Shan didn’t reply. He began fingering the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Their faces were only a few inches apart and he moved closer, his eyed riveted to her lips.
Abruptly she thrust the bowl into his stomach, wresting a pained oof out of him. He grabbed the bowl and shot her a look of confused indignation.
“Why don’t you take that in the other room before it starts to melt?” She snatched up the dessert plates and stalked into the dining room.
Dan hurried into the kitchen as Quinn shifted the bowl to one hand and touched his stomach with a grimace. “What’d you do?” he whispered.
“Nothing much.” Quinn glowered.
“I told you to behave.” Dan frowned. “I thought you never mixed business with pleasure.”
“I could in this case. Might take some persuading, though.” He rubbed his gut gingerly.
Dan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I’m serious, man. You don’t want to mix it up with this one.”
“Why? Is she gay?” He watched Shan head back toward the kitchen, emanating outrage.
“No,” Dan hissed. “She’s only sixteen. Isn’t that another one of your golden rules? Never overnight, never unprotected, and never underage?”
Quinn’s jaw dropped.
chapter 5
The Grotto turned down most of the lights on coffeehouse night, relying on candles and the neon glow from the bar for illumination. Only the performer onstage was bright, incandescent under a stark-white spotlight. It was reminiscent of the beatnik joints from the sixties which, Dan guessed, was what they were going for.
He risked a glance across the table at Quinn, who was staring into his drink sullenly, and mentally kicked himself for not mentioning the age thing sooner. He’d worried that Quinn would nix the girl up front if he knew. Even Ty might not have been willing to overlook that particular detail, although he was more open-minded than the Q-man.
The potential problems with an underage band member were multitudinous, the very least being that some of the clubs might not let her in. More seriously, if the kid got caught drinking or drugging, the adult members of the band were right in the line of fire for a “contributing to” charge.
Then there was the sex thing. Three adult males traveling with an underage female were at high risk anywhere, anytime, for any number of unsavory situations.
He’d planned for them to meet the girl and hear her play, then he’d casually mention her age after they got excited about her. The trouble was that Quinn had gotten a little too excited a little sooner than Dan anticipated.
He should have foreseen that wrinkle. Expecting Quinn not to hit on a hot babe was like asking the sun to stop shining, but Shan didn’t fit his usual specifications. Quinn invariably went for long-legged blondes with big tits, and Shan was totally at the opposite end of the hotness spectrum. She was smoking, though, in her cute little hippie chick way. He’d expected the guys to appreciate her looks but he hadn’t anticipated Quinn snapping at her like a trout at a worm, especially since his typical MO with women was to play it cool while transmitting subtle encouragement. Quinn liked the chicks to come to him and they usually did, captivated by his good looks and facile charm, but tonight he’d followed Shan around with his tongue practically hanging out.
Now he was sulking, joining the conversation only when asked a direct question and even then giving monosyllabic responses.
Man, what an ego. One turndown and you’d think the world was ending.
Quinn was annoyed. He didn’t see the point of this audition. The girl was too goddamned young, so it didn’t matter if she was any good. Even if she sang like Whitney Houston it wouldn’t make any difference, so she was wasting his time.
He glowered at her. “I play folk,” she was telling Ty, “because that’s what people want from a solo acoustic. I’d really prefer to experiment with different kinds of music.”
“What are your desert isle picks?” Ty asked.
“I like the Grateful Dead,” she said and Ty nodded his approval. “B.B. King. Joni Mitchell.”
So far Quinn had been quiet. Now he spoke up. “How about from this century?”
“Van Halen,” Shan replied, lifting her chin. “Bonnie Raitt. The Chili Peppers. Valentine. Guns N’ Roses. Cyndi Lauper. And Madonna, of course,” she added.
Quinn gave a derisive snort. “Now there’s a shining example of musical prowess.”
“Maybe she’s not the strongest singer, but she’s got terrific style and she’s a great performer. I think an artist has an obligation to put on a good show.”
“I agree,” Ty nodded again. Quinn thought he looked like one of those dogs people put in their rear car windows, the ones that bobbed their heads in sync with the potholes. “Look at Michael Jackson. Good singer, kick-ass performer. You’ll have to excuse Quinn,” he added. “He’s a bit of an artistic snob.”
Quinn noticed that Ty was gazing at Shan like a lovesick puppy. Christ, what was it about this chick? “I’m not a snob. I just believe that talent counts more than glam. There are too many musicians who spend more time on their stage act than on their skill.”
“I think there’s something to be said for both,” Dan said. Quinn gave a contemptuous roll of his eyes and drained his glass.
“What are your favorite bands?” Shan asked Quinn.
“Rush,” he replied. “Steve Winwood. Faith No More. Pink Floyd.” Shan grimaced and Quinn raised his eyebrows. “You have a problem with that?”
“They’re just not my taste. I like music that makes people move, but when was the last time you saw anybody dance to Pink Floyd? I put them in the same class as Yes. Dull.”
Rick Wakeman, the legendary keyboard player for Yes, was Quinn’s all-time hero. He saw Dan wince.
Quinn sneered in what he knew was a condescending manner. “That would be consistent with someone who’s more concerned with image than talent. Maybe you can pick up a pair of metal cone tits, like Madonna. Then nobody will notice what you sound like. They’ll be too busy checking out your set.”
Color rushed to Shan’s face. “Are you always this obnoxious?” she asked. “Or are you just threatened when someone expresses an opinion that’s different from yours?”
Quinn had a stinging response on the tip of his tongue when a fresh drink appeared in front of him. His eyes traveled up the arm that delivered it and he discovered the blond waitress from the night before. She was smiling expectantly at him.
“Hi…uh…” He paused and a faint line appeared between his eyebrows. The smile faded from the waitress’s face as he stared at her blankly.
“Jessica,” she said. “I’d think you’d remember me after last night.”
“How could I forget you, darlin’?” he improvised, summoning up his lady-killer smile. It was forced, though, and the words sounded phony even to him.
The waitress looked affronted. “That’s on the house,” she said, indicating the drink. “Consider it payment for services rendered. That’s about what it was worth.” Quinn’s expression changed to one of indignation as she stormed off.
“Losing your touch?” Ty inquired. Quinn shot him an annoyed look and Ty’s face split in a delighted grin. “Dude, are you blushing?”
Shan snickered. She’d been observing the exchange with a faint smile. “Sorry to have to step away at such a dramatic moment,” she said, standing, “but it’s time for me to go on.”
“Go right ahead,” Quinn snapped. “Sedate the place with a little folk Muzak.”
Her face stiffened and she turned toward the stage without answering.
“That was rude,” Ty observed as she moved away. “Why are you being so obnoxious?”
“I can understand why you’re pissed off at me, but you don’t have to take it out on her,” Dan chimed in.
Quinn turned on Dan. “I can’t believe you have the balls to even open your mouth, after putting us in this position. You don’t tell anyone when we lose a crucial band member, then you hook us up with
a player who turns out to be jail bait. Now, because of you, we’re wasting another night waiting on Marcia fucking Brady instead of putting together some viable alternative like we ought to be doing. Where’s your brain, you stupid fuck?” Dan started to answer, his chin quivering defensively. “Do me a favor, okay? Shut up.”
Dan closed his mouth and mutely shifted his attention to the stage. The spotlight was on, bathing Shan in stark-white light. Her black hair glimmered under the lights, almost as much as the tiny mirrors sewn into her shirtwaist, and she sparkled all over as she climbed onto the tall stool. She adjusted the microphone and smiled at the audience.
“Welcome to coffeehouse night at the Grotto, ladies and gentlemen.”
The audience gave her a hearty hand. A ripple of anticipation seemed to pass through the room as she began the opening chords from “Diamonds and Rust.”
Quinn sipped his drink, noting that her playing was tight and polished, her changes smooth. He knew Dan was waiting for a reaction and kept his face impassive, but he approved of her tasteful style. Technically she was quite good. It wasn’t a particularly easy piece and her fingers moved over the frets with skill. She had none of the hesitancy about her movements that was the first indication of an amateur.
Quinn’s approval grew when she broke into the opening verse. She had a solid voice: sweet, clear, and confident. Her breathing was even and measured, her diction clean, and she held the notes with strength and purpose.
Dan was watching him openly now. Quinn was determined not to give him the satisfaction of any kind of response, so he picked up his drink and downed it, his face arranged in an elaborate expression of bored tolerance.
Shan moved into a difficult part of the song. Her vocals took off, swelling with conviction and filling the room, and the audience burst into a spontaneous wave of applause.
“Jesus Christ,” Ty croaked. Quinn ignored him, leaning forward to listen intently. He forgot to worry about feigning indifference for Dan’s benefit, focusing instead on the powerful things that were happening to his hypersensitive auditory canals.
Dan was right; he’d never heard anything like her. Her pitch was perfect and her range amazing, slipping from dusky lows to shimmering highs with flawless ease. She sang with a profound intensity that he could feel himself react to on a visceral level. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized, sneaking a glance at the rest of the audience. She had charisma, enough to match her astonishing vocal chops, and she had the crowd on the edge of their seats.
Angelic was the word that came to mind. She sounds like a fucking angel.
Quinn experienced a chill. He looked down at his arms and saw his flesh rising up into small, tight pinpricks. He watched for a moment, as the sensation spread across his chest, then met Dan’s eye across the table. An unwilling smile crossed his lips as he held up his fist to display the back of his forearm.
Dan grinned from ear to ear. He knew what the goose bumps meant. And the goose bumps were never wrong.
Forty-five minutes later, Shan finished her first set. She’d performed the best of her covers, “Sugaree,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” and “Blackbird” among them, tossed in some originals, and finished with a modified Bob Marley tune. She went to the bar for a club soda, took a deep breath, and swiveled to face the table.
They were all watching her. Even Quinn.
Her mouth went dry and she could feel her stomach gyrate. She went to the table, suddenly wishing she’d never agreed to this at all. She’d die, absolutely die, if she had to watch that contemptuous look fall over Quinn’s face again, this time in response to her music.
She sat down. The three of them continued to watch her, so she fidgeted and played with a strand of her hair. For a moment, they all just stared at each other across the table.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. “Well?”
Quinn was the first one to respond. He brought his elbows up on the table, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on his hands. Finally, he smiled.
“Angel,” he said, “welcome to Quinntessence.”
chapter 6
Shan was up early the next morning, awakened by a painful cramp. She clenched until it passed, then struggled out of bed. Her eyes were watering and her nose running, the usual symptoms of a morning jones, but her mood was already high as she replayed the events of the previous night in her mind.
They liked her! Dan had beamed with self-congratulation as Ty gushed superlatives and even Quinn, whom she sensed was not effusive with his praise, made a few positive comments.
“You have a strong voice,” he’d said, “and your playing is solid. I can tell you work at it, but you’re going to have to work a lot harder now. It’s a big jump from folk to hard rock and there’s not much time to prepare. Are you up for it?”
“Yes!” Shan insisted. “Absolutely! I like playing folk, but I really want to rock!”
“Well, now’s your chance,” he assured her.
When he went to the bar, Shan had turned to the others. “Did he really like me?”
“Honey,” Dan chortled, “you blew him away.”
She looked at Ty. “Really? He’s hard to read.”
“Really,” Ty said. “He was transfixed. Don’t expect him to shower you with compliments, though. That’s not the Q-man’s style.”
Well, he didn’t have to. He liked her enough to let her in his band and that was enough for her. Besides, she’d have plenty more opportunities to show him what she could do.
Starting today, at their first practice session.
She reached in her dresser for the bag containing the brown rock and a piece of foil. She chopped off a bit, dropped it onto the foil, then sat down cross-legged on her bed. She lit the candle she kept on her nightstand, held the foil over it, and waited for the heroin to boil. When it did, she pulled out her tooter, then hesitated.
She wanted so badly to quit. She’d come close last time, and she didn’t care about the high. Her new band would be a high all on its own.
She thought about the craving that would dig at her with white-hot pincers. The nausea and the diarrhea and the tremors. The insomnia that would keep her awake for days. Then she thought about trying to play while in that condition.
She lifted the tooter to her mouth and inhaled the smoke.
At precisely eleven o’clock there was a knock at the front door. When she opened it, Shan was greeted by an enormous pile of equipment seeming to sprout arms and legs. “Wow! What can I help with?”
“Just stay out of the way, angel.” Quinn squeezed past with his keyboard, a coil of electrical cables over his shoulder and a crate of microphones under his arm. Dan and Tyrone staggered by next with the drum kit and amplifiers.
“You can grab the rest,” Dan tossed back. Shan retrieved the bass and mic stands from the hallway, then followed them into the living room where they were stacking the gear into an empty corner.
She set down the equipment and watched the pile grow. Quinn untangled the cables from his shoulder, dropped them onto the snare drum, and flung himself into a chair. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a Yes T-shirt. “Danny, next time you hire us a guitar player, make sure she lives on the ground floor.”
Dan collapsed onto the floor pillows, his hair fanning out around him. “It’s a prerequisite.”
“There’s a service elevator at the end of the hall,” Shan said.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Ty demanded amid a chorus of groans. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, standing out in sharp relief against his chestnut skin.
“I would have, but I didn’t know you’d be bringing so much stuff.”
“Well, it’s good. It’ll be easier to load in and out,” Quinn said. “We brought all the stuff,” he told Shan, “because I thought it should live here. I’d like to make this the official practice pad.”
“There’s only me here, though,” Shan said. “All three of you are at Dan’s.”
“Not for long. I found a subl
et. I move in on the first, if I can make it that long. Another week on Dan’s couch and I may be permanently disabled.”
“What about you?” Shan asked Ty.
“I’m staying with Dan. I get enough of Quinn during the school year and it’ll almost be like living alone, since Dan’s over here half the time.”
Quinn shot Dan a contemptuous look. Pussy whipped, he mouthed.
Dan ignored him. “Did you get a chance to look over the schedule?” he asked Shan.
She nodded. “I can’t believe you’re already booked three nights a week.”
“We are right now,” Quinn said, “but by next month it’ll be more.”
Shan was skeptical. She’d never been able to get work more than two or three nights a week on a consistent basis, no matter how much she lobbied. “What makes you so sure?”
“There’s a lot more work for a band than there is for a solo,” Quinn pointed out. “Don’t even question it—it’ll happen. You don’t have other commitments, do you?”
“A few. I play the Jubilee every other Thursday, and there’s the Wonder Café.”
“Cancel them,” he said.
“All of them?” She was rattled. “What about the Grotto? I’m booked every Sunday.”
“Cancel. You don’t have a day job, do you?” She shook her head.
“Good.” Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “I want to make sure you understand that this is a full-time commitment. It’ll be to your advantage. You’ll probably make more money over the next three months than you usually do in a year.”
“How do you manage to get so much work?”
“We’ve had quite a bit of radio play,” Tyrone explained. “Most of the places we played last year jumped to get us again. Quinn does most of the booking. He’s a good negotiator.”
“How long have you all been together?” Shan asked.
“Q and I have known each other since we were kids,” Dan said. “We went to the same music school, then we played in bands together right through high school.”
Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) Page 5