Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  She went downstairs to the kitchen and dosed. Denise, Dan, and Ty were at the table, the guys sharing a post-breakfast joint while Denise marked up the Help Wanted section of the Los Angeles Times with a yellow highlighter. There was no sign of Quinn.

  “There’s some eggs left on the stove,” Denise said. “What was all that racket last night?”

  “I almost forgot what it was like listening to the two of you fight all the time,” Ty added. “Let’s try to keep it to a dull roar, okay? At least at bedtime.”

  Shan escaped to the front porch, where she stopped dead. Quinn was outside, tinkering with his motorcycle. He glared at her and she retreated back into the house, her nose in the air. A few minutes later, she heard the roar of his engine as he departed.

  Dan took Denise out job hunting shortly afterward, brightly annotated Times under her arm. A little while later, Ty poked his head into her room. “I’m headed into town. Do you want to come along?”

  Shan declined politely, although she was low on shampoo. She was dangerously close to broke. Quinn had offered to cover the rent until they started working, but she’d refused, unwilling to accept his help again. Now, she supposed, it was just as well.

  After Ty left, she surveyed her new bedroom. Space in the van had been precious, so Shan had left behind her bureau and most of the few other bits of furniture she owned. All she’d brought was her futon, the stool she used for practicing, and a small bookshelf.

  She set about unpacking. She unrolled her futon and made it up with her only set of sheets. She emptied her various bags and boxes, stowing her clothes in the tiny closet under the eaves. She unpacked her library of books and CDs, set up her small boom box, and hung her posters of Dylan and the Dead and her Monet print. She arranged her remaining possessions on top of the bookshelf: her brush, a bottle of sandalwood blend, her jewelry box, a few other odds and ends.

  Then she unwrapped a newspaper-swathed bundle. It contained two framed photographs. One was of her mother, which she set on top of the bookshelf. The other was the photograph of her and Quinn. She glowered and stuffed it back in the box, then shoved the box into the closet.

  She went downstairs and wandered through the house, which was quiet as a tomb, not even the sound of a passing car to break its silence. She went to the back door to gaze out at the creek.

  Coyote Creek, as Quinn had called it, was picturesque against the scrubby hills. A large, flat rock just downstream from the house captured Shan’s attention. There was a folding chair set up on the rock. A big California sycamore growing beside the creek cast some shade over it.

  It looked like a nice place to play. She retrieved her guitar and headed downstream.

  Hours later she was still there. It turned out to be a fine place for composing, her chords ringing sweet and silvery against the hillside. The music was demulcent for her troubled mind as she worked on the lyrics she’d conceived for “Echo Flats,” and she was so absorbed that she never heard the others when they returned.

  Somehow I know I’m home though I’ve only just arrived

  The way my feet meet the earth makes my body feel alive

  I’ve been looking for a place, the place where I belong

  And I think that place is here—I feel strong, strong, strong

  Been a force of one forever, always on my own

  But here at Echo Flats, I’m finally not alone

  “Nice.”

  She looked up, startled. Quinn was under the sycamore tree, listening.

  “I like it,” he said. “A lot. I can really feel those lyrics.”

  She didn’t reply, just kept playing. “I see how they’ve captivated you,” he continued. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. You didn’t even hear me come outside.”

  She played louder, to drown him out. The notes were jarring in the quiet.

  Quinn heaved a deep sigh and climbed onto the rock to sit down beside her chair. She stopped long enough to shoot him an unfriendly look, then began playing again.

  He reached out and grabbed the neck of the guitar near the twelfth fret, effectively muting her. “Look, I get it, okay? I’m not stupid, you know, and I’m not completely insensitive, either. I see how it is between us.”

  “And how is that?”

  “We have this thing,” he said. “An attraction…connection…whatever you want to call it.”

  She’d call it love, but she knew better than to say that.

  “It’s intense, whatever it is,” he continued, “but you have to take it for what it is and not try to turn it into something more.”

  She drew back. “What do you think I’m trying to turn it into?”

  “You want a mate,” he told her. “Something stable. A home, probably a wedding someday—all that happily-ever-after jazz, and you want me to be the one to make it happen.”

  “I’ve never said anything of the kind. Never.”

  “You don’t have to say it. I just know, because I know you. And I can understand why that kind of security would be important to you. There’s never been a single solitary thing in your entire life that was safe and lasting, and that you could believe in.”

  “There’s you,” she interjected softly, but he only looked sad.

  “That isn’t who I am. I’d do almost anything for you, Shan, but I can’t do that. I’d end up hurting you and I couldn’t live with myself if I did. You’ve been hurt enough.”

  She turned her face away again. “Why am I here, then?”

  He took the hand holding the guitar pick and squeezed. “Because of the music, angel. It’s why we belong together and why I’m going to make damned sure that we stay together.”

  “You don’t need me to make music.”

  He smiled at her, although his eyes were still solemn. “I do, though. What you and I have—it’s magic. Extraordinary, like Becker and Fagen. Jagger and Richards.” She made a face and he laughed. “Garcia and Hunter?”

  She smiled a little, in spite of herself. “Lennon and McCartney, you mean,” she said, the one songwriting team whose greatness they actually agreed upon.

  He nodded. “Someday they’ll include Marshall and O’Hara in that lineup. We’re going to make it, the two of us together, and I’m not about to fuck that up just for a piece of ass.”

  She lifted her chin. “Is that all it would be?”

  “For me it would,” he said. “I mean, I’m not saying it wouldn’t be awesome. If I thought it was something you could handle, I’d do you in a second. For you, though…”

  “I get it,” she said. “You’re saying you don’t want anything more than what we have and I couldn’t get by with anything less. You’re my family, Q. The only family I’ve got. So…”

  “So we stay right where we are for now.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

  “I mean that we’re friends, and roommates, and bandmates,” he said. “We leave it at that.”

  “But you said ‘for now.’ Does that mean things might change?”

  “I don’t have a fucking crystal ball,” he said, beginning to look irritated. “Who knows what will happen down the road?”

  “But,” she persisted, “do you think that someday…”

  He put a finger over her lips. “We’ll find out when someday comes, little girl. Now let it go.”

  She frowned, but held her tongue. He waited a few moments, then let go of her lip.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now that we have that settled, let me hear those lyrics again.”

  That night when Dave arrived for their first practice, Shan was still smarting. No matter how Quinn had tried to smooth it over, the fact remained that she’d blatantly thrown herself at him and he’d rejected her. Quinn, who’d had more women than anyone she’d ever known.

  She tried to ignore her humiliation and focus on the music. She was looking forward to showing the guys some of her new guitar tricks and she knew that her voice had improved, too. She’d done her exercises faithfu
lly, worked to stretch herself vocally, and she had a chance to demonstrate when they practiced a Queen cover that was a standard part of their repertoire. Despite everything, it felt good to be back with her boys and she opened up and sang her heart out.

  They sailed along with tremendous energy until Ty got tangled up and hit a clanger on the climb. It was jarring enough that they stopped, everyone laughing except Quinn.

  “Hold up,” he ordered, when the mirth had died down. He focused his attention on Shan. “Sing this,” he said, and struck an F2 on the Kur.

  She complied and he had her keep singing, playing higher and higher notes until he stopped at F6. “You’ve come into your full voice,” he told her, “and it’s damned close to four octaves.” He didn’t make any further comment, but she could see the goose bumps.

  He was less pleased by her guitar stylings. During “Wanderlust” he stopped them again with a swift raising of his hand. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that solo?” he asked her.

  Shan eyed him quizzically. “I’m playing it in G minor.”

  “What are you doing that for?”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean? I’m in the right key.”

  “It’s supposed to be a solo. Why are you playing what I’m playing?”

  “I like it,” Dave offered. “It’s tight as a drum. I’d play it the same way.”

  “Of course you like it. If I wanted the solo to sound like Dazzle,” Quinn told Shan, who was beginning to burn, “I would have had him play it. Have you lost your touch?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she shot back. “In fact, I think I’ve improved. Markedly.”

  “You sound like you belong on a Muzak recording,” he said. “Where’s the flash?”

  Her fingers tightened on the neck of her guitar. “All you’ve ever done is complain how I’m too rough! Now I’m too smooth? What are you, schizo or something?”

  “The rough edge is what makes your playing special. Reinhardt hammered you on it, didn’t he, and you knuckled under. I told you not to let that happen. You can learn the technical stuff without giving up your personal style. When the fuck are you going to learn to think for yourself?”

  “Fine.” She was shaking with outrage. “I’ll give you a goddamned rough edge.”

  They went back to the song and, this time when they got to the solo, Shan sprang off into a wild eruption that noodled frantically around the tight rhythm parts. When they finished, she was perspiring and turned around, ready to jump in Quinn’s face when he lit into her.

  Instead, he was grinning. “That’s my girl!”

  Dave grinned also, raising an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a departure.”

  “You couldn’t play that way if you tried,” Quinn agreed. “I’m not saying you did it well,” he said to Shan. “It was a splattery wreck, but you’ve got the idea. I’ll work with you on it.”

  She didn’t respond, but took off the Angel and scrounged around inside her guitar case.

  “Why are you packing? We’re not done,” Quinn said. “You’ve got intensity, but now there’s no structure. What I want is the psychotic angel we know and love. You’re on the right track but, instead of Lizzie Borden, we’re getting Rain Man.”

  “I’m not packing.”

  “Then what are you doing?” She continued to fiddle around inside the case. “What’s your problem? Have you gotten so soft you can’t take a little constructive criticism?”

  She shot him a deadly look. “I broke a string. Is it all right with you if I change it?”

  Quinn smirked. “I’ll do some one on one with you,” he said, “and show you how to get volume without damaging the equipment.” Shan ignored him, lifting a bottle of beer to her lips. “That guitar was expensive. You shouldn’t be treating it like a goddamn drum kit.”

