“I…I can give you more in a couple of days. I’m making good money now.” She stopped talking when she heard Quinn’s voice out in the corridor.
Jorge was watching her. “Don’t want them hearing, do ya?” His mouth spread in a sly grin. “I’m guessing they wouldn’t be so thrilled if they knew you was a junk whore.”
Shan could hear Quinn and Dan arguing and waited until their voices faded before she spoke again. “That’s all I have. Take it or leave it.”
“Maybe I’ll take it and a little more.” He gave her a sudden shove and she stumbled back against the wall. “I’m still willing to negotiate. How ’bout you work some of it off?”
When she smelled his fetid breath in her face, she raised both hands and shoved him, hard. Then there was a metallic click and she felt the sharp point of a blade against her stomach.
She didn’t stop to think, just lashed out with her spike heel. She caught him in the shin and he faltered, just enough that she could pull away. She bolted for the door, kicking off her shoes.
Barefoot, she darted into the corridor and up the stairs. She could hear Jorge crashing out of the restroom behind her and she burst out onto the street just as Quinn was coming back inside. “Where’ve you been?” he said. “We’re about finished.”
“Good.” She pushed past him and climbed into the van, taking the seat behind Denise.
“Nice timing,” he grumbled, turning away to help Ty stow the last of the gear.
The street was very dark. Several lamps were broken and a slight mist had settled, but Shan could still see Jorge when he emerged from the club. She hunched down in the seat, but he spotted her right away. His eyes shot from her to Quinn and Ty, then to Dan who was just coming around from the side of the van as they finished the last of the loading.
Jorge, still lingering outside, grinned balefully at her. “See ya soon, querida,” he mouthed.
Then he disappeared, melting into the shadows outside Fuego.
chapter 11
“Has anyone seen the mic box?” Quinn asked.
There was a crash as Shan dropped a crate of hand percussion instruments. Dan and Ty jumped as their collection of tambourines and shakers hit the ground with a dissonant clatter. A single maraca made a swishing sound as it rolled across the floor, coming to a stop in front of Quinn.
He was staring at Shan. “Anything wrong?”
“N-no.” She bent to retrieve the scattered instruments. “I’m just clumsy.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”
She shrugged without answering. Quinn looked doubtful, but went back to rooting among the various boxes and crates that comprised the band’s equipment. It was spread all over the loft’s living room, like it always was right before a gig. “I don’t see it.”
Ty fingered his goatee. “The last time I remember seeing it,” he said, “was Saturday night at Fuego.”
“Me, too.” Quinn frowned. “Who loaded it out that night?”
Everyone looked at Shan. Because the mic box was one of the lighter pieces of equipment, it was something she usually moved. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen it.” She went back to picking up the percussion instruments, avoiding Quinn’s eyes.
“We must have left it at the club,” Dan said. “They probably have it. I’ll call.”
“Do it now,” Quinn said. “In that dive it’s likely to disappear, then we’re out two grand.”
Dan headed for the phone and the rest of them went back to loading. Shan continued to collect the shakers and maracas. They clinked and rattled as she repacked them, but all she could hear was the thunk that the mic box had made when it hit the floor of the men’s room at Fuego.
The mics hadn’t been found. The manager at Fuego promised to keep an eye out for them and, when they played that night, they had to use the Shures. Quinn was in a foul mood as they left for the gig. Shan figured he blamed her and could only hope that he would never discover just how culpable she was.
She had no doubt about the fate of the expensive microphones. In the three days since the gig at Fuego, Shan had seen Jorge everywhere. Amid the crowd in the Spring Street subway station. Loitering in front of the bakery next to her building when she went for a morning croissant. Lurking in the back of the Laundromat where she did her wash. Each time, she only glimpsed him. When she turned for a better look, he’d vanished.
It wasn’t until the night she saw him on the ledge outside her bedroom window that she realized she was imagining things. She had leapt from bed in terror, only to find that the face she’d seen was a reflection of the Dylan poster on her wall. Jorge didn’t know where she lived, she reassured herself, but she’d upped her dose a tad, just for the tranquilizing effect, then spent two hours playing on the roof to calm herself down.
In the van on the way to the gig, Shan hugged her arms and wished she’d worn a sweater. Quinn had instructed her to wear something witchy and she’d found a filmy black sheath at a vintage clothing shop on Lafayette Street. It was low necked and sleeveless, and the material was of the lightest gauze overlaid with beaded black netting. The effect was good, very Charles Addamsy, but it was a cool night and she was freezing.
Quinn noticed her shivering. “Here,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. The leather was worn soft and smooth, and she caught a whiff of the citrusy, limey aftershave that he wore. She liked it.
It didn’t take long to reach the club, which was near the Woolworth building in Tribeca. After he parked, Dan twisted in his seat to look at Quinn. “Dude, this place looks like a shithole.”
