Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1)

by Bogino, Jeanne

  He didn’t. “I loved you so much,” he said, instead. “More than I ever thought I could love someone. I don’t think you ever believed that, really, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t.” She shook her head. “But that didn’t have anything to do with you. That was me, all me.”

  “I should have said it more.” He sighed. “I should have told you I loved you, every day.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. I never thought I was worthy of it, your love.”

  “You were, though. You’re an amazing woman, Shan. I always thought that. I still do.”

  She smiled then. “Actually, I think I might be doing some amazing stuff.” He eyed her expectantly. “I’m writing, Q. A lot. And I think some of the tunes might be…well, sort of great.”

  “Yeah?” He smiled, too, for the first time. “I’d like to hear them. And the timing is good. We have an album to assemble and we’re short on material.”

  She regarded him with surprise. “I figured you were taking care of that.”

  He grimaced. “I’m not having a great creative spell. For some reason, everything I write turns into a women-suck song.”

  She gasped, flushed, then doubled over as peal after peal of laughter erupted from her. In a moment Quinn was laughing, too. They stood there, holding on to either side of the desk, laughing together.

  “Oh God,” she groaned, wiping tears from her eyes. “This feels so good, that we can still be this way.” Her words were enough to wipe the smile from his face. “That we can laugh, I mean,” she hastened to add. “You know, we started out as friends. It’s a good place to go back to.”

  “I hope we can, someday. I’m not feeling it yet, though,” he replied candidly.

  She waited for him to elaborate, but he seemed to be finished speaking. “How are you feeling, these days?”

  “Honestly?” She nodded, biting her lower lip. “I don’t feel much of anything. Especially about you.”

  “You don’t feel anything about me?” Her chest began to hurt. “How can that be?”

  “I’m not sure. I think there’s just been too much angst. Too much shit. I’m numb.” He passed a weary hand over his face. “But there’s our work. We’ll still have that, I suppose.”

  “Do you want to try writing together?”

  “I’m not there yet, either. Maybe, after some time passes.”

  “I know.” She forced a smile. “We have to be ready.”

  “Sounds like you learned something from me, after all.” She nodded, and he turned away. “Could you ask Oda to bring Angie down?”

  It was a dismissal, but she thrust her chin out. “No.”

  He glanced up. “No?”

  “No,” she repeated. “Come upstairs and get her. It’s where she lives, after all.” She headed upstairs. After a moment, he followed.

  A little while later, Shan stood on the front porch and watched Quinn buckle Angie into her car seat, then waved until his car disappeared. She went back inside the house and into the bedroom, where she closed the door and sat down at her dressing table.

  I loved you so much, he’d said. Past tense.

  She lifted a frame that was lying facedown on the dressing table’s polished top, then looked at it for a long, long moment. This photograph had occupied a place on her dresser since SoHo. The city had changed, the room, even the dresser, but the picture remained.

  She’d gradually divested her house of all the photographs of Quinn. She’d relocated a few to Angie’s room and packed the rest away in a box, which she hid in the back of the closet.

  This was the only one left. It was their first photo, the one Denise had taken at the street fair in Greenwich Village. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to put it away, but she couldn’t stand to look at it, either. So she’d compromised, by leaving it facedown on the dressing table.

  She hadn’t looked at it in a long time. Quinn’s mouth was wreathed in that boyish smile that had captured her heart right from the beginning and a single blond lock dangled over one of his crystalline eyes. She ran her finger across the glass.

  Silly. Of course she couldn’t push it aside. It was only a picture, after all. Just a memory, captured forever behind a piece of glass.

  She opened the mahogany jewel box on the dressing table. It had been a gift from Quinn, purchased at an antique shop in some anonymous midwestern town. She slid her fingers down inside of it, feeling for a tiny button. She found it, pushed, and a small door sprang open.

  A secret compartment. Quinn had demonstrated when he gave her the jewel box, stating that it was a good place for expensive jewelry. When she’d pointed out that most of her jewelry wasn’t that expensive, he’d grinned. “You can use it for a place to keep your secret treasures.”

  The compartment was empty. She’d never had anything she considered a secret treasure, until now.