  She whirled and flung the bottle across the living room. Quinn ducked and the bottle bounced off the wall behind him, spraying him with Corona. “You might be a magician on that keyboard,” she snarled, “but you’re not nearly the guitar player I am. Not by half, and you’re not going tell me how to play!” She shoved her guitar into the case and yanked the top closed. Snatching it, she marched upstairs. “Screw you, Q,” she yelled before slamming her bedroom door.

  Quinn stared after her, his face frozen in shock. Dan and Ty exchanged incredulous glances and, behind them, Dave laughed softly. “Well,” he said, “I guess she told you.”

  They practiced every day for the next two weeks as the band adapted to their new member. Shan’s concerns about being pushed aside turned out to be groundless, as it became clear early on that Dave had no interest in competing for her spot.

  Not because he couldn’t play lead, because he could. When Dave soloed, he wove melodies that were strong and shimmery, an arresting contrast to her own edgier riffs. But his strength was in the rhythm and in the silver-toned tremolo chords that illustrated how he’d earned the nickname Dazzle.

  It made the music more complicated, especially given the presence of the keyboard. Quinn soloed often, even more than she did, but Dave didn’t compete with him, either. Shan suspected this had as much to do with his recruitment as his skill, since Quinn would never stand for anyone challenging his role as the musical pilot of the band.

  He was a pleasant, easy-going sort of bandmate, a genuinely nice guy who fit right into the group. Thoughtful, too. As they set up for their first gig at a small LA rock club called Bluenote, Dave produced a handful of guitar picks, a whorl of bright colors in a tie-dye pattern. “Here.” He dropped them into Shan’s hand. “A little something to celebrate our first gig together.”

  “Too cool!” Shan exclaimed, examining them. “Thanks, Dave. That’s so sweet of you.”

  He smiled when she looked up at him. “Don’t be nervous. It’s going to be good.”

  Shan was indeed nervous. Apart from the fact that this was her first gig in a new city and with a newly configured band, she and Quinn were still on the outs and she wasn’t looking forward to sharing a stage with him. She couldn’t shrug off the shame of that night and it clearly bothered him, too. Outside of band matters he’d barely spoken to her, even though they were continuing to develop their new material. Now they worked in the music room instead of his bedroom.

  She didn’t realize just how much he’d been holding back until she went outside to the van where Quinn was handing out equipment. “This gig is costing us a fortune,” he was ranting at Dan.

  “Well, we knew that was how it would be until we got established,” Dan said, accepting the bass amp. “It don’t happen overnight, dude.”

  “I know, but fifty fucking tickets! We only sold thirty, so we won’t break even unless we pack the place.” He handed Dan the cymbal case, closing his mouth when he caught sight of Shan.

  Dan looked over his shoulder, saw her, and stopped talking, as well. He took the cymbals, hoisted the amp, and sped inside the building. “Quinn, is this a pay-to-play gig?” she demanded.

  Pay-to-play was an avaricious system that LA clubs used as insurance against poor turnout. Bands had to prepurchase some set number of tickets, then sell them on their own to earn back their money. The cover tonight was ten bucks, so if they’d paid for fifty tickets…

  “You had to lay out five hundred dollars?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Everybody chipped in.”

  “Everybody except me, you mean.” A fresh floweret of humiliation bloomed inside her, staining her cheeks red. “Damn it, I’m part of this band, too. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He was still inside the van and he crouched until he was eye level with her. “What good would it have done? You’re broke.”

  “Not completely. I could have kicked in something, at least.”

  “I’ve got eyes, Shan. You haven’t eaten anything but ramen noodles for two weeks and your methadone stash is almost gone.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say, because he was right. She’d been counting on tonight’s take to replenish it. She s
natched her guitars and went inside.

  She plugged in her Peavey and began tuning up, avoiding everyone’s eyes as they set up around her. She felt like an utter failure. Here she was again, the weak link who couldn’t hold up her end of the band responsibilities. She stayed quiet during sound check and, as soon as they finished, escaped to the bar to order a club soda.

  After a few minutes, Quinn slipped into the seat beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I mean, that’s what I was trying not to do. I know you’re almost out of cash, so I covered your share. I figured it would be better if you just didn’t know.”

  When Shan turned to face him, she took one look at his sheepish, contrite expression and fell in love with him all over again. He was trying to protect her, she knew he was, but the wave of tenderness that swept her was firmly contained by a bank of residual indignation. “I know you think you’re helping, but I need you to stop treating me like I’m a child. I’m a big girl, Q. Okay?”

  “I’ll try,” he said reluctantly, “but I can’t help worrying about you. You never say anything when you get into trouble. You just keep your mouth shut and suffer.”

  “What can you do? You’re almost broke, yourself,” she said and he shrugged.

  “I’ve got plastic. Please don’t starve and go into methadone withdrawal just because you’re too pissed off at me to ask for help.”

  “But I’m always taking help from you! It was different when I first got here, when I thought we were going to be…” she hesitated.

  “A couple?” he finished and she flushed again. “We are, in a way. A couple of friends. Good friends. I told you before that I’d do anything for you and I will. I’ve got your back, angel.”

  His words were so heartfelt, his eyes so earnest, that she melted. “I know that, Q,” she said, “and I’m so glad, because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”