in there, too, just cracking a beer.

  “What’s that?” Dan asked, nodding at the envelope in Quinn’s hand.

  Quinn glanced down at the envelope, which he’d forgotten about. He dropped into a chair and tore it open as Dave came in.

  “What the fuck was up with you tonight, Q?” Dave asked, helping himself to a brew, as well. Quinn didn’t reply. He was staring at the papers he’d pulled out of the envelope. “Good thing Shan was there to bail your ass out.” He glanced around. “Where is she?”

  Quinn had a document in each hand and was looking from one to the other. “Gone.”

  “Already? She must have lit out of here quick,” Ty said. “Is your kid okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she, scared to face us? There’s a settlement. It’s not the end of the world, even though it’s going to cost us a pretty penny.” Quinn didn’t respond and Ty frowned. “What’s up, Q? A little trouble in paradise?”

  “You might say that.” Quinn looked up. His eyes were terrible. “In fact, I think paradise just got wiped out by an A-bomb.” He dropped the bundle of papers on the table, grabbed his jacket, and disappeared without another word.

  “Hey,” Ty called as the door swung shut. He looked at Dan, who was looking after Quinn with a troubled countenance. “You know, I think I’m missing something here.”

  Dan reached out and picked up the packet of papers from the table. His brow furrowed. “A summons? Are we getting sued, after all?” He flipped it over and gaped. “Holy shit!”

  “What?”

  Dan held up the document so Ty could see the title.

  Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

  chapter 45

  Shan woke with a scream still on her lips. Quinn had moved out nearly a month before, but now another demon shared her bed. She woke screaming nearly every night, filled not only with nameless terror, but a painful, wrenching sense of isolation.

  In the next room, Angie began to cry.

  Terror was edged aside by guilt and self-reproach as Shan got out of bed. The nightly screams were traumatizing her daughter, who was disturbed enough by Quinn’s absence. No daddy to comfort her now, just a twitching, nervous, train wreck of a mother.

  “I’m so sorry, Angel-Abby,” Shan whispered, lifting her sobbing child from her crib.

  “Shan?” Oda was in the doorway, regarding her soberly. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” Shan forced a smile. “Another nightmare, that’s all. I woke her again.”

  Oda didn’t smile back. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  It took a long time to soothe Angie enough that she could be put back to bed. When she was finally settled, Shan came out on the deck, took a cup of tea, and curled up in one of the lounge chairs.

  Oda cleared her throat. “So,” she began, “how long are you going to let this go on?”

  Shan sighed. “I was wondering when I’d be in for one of your famous pep talks.”

  “This isn’t a pep talk. I’m worried about you, Shan. You hardly ever get out of bed. You’re not eating. You look terrible. I know it’s hard, but it’s been a few weeks and you should be dusting yourself off a little bit by now. I’m not saying you shouldn’t grieve,” Oda added gently, “but you still need to have some kind of a life.”

  “What are you suggesting, that I start dating?”

  “You could bring Angie down to the beach or take Sugaree for a walk. Play your guitar. Do something, anything, to make yourself feel better. And no,” she added. “I don’t think you should start dating. I can’t think of a worse idea.”

  Shan elevated her chin. “Why not? Quinn i
s. Or whatever he calls what he’s doing.”

  “Quinn is a different animal than you are. I think he’s doing a lot of things just to keep numb. At least you’ll let yourself feel the pain, but he’s just burying it wherever he can.”

  “Yes,” Shan shot back. “In women.”

  “In women,” Oda agreed. “And booze, too, I think. He’s a mess, according to Denise.”

  Shan turned her face away. “What he does is no longer my problem.”

  “He’s your daughter’s father,” Oda said, “and you need to be able to communicate with him. You’re letting your anger get in the way of what’s best for Angie.”

  “How can you say that? I would never let my own problems hurt her. She loves Quinn, no matter how much I hate him, so I’ll make sure that she sees him. And she does, all the time!”