  She raised her left hand. Her diamond and garnet ring still adorned the third finger. She’d taken off her wedding band months earlier but, like the photograph on the dresser, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to put away this circle of green and gold.

  She grasped the ring and tugged. It came off with difficulty and, when she finally wrenched it free, it left a white impression in its wake. She gazed at the ring for a moment, then lifted the photograph.

  She took one long, last look, then brought it to her lips to kiss the glass over the stray blond lock. “I’ll always love you, Q,” she murmured and slipped the photo into the secret compartment. She placed the ring on top of it and took hold of the little mahogany door, pausing for a moment to look at the treasures inside.

  “Blessed, and released,” she whispered.

  She closed the door.

  chapter 48

  You know when we first met I was just a little girl

  who thought she knew

  how to be strong

  You taught me everything and I followed you around

  like a little puppy dog

  You were the supernova that made my world shine and

  kept me alive

  I know you liked it that way, when you set up the rules

  that steered my life

  But I’m not a little pet now, I’ve got the right to get upset,

  find my own way

  around the world

  I’m not a dog at all, I’m an angel who might fall but still can fly

  With wings unfurled

  Yes, I can fly

  So very high

  Quinn watched Shan press the stop button, then return to the conference table. She looked around at her bandmates. Denise and Oda were there in the studio, too, for moral support, he supposed. It was the first time the band was hearing her new tunes, the ones she’d written entirely on her own.

  No one said anything for a minute. He was quiet, too, tapping the tabletop with his fingers. “Well?” she said. “What do you think? Are some of them good for the new album?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Dan exclaimed. “All of them. It’s a great collection, Shan. But this last one. You really want to call it ‘Puppy’?”

  “Oh, you can’t change that,” said Denise. “Girls will love it! And it’s girly music, but with an edge, don’t you think? Cyndi Lauper meets riot girl, or something.”

  “Definitely the grrrls,” Ty laughed, “because I heard some punk in there. It’s different, for sure—jazz-pop fusion with a punky edge. Cool stuff!”

  “Hard-rock rhythms, though. Very cool,” Dave said, grinning. “Nice work, Shan. I notice you left lots of room for harmonizing guitars. Not so much keyboard this time, though.” He snickered.

  Quinn hadn’t said a word. He was staring at the tabletop, still tapping away with his fingertips. “Q,” Shan prompted, “what do you think?”

  Slowly, he raised his head. His face felt hot and he suspected it was very red. “I think that tune is well named,” he said, “because it’s as drippy and sappy and crappy as a piece of puppy shit. Unlike the rest of the tape, which is more like a pil
e of dog shit.”

  Shan gasped, but he noticed that the rest of his band didn’t make a sound. Wise of them. “Uh, it’s a little sentimental,” she said, clearly shaken, “but don’t you think it has commercial appeal?”

  “No doubt,” Quinn snorted. “Nothing like a little schmaltz to captivate the masses.”

  “It isn’t schmaltz,” Shan said. “This song was written right from the heart.”

  “I didn’t realize the new album was the proper forum for airing out all the stained marital sheets. Since it is, why don’t I throw in a few of my women-suck songs?”

  “But I’m not airing anything,” Shan said. “I’m just letting my emotions guide the music.”

  “Fine. We’ll make sure the liner notes make it perfectly clear that you wrote this dreck. I’ll see what kind of work I can do on the music. Some of it’s salvageable, but the lyrics?” He shrugged. “I can’t help you there. Shit is shit, no matter how much sugar you dump on top of it. You just wind up with sweetened shit.”

  “My songs are not shit!” Now she was the one with the flushed face, cheeks as red as a bad rash on a baby’s ass.

  “This tape is a thirty-two-minute-long dump,” he decreed, “but if it’s all we’ve got…”

  “Maybe if you had a little more to contribute—”

  “Sorry,” he snapped. “I’m not as adept as you are at converting my personal tragedies into pop tunes.”

  Shan’s face took on a frigid cast. She got up and went to the little refrigerator he kept down there for beer, removing a bottle of champagne. “I think we should have a toast,” she said, “in honor of the new album.”

  “How festive,” Quