Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  Shan missing her mother is a recurrent thread throughout the book. Quinn’s issues with his mother come up over and over again, as well. What are the differences between the two mothers? Are they alike in any way? What kind of mother do you think Shan will make?

  After Quinntessence hits big, Shan’s gender receives enormous attention from the rock media. During an interview she states, “I’m sick of people acting like testicles are a requirement for playing a hot guitar lick…. It’s about talent, not balls.” What other performers have faced this challenge and how have they responded? How many female rock guitar players can you name?

  What do you think of the term twat rock? Is it an accurate representation of the way women are viewed in the rock community?

  When Shan goes into the abortion clinic, she sees grief in Quinn’s eyes. What is he grieving? How does this influence Shan’s decision not to terminate the pregnancy? Is this a good choice or a bad one?

  When baby Angelica is born addicted to methadone, Shan holds herself responsible. She is treated badly by some of the nurses and social workers involved in their case. Does she deserve this? Should drug-addicted mothers be considered criminals?

  Oda refers to arguing as the language of Shan and Quinn’s relationship. Is this a good or bad thing? Why? What other unusual forms of communication do Shan and Quinn employ?

  In her efforts to kick heroin, Shan attends twelve-step programs but struggles with the “higher power” tenet. Eventually she comes to accept music as her higher power. In what way is this true?

  In the end, it is the music that brings Shan and Quinn together, just as it drew them together in the beginning. Did the music ever drive them apart? How?

  Throughout the book, it is the music that heals Shan. Does it heal anyone else? What are some examples? Do you believe music to be a healing force? Why, or why not?

  ADVANCE EXCERPT FROM

  angel on high

  BOOK TWO IN THE ROCK ANGEL SERIES

  Join Shan, Quinn, and the rest of the band in Angel on High as their star continues to rise. From the Grammy Awards to sold-out shows all over the world, Quinntessence’s collective dreams are coming true. Soon enough, though, some of those dreams turn to nightmares. Caught in a spiraling vortex of excess amidst relentless media scrutiny, threats of blackmail, betrayal and the crush of rabid fans, Shan discovers that it’s a long, long fall from the top of the world.

  Shan woke up with a profound sense of well-being, a knowledge that all was right in her world, and an absolute certainty that she was going to come.

  The orgasm jolted her more fully awake. “Wow!” she gasped when it was over. “What did I do to deserve that?” She peered under the covers at the blond head between her legs.

  Quinn rested his head against the inside of her thigh and grinned up at her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, angel.”

  Valentine’s Day? “When did you decide that was something worth celebrating?”

  “It’s a bullshit holiday,” he admitted, squirming out from under the covers and pulling her into his arms. “Just something for the card and candy companies to capitalize on, but it’s still an opportunity to show you how much I love you.”

  “You tell me all the time,” she pointed out, snuggling against him.

  And he did. Over and over, a dozen times a day. He said it so many times that it annoyed their band mates. “Please shut him up,” Ty had begged her during the previous day’s practice. “I feel like I’m drowning in mush.”

  She’d laughed and agreed, but knew she’d never get tired of hearing Quinn say those words. She had waited far too long to hear them.

  Right now her mushy man was reaching over her, tugging open the drawer to his nightstand to remove a long velvet box which he handed to her.

  “A present, too? Wow,” she said again. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” When she opened it, she gasped. Within lay a delicate white gold chain encrusted with diamonds and three cascading strands of gemstones in various shades of blue.

  “I thought it was about time you owned a piece of serious jewelry.”

  “I have one.” She waved her left hand.

  “That doesn’t count. It’s not jewelry, it’s a fixture,” he said, knowing that her engagement ring never left her finger. Not since they’d gotten back together, at any rate. “I had this custom made. There’s room to expand it, too.”

  “Expand?” She held the necklace up. The stones sparkled in the sunlight. It was so beautiful, so elegant. It seemed too grown up for her.

  “I thought you’d figure it out right away. Look,” he pointed to the strands. “Sapphires, aquamarines, tanzanites. September, March…”

  “December,” she finished. “You, me, Angie. Our family!”

  “And don’t forget this,” he said, indicating the small black stone that fashioned the clasp. “Onyx.”

  Suddenly she had a lump in her throat. “For Sugaree?” At the foot of the bed, Sugaree raised her head when she heard her name, tail thumping against the mattress.

  “Yup. No family portrait is complete without her, right?” Shan swallowed hard as Quinn fastened the necklace around her neck. “If you cry, I’m going to take it back.”

  “I’m allowed to get choked up over an incredibly meaningful, romantic gift.” She pushed the stray lock out of his eyes and smiled. “I love it and I love you, Q. I feel bad that I don’t have anything for you, though.”

  “I can think of something you can give me.” He grinned wickedly. Releasing her, he rolled over onto his back, flinging the covers aside. “Quick, before Angie wakes up.”

  “That old thing again?” Shan chuckled, but she was already nestling against him, nuzzling, beginning to work her way down the body she knew so well. She loved every inch of it, from the cowlick that caused a lock of his hair to keep slipping down over one eye to the tiny star-shaped freckle on his lower abdomen. She paused to kiss that spot before turning her attention to a more insistent body part, one that was not at all mushy.

  She was still smiling a few hours later. She and Denise were at a fancy Rodeo Drive boutique, where Shan was being fitted for her first couture gown. It was a Valentino, a magnificent creation with vibrant colors in a retro floral pattern, which had been selected by Rachel, her stylist. “You’ll like it,” Rachel had assured her. “It’s just your taste, Boho Chic, but very high end. It will articulate your artistic free spirit.”

  Shan didn’t know about her free spirit, but she adored the dress. It was light and gauzy, its airy silhouette floating about her slim frame in a swirl of greens and yellows and blues. Its strapless bodice accentuated her small breasts, giving the illusion of some cleavage. “What do you think?” she asked Denise.

  “Gorgeous.” Denise looked gorgeous herself, in a sleek silver sheath that hugged her body like a glove. “You look like an Indian princess, Shan.”

  She’d settle for looking like a rock star, a role that still felt strange even though she’d be attending the Grammy Awards in March. Quinntessence was nominated for three awards: Best New Artist, Best Rock Performance with Vocal, and Best Album, for Quinntessence: Odyssey.

  “I feel like a princess, sort of,” she admitted to Denise as they carefully removed their gowns, “but a fake one. It’s all so Technicolor, like a Disney movie or something.”

  “Well, you deserve it and I’m glad for you,” Denise said. “You’ve never looked happier.”

  “I am,” Shan confessed. “I can’t believe how great everything is going. I mean, Quinntessence is nominated for three Grammys! And at home…” she paused then shook her head, a little dazed. “It’s like a dream. Life just couldn’t be more perfect.”

  They confirmed their next appointment, then headed for the car. “I’m glad,” Denise said, picking up their conversation right where they left off. “Enjoy it, because you know it won’t last.”

  “Thanks,” Shan said, shooting her an annoyed look. “I needed that, because I’m certainly not capable of killi
ng my own buzz.”

  “It’s just the truth.” Denise shrugged. “These things cycle. I want to make one more stop before we go to lunch, okay?” she added, instructing Shan to drive to West Hollywood.

  Shan complied, following Denise’s direction to Santa Monica Boulevard. After they parked and got out of the Jeep, Shan looked up at the enormous red disco heart on the front of their destination. “The Pleasure Chest,” Shan noted. “Really, Denise?”

  “Really,” Denise said, heading for the front door. “I’m giving my husband a Valentine’s Day present he’ll never forget.”

  Shan sighed, but followed Denise into the shop. It was the biggest sex toy emporium in LA, which was saying a lot since one could be found every few blocks. The vast space was crammed with cases displaying vibrators, massage oils, condoms, and other items Shan was less familiar with, like nipple clamps, handcuffs, and butt plugs. There were rows of videos and racks of racy lingerie, all dominated by an elaborate flower burst logo over the checkout desk. Shan glanced up at the logo, admiring its intricate design until she realized that what she was looking at was a stylized orgy.

  She hurried after Denise, who was riffling through a collection of bustiers. “What do you think of this one?” Denise asked, pulling one off the rack. It was black leather, outfitted with studded boning and crosshatched with silver laces. The cups looked far too small for Denise’s ample bosom and Shan surmised that they were shelf-style, the kind that presented the breasts like melons on a serving platter.

  “Kind of slutty,” she replied. “Is that really how you want to look to your husband on Valentine’s Day?”

  “Yes,” Denise said firmly. “Dan is surrounded by sluts every time you go on tour. I want to keep that horn dog part of him satisfied, so he doesn’t stray. Every man feels the urge to stray,” she added, holding up a pair of crotchless leather panties.

  This provided Shan with a mental picture she neither needed nor wanted. She murmured a vague sound of assent, then drifted away as Denise began rooting through an adjoining rack containing similar accoutrements for men.

  Ick. Too much information, but perhaps she had a point. Shan sometimes worried that she was too vanilla for Quinn, even though he’d slept with enough kinky groupies to last most men ten lifetimes. During the six months they’d been separated the previous year, he’d immediately reverted back to that life. She experienced a familiar knifelike pain in her chest when she recalled how it felt to catch him in the act, with two groupies in his bed.

  Why not spice things up a bit? She paused before a display of vibrators in various shapes, sizes, and colors. Orange eggs. Blue bullets. Purple triangles. Some looked big enough to fill a tuba bell. Others were more flute-sized, petite and almost dainty.

  She selected a midsized one that was smooth and pink, very non-threatening. She turned the box over. It read “Ruff Rider Dog Dick.”

  She hastily put the box down, then picked up a neon pink device that looked like a more traditional vibrator. She pressed the button that brought it to life. It buzzed like a hive of angry bees. She tried to turn it off, but instead it switched to another, louder setting. Shan continued to click, assuming it would cycle through and turn off eventually, but the silicone phallus continued to buzz louder and louder.

  “You have to hold the button down,” somebody said and when Shan turned she discovered one of the sales clerks, a tall young man with a blonde buzz cut, several piercings, and a veritable mural of tattoos covering every exposed inch of skin on his body.

  “What?”

  “The button,” he continued. “Hold it down to shut it off.”

  Shan complied. The vibrator stilled and she hurriedly set it back on the shelf.

  “They all have their little quirks,” the clerk continued, “but you’ll get used to it. I sure did.” He grinned. “Can I help you select something?”

  “Oh…no. No, thanks,” she added hastily, turning bright red and heading for the door. En route, a display of videocassettes caught her eye.

  Porn. That seemed like something relatively okay, the kind of thing a free-thinking wife would surprise her husband with on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps she could work her way up to more exotic toys, although she couldn’t imagine herself ever getting excited over a dog dick.

  She went over to the display rack and perused some of the titles. Barely Legal. She made a face. Axis of Anal. Ewww. Fisting Freaks. Good grief.

  She made her way farther down the racks, which seemed to get less weird towards the front of the store. There was a special case trumpeting “New Arrivals” and she paused at one that bore the title Quinntessential Quickie.

  Perfect! She was taking one of the videos off the rack as Denise joined her. “Did you find something?” Denise inquired.

  Shan nodded. “I think so. This is…” She looked down at the videotape.

  And froze.

  The cover depicted a man up on his knees, head thrown back and fair hair cascading past his shoulders, while two buxom blondes attended to his erect penis. The picture was grainy and the member itself was obscured behind a black rectangle, but Shan knew what it looked like.

  Particularly because she’d seen it up close, when she’d ministered to it so tenderly just that morning. “What the fuck?”

  Denise looked at the photo, then gasped. “Oh no! It can’t be him, Shan. It must be a lookalike.”

  It wasn’t, though. The man on the video box was Quinn. Shan knew it.

  She’d recognize that star-shaped freckle anywhere.

  Acknowledgments

  I suspect that this part of the book is a source of stress for most authors, the I-couldn’t-have-done-it-without-you part. There’s so much influence, so many voices that go into the making of a novel that it might be downright impossible to list them all. Rock Angel is a story about musicians and their music, written by a librarian whose only hands-on musical experience came from guitar lessons during which the instructor kindly suggested I acquire a metronome. I also sang in the South Junior High School chorus, where the voices of fifty other members drowned out my off-key efforts. But from it I gained a lifelong love and appreciation of music, largely thanks to David Huxtable, the hippest music teacher ever, who later gets a nod in this book. I couldn’t be a musician because I don’t have the talent, so I used the written word to make my music. Here it is.

  First and foremost, I need to thank the real music makers who helped bring this book to life. Linda Worster, who crafted most of the songs that Shan and Quinn wrote together (“The Wedding Song,” “Echo Flats,” and “Wanderlust”). “Rev Tor” Krautter, who allowed me to borrow liberally from his original lyrics (“Fallen Angel,” “Voluntary Exile,” and “The Black Mile” began as Rev Tor songs). John Zarvis, guitar god and troubadour of “On the Roof,” Matt Mervis, who graciously permitted me to lift his lyrics for “The Only Perfect One,” and Elizabeth Thorne, lyricist of “Puppy.” Thanks to all of you for helping me put the music into Quinntessence. And thanks to Joan Jett and Blackheart records. Thanks, too, to Valentine Miller, daughter of Henry, for use of his quote.

  Thanks to all the people who helped me understand the technical stuff behind a rock band, how to run cord for a microphone, what a drummer sits on, how to pick a name for your guitar, and more: the aforementioned Linda, Tor, and John, Paul de Jong, Tistrya Houghtling, Allen Livermore, Dan Broad, Mike Basiliere, Jeff Martell, Rick Leab, Dave Lincoln, Aubrey Atwater, Bruce Clapper (who also earned a nod), Gina Coleman, Kali Baba McConnell, Jason Webster, Bernice Lewis, Bill Patriquin, Mike Dermody, David Grover, Robin O’Herin, and Jeff King. Thanks to you all. I really couldn’t have done it without you.

  Then there’s Frank Kennedy, who deserves a paragraph all his own. Thanks for the technical advice, the music education, the long-suffering tolerance when I couldn’t talk or think about anything but this story but, mostly, the love. This is his book almost as much as it is mine, which is why it’s dedicated to him, my only perfect one.

  Thanks and
much love to my mother, Micki Bogino, for all the love, support, and encouragement. Thanks, too, for reading Rock Angel in all its stages, Mom, even though I know you skimmed the dirty parts. Thanks to my dad, Buster Kohlenberger, who loved me and believed in me, too. I wish he were here to see this book published. Thanks to Marion Boure, my gram, for her love, faith, and firm belief in my general awesomeness whether I deserved it or not. Thanks to Geordi and Juniper (aka Sugaree), the heartbeats at my feet, for the puppy love, wags, and long walks where most of the writing actually took place.

  Thanks to Deb Francome, überfriend, ally, and chief cheerleader. She’s been further into Shan and Quinn’s world than anyone except for me. Also, she’s the best person I know.

  Thanks to the readers. Julie Angello, my first and foremost reader, the one who in so many ways made this book happen. Thanks to Margaret Holes, forever friend and first editor. Thanks to my aunts Betsy Emery and Berta Schreiber and my friends Ami Levine, Sue Hunter, Wendy Krom, and Marlene Ullmann for reading the manuscript in its earliest, thousand-page stage (that’s dedication!). Thanks to Elizabeth Holleran Hess, Julia Pomeroy, Jeannine Tonetti, John Zarvis (again), Betsy Hess, Dr. Robert Taylor, Betsy and Max Gitter, Jane Feldman (who also shot my author photo), Danny and Clellie Lynch, and Dr. Robert Benner for much appreciated technical advice on everything from social workers to contracts to drug-addicted infants. Thanks to Bill Reichert, best English teacher ever, and Sonia Pilcer, my mentor, who both shaped me into the writer I am. Thanks to Tresca Weinstein, Amy Herring, Sandy Herkowitz, Chris Adams, Richard Matturro, and Alex Olchowski—every writer needs a group.

  Special thanks to Marlene Adelstein, editor extraordinaire and my copilot on this literary journey, and Wendy Lipp, publisher, friend, and an angel in her own right. Thanks to Crystal Patriarche, Christine Marra, and super special thanks to Gina Coleman, my own personal angel, who has an uncanny knack for appearing at all the truly pivotal points of my life. I love you, sister.