  “But you haven’t taken a single call from him,” Oda said. “You hide in the bedroom every time he comes to pick her up. You lock the door whenever he’s in the studio.”

  “I don’t want him in my house. I don’t want to have to look at his lying, cheating face. And I’m touched by your concern for him, Oda, but what about me? I’m the one he left.”

  “He didn’t leave,” Oda corrected her. “You threw him out. Not that I blame you. Quinn did a shitty thing and deserves to suffer, for a while. I don’t know that he should suffer for the rest of his life, though.”

  Shan assumed an expression of pained wonder. “Are you suggesting that I take him back?”

  “That’s up to you,” Oda said carefully, “but it wouldn’t hurt to recognize it as an option.”

  “I liked your first idea better. Maybe I will start dating.”

  “I never said that and, if you’re asking my opinion, I think that’s the worst thing you could do, because you, girlfriend, are still in love with your husband.” Shan began to protest but Oda waved her off. “This is me you’re talking to, honey. I’ve been there from the beginning. I saw you turn your whole life around from the minute you met him, and how long did I watch you pine over him? Then I listened to you promise to have him and love him and keep him, and I don’t think those vows came lightly to you.”

  “They did to him, apparently.” Shan shrugged. “It’s my own fault. He told me over and over that he didn’t want to be tied down. I should have listened. And all we ever did was fight, even at the best of times.”

  “That’s true,” Oda agreed. “It’s been the language of the relationship all along. That and the music.” Shan turned her face away. “But that’s a not bad thing. You have to be able to hold your own with that one. You didn’t pick an easy man, after all.”

  Shan sniffed. “I think there are literally hundreds of women who would disagree.”

  “Well. I don’t have anything to say about that. You always knew what he was. Did it actually surprise you that his choice of a weapon was his penis?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think happened, that night in Seattle? You think he spotted the girl of his dreams and couldn’t help himself?” Shan didn’t reply. “That gun of his was aimed right at you, honey. Where he put it doesn’t even matter.”

  “I guess that makes it all right, then.” Shan glared at her. “How did he get you on his side? Did he sleep with you, too?”

  Oda’s face tightened, but her tone stayed even. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just trying to get you to face the truth. You have to, if you’re going to make a wise decision. It’s going to affect the rest of your life, and your daughter’s life, too, so you’d better make it a good one.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say to you.”

  “You can say anything you want to me, but you ought to draw the line at lying to yourself.”

  “What am I supposed to be lying about?”

  “Just stop it, Shan. Stop telling me how much you hate Quinn. Or at the very least, stop telling yourself. He hurt you and you’re angry, but don’t try to turn anger into hatred. You can love him and still let him go, if that’s what you want. Bless him with your love and release him. You’ll be releasing yourself at the same time.”

  Shan got up and went back inside without another word, leaving the tea behind.

  When she reached the privacy of her own bedroom she closed the door, then sank down to the floor, pulling her knees in against her chest.

  You, girlfriend, are still in love with your husband.

  Like she needed anyone to tell her that. She was tormented by thoughts of Quinn, consumed with them. She missed him every day, every minute, longed for him with a potent, painful yearning, the most treacherous jones she’d ever faced.

  Shan went back to bed, tossing and turning, absolutely unable to sleep even though she was exhausted. It was like the insomnia she got during a methadone turkey, the kind she knew had racked Angie during her detox. Shan remembered how miserable and inconsolable she’d been, how nothing they did soothed her until Quinn suggested the music.

  She got out of bed. She hadn’t touched her guitars in weeks, but she headed for the studio to retrieve the Angel, singing softly to herself, words that had given her solace so long ago.

  Don’t bother me

  I don’t care

  I’m all alone and dreaming…

  She unlocked the door to the basement and went down the steps. She made it as far as the threshold and not one step farther, because the sight of the studio was like a shot of acid to her heart.