Shan thought so too, sort of. The club, Prometheus, was housed in an ornate Neo-Romanesque building that must have been spectacular at one time, although it was now in a state of advanced decay. The marble facing was discolored and cracked, and in some places had crumbled away entirely to expose the plain brick underneath the façade. Two life-sized goddesses flanked the tarnished bronze entryway. They were in the same condition as the rest of the building. Juno’s face was cracked and she was missing a goodly bit of her torso. Venus was mostly intact, but she’d been adorned with a spray-painted garter belt and stockings.
“I guess the venue isn’t so important after all, hey?” Dan remarked. Denise smirked.
Quinn ignored them. As soon as the van stopped he jumped out, threw open the back doors, and began pulling out equipment. Shan took the crate of cables and lingered, waiting for him. After he’d filled his arms, she followed him into the building. Ty and Dan were close behind.
When they went inside, Shan gasped. It was an old theater, with an enormous stage curtained in red velvet and surrounded by magnificent arches with red glass insets. The illumination was provided by red lights fashioned to look like torches and the light caused the glass in the arches to wink and sparkle like flames. The shiny hardwood walls were inlaid with murals depicting bloody scenes from Roman mythology and the tables looked like executioner’s blocks. Each one held a flickering candle in a red glass globe. “Cool!” Ty exclaimed.
“I think it’s spooky.” Denise wrinkled her nose.
“It’s supposed to be,” Quinn said. “It’s Goth, and the door take averages two grand.”
“I thought that didn’t matter,” Dan said, “and aren’t you always saying the number of assholes rises in proportion with the number of people?”
Quinn shrugged. “They have decent security. Decent enough for Black Sabbath, at any rate,” he added with a grin. “They played here last weekend.”
Dan muttered under his breath, but unfastened the amp rack covers.
Quinn was right again. The place filled up fast with an assortment of black-clad patrons sporting eyeliner, black fingernails, and earrings in places Shan wouldn’t have thought could be pierced. By eleven Prometheus was jammed. Several fights broke out, but the bouncers were more than adequate, a group of forbidding-looking fellows clad in executioner’s garb.
Quinn had modified t
heir list to play to the crowd—dark, hardcore stuff, never Shan’s taste. Instead of the blend of hard rock and acid jazz she’d grown accustomed to, that night she was performing the punk and deathrock tunes Quinn had insisted they learn, covers of artists like Alice Cooper, the Cure, and Black Flag. The crowd roared.
In spite of her distaste for the music, Shan found herself responding to the enthusiasm of her audience. She loved performing in such an ornate venue, which appealed to her theatrical side. She vamped and shimmied around the stage, sneering like Wendy O. Williams.
During “Putting Out Fire with Gasoline,” Shan thought she spotted Jorge. Since he knew the name of her band now, it would be easier for him to find her and she’d been afraid all night that he’d show up.
“Feel my blood enraged. It’s just the fear of losing you,” she sang, narrowing her eyes against the lights to get a good look. The strobes kicked in, blinding her, and she blew a line, humming her way through it. She could feel the disapproval radiating from Quinn and when the strobes stopped, the man she’d seen was gone.
They finished at two. “What happened to you on ‘Putting Out Fire’?” Quinn growled as they packed. “That’s not even a new song. You know it backwards.”
“There was some weird guy staring at me,” Shan said, glancing over her shoulder. “He gave me the creeps.”
“Everyone here is creepy. It doesn’t hurt to be careful, though. He isn’t still here, is he?”
“I don’t know.” She scanned the crowd uneasily. “I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Just don’t go wandering off alone. Here, put these in the box.” He handed her a coil of audio cables and Shan went back to packing. She continued to scan the crowd, but she knew Jorge rarely left his neighborhood. She’d never known him to venture this far downtown.
Quinn and Ty were stowing the last of the gear as Shan climbed into the van.
She paused. “Crap,” she said, climbing back out. “I left Quinn’s jacket in the band room.”
“Better hurry up,” Dan said, “I want to get out of here before all those drunken Goths start looking for somebody to sacrifice.”
“I’ll just be a sec. I know right where it is.” Shan dashed back into the building. She made her way through the still substantial crowd and slipped backstage. After pausing to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the near darkness, she went to the old dressing room still equipped with a stage mirror, milky around the edges and rimmed with white lights.
She groped for the light switch and the mirror blazed. She spotted Quinn’s jacket immediately. It was right where she’d left it, hanging on the back of a chair. She slipped it on and turned off the light, then headed back down the passageway that led into the club. They’d turned on some canned music and the weird, Goth beat was pounding at an unbelievable volume.
Suddenly she stopped. She could see a figure in front of the door, bathed from behind in a red glow cast by the exit sign. “Who’s there?” she asked, her heart in her throat.
No response, at least none that she could hear over the music.
Jorge. She’d known it was him. Why, why hadn’t she trusted her instincts? Her hands involuntarily shot to her abdomen, where the point of his knife had left a bruise.
The figure moved.
Shan didn’t wait. She turned and fled down the passageway, away from the entrance to the club. Her high heels impeded her but, when she tried to kick them free, she tripped and went sprawling. She rolled quickly, but he was already over her and she flinched, holding her hands in front of her face, already feeling the sting of the switchblade.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?”
She lowered her hands. It was Quinn, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“I told you not to wander off alone.” He extended his hand, frowning. “Are you all right?”