  Quinn’s specter was everywhere. The Kur, plugged in and ready to be played. The stacks of hand-notated sheet music, which he would examine with his feet up on his desk and Sugaree asleep at his side. Worst of all was the sound board where he did most of his work, sometimes with Angie cradled in his lap.

  She could see her guitars in their customary places on the wall, but now she didn’t want to play them, or touch them, or even look at them. For the first time in her life, the thought of making music was abhorrent. It was so intricately enmeshed with Quinn that she knew they would torture her, the sweet sounds that in the past had only soothed.

  She turned and fled back up the stairs, and didn’t go down there again.

  Weeks later Shan still hadn’t found any respite from the pain that was with her every minute of every day. It was hell, pure hell, and, regardless of what she’d told Oda, she knew full well that the reason she’d been so frantically avoiding Quinn had nothing to do with hatred. On the contrary.

  It was because she loved him so much, too much, beyond all reason and with an intensity that was all consuming. She’d love him no matter what he did, no matter how much he hurt her. The power of it terrified her, because she’d known that intensity before.

  It was an addiction, plain and simple, to a person who in his way was more toxic than any substance ever could be.

  She knew about kicking addictions, though. The first step was always cold turkey, so she’d systematically erased Quinn from her life. Banished him from her presence. Turned away from their music. Removed all traces of him from her house, but it still wasn’t getting better and, after nearly two months, she was beginning to think it never would.

  Well, turkeying never worked, really. When she was trying to kick heroin, all it did was make her sick. She hadn’t kicked the H, really kicked it, until she replaced it with something else. She’d needed methadone to take away the jones.

  And it was to the methadone that she turned, at first. She began playing with her dose, increasing it just a touch, looking for the blunting effect that she knew opiates could have. The pills were scored, easy to cut, and she experimented with an extra quarter tab.

  Just that little bit caused the ’done to act as a sedative, taking the edge off her anguish. She could get out of bed. Play with her daughter. Take Sugaree for a short walk on the beach.

  Before long, her body adjusted and the tranquilizing effect faded. She upped the ’done a little more, until it blanketed the acute anguish that accompanied her every waking moment with a dull, fuzzy pat
ina. She’d thought Oda would be relieved to see her up and functioning, but she never said a word about it, just kept watch with her all-seeing eyes.

  After a while she had to take two pills a day, eighty milligrams, to maintain the flat, murky haze. When she got up to three tablets a day, though, the effect of the ’done changed. It made her high. For the first time in months, she was up instead of down, feeling good instead of feeling suicidal or, at best, not feeling anything. The world felt right to her, finally, like she could go through this and come out the other side stronger and wiser.

  But the well-being came with a price. She’d eaten deeply into her take-homes and she’d be fucked, just fucked, if she ran out. She tried reducing, but the withdrawal set in. The thirty milligrams she was supposed to be taking did nothing now and she couldn’t get more from the clinic, not until her prescription warranted it. She’d forgotten, somehow, what she was: a junkie with an addict’s tolerance.

  She called Jeff. “I need something,” she told him, after an exchange of pleasantries. “Can you help me?”

  “Sure,” he said without a trace of judgment. “Are you looking for ’done or dope?”

  Methadone or heroin. He knew her preferences, of course. “’Done.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m leaving on a tour tomorrow, but I can set something up before I go. Just one thing, Shan. I’d prefer it if Quinn didn’t know. I’m pretty sure he’d fire me if he did.”

  “We’re on the same page then.” She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a sob. “What I do is none of his business. You know we’re separated, right?”

  “Yes, I do,” Jeff said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied. “Just hook me up.”

  “All right. Let me make a few calls.”

  Jeff called back inside of an hour. He had someone—did she want it delivered? Absolutely not. Shan stuffed her hair under a baseball cap so she wouldn’t be recognized and drove to North Hollywood to meet her new connection, Big Black, who in fact was an average-sized white guy. She began meeting him every few days to pick up methadone. It helped for a time, but before long her mind was turning to something she knew was a surefire cure for whatever ailed.