She found her voice. “I’m fine. I just freaked for a minute. I thought you were him. That creepy guy, I mean.” She scrambled to her feet, wincing. She’d scraped both knees and they stung.
He was still eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she assured him, limping a little as she hurried down the passageway. “Fine.”
When they arrived at home, Shan grabbed the guitars and went upstairs. By the time they finished unloading, she was hiding out in the bathroom. Her hands shook as she dosed, blowing the smoke out the window. She listened to the voices in the living room. They lingered for a long time, longer than usual after a gig, but she stayed put and eventually she heard Quinn and Ty leave.
She opened the door. The apartment was silent. Dan and Denise must have gone to bed. Shan went to her room and took off the black dress. It was ruined now, badly torn when she fell.
What a jerk she was, panicking over nothing. She could imagine what Quinn was thinking. He hadn’t said anything to the others, but kept giving her suspicious looks all the way home.
The H had calmed her down, but she knew she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. She changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, then took Joanie and headed for the roof.
She settled in her metal chair. Joanie was just slightly out of tune and she concentrated on adjusting the peg. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and she breathed in the cool air, feeling herself begin to relax for the first time all day.
Then, behind her on the dark roof, someone cleared his throat.
chapter 12
Shan turned. Jorge was leaning against the door into the building, casually flicking his seven-inch blade open and closed. He smiled.
“Hi, querida.” He started toward her. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. Shan’s eyes were riveted to the knife in his hand, glimmering in the dim light of the rooftop. “Is it a good time to finish our discussion?” Even his voice sounded slow, like a record playing on the wrong speed.
She rose from the chair. Joanie slid from her lap, landing on the ground with a soft slur of notes. Shan backed away as Jorge continued to advance, one step at a time. It felt like they were doing a dance.
When he’d moved far enough from the door, Shan made a dash for the stairwell. She was almost there when she felt sudden agony across the back of her head as Jorge grabbed her hair. He used it to jerk her to the ground and, as she hit, she felt the gravel scraping against her cheek and hands. She got to her knees, wincing, then she heard the metallic click and the blade was pressing into the flesh under her chin. She froze.
His breath was against her ear. “I want my fucking money, bitch.”
“I have five hundred dollars,” she whispered, feeling the point of the knife against her voice box. She knew it could slice through her flesh like butter. “Just let me go down and get it.”
He moved the blade and she started to get up, then he swung his foot. When his heavy work boot connected with her tailbone she screamed in pain, dropping back onto the roof. He kicked her again, his boot slamming into her ribs this time.
She assumed a fetal position, which she knew from long experience was safest during a beating. She wrapped her arms around her legs and ducked her head, tensing for the next blow.
She stayed that way for what felt like an hour, but she knew in reality that it was only seconds. Cautiously, she raised her head.
Jorge was no longer standing over her. She couldn’t see him at all, but she had a clear path to the door. She scrambled to her knees, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side. She looked around and gasped. “Put that down!”
Jorge was near the edge of the roof, one foot resting on the ledge. In his hands was Joanie.
“I see you’re still playing your mama’s guitar,” he said.
She got to her feet, winced, gripped her side. “Give it to me, Jorge!” She moved toward him. Just as her fingers were about to touch Joanie’s wood grain, he pulled it away and extended his arm, holding the guitar out over the edge of the roof, nine stories above the street.
“What else you gonna do for me?” he asked.
; “Give me my guitar!”
He tossed it lightly into the air then caught it, leaning a little farther out into space. “How about you get down on your knees? Show me how grateful you are?”
“Grateful for what?”
“Grateful that I didn’t cut your fuckin’ throat,” he replied, “or at least that I didn’t give you more scars than you already got. I still might. I could slice your pretty face to ribbons. Then the big blond guy you’re screwing won’t want ya.” Her face must have betrayed something, because he suddenly looked uglier. “Yeah, I seen him. I been watching you all week. He wouldn’t be with you if your face was one big fucking scab, now, would he?”
“I’m not with him,” she said. Why do I have to keep explaining this? she wondered irrationally, her eyes glued to the guitar in Jorge’s hand.
“Don’t care if you are,” he said, swinging Joanie like a pendulum. He reached out with his other hand and caught Shan by the front of the sweater to yank her closer.
“Give us a kiss, querida,” he whispered, “then get down on your fucking knees.”
Shan could see the gaps in his teeth, his scabbed skin, the bilious yellow of his eyes. She remembered what it was like to be in his bed, his hands all over her, his cock inside of her.
She drew her head back.
And spit in his face.
He looked shocked for a moment, then his face twisted. He let go of the guitar.
Shan flung herself past him, her arms stretching out over the edge of the roof. She thought she felt her fingers just graze the guitar’s body, then she was watching Joanie soar through the air, tumbling end over end in a graceful downward trajectory.
Shan made a sound like an animal in pain but she only had a moment to mourn, because the next thing she knew she was sprawling across the roof with Jorge bearing down on her. His fingers closed around her windpipe. “Now let’s work on that face, querida.”
Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) Page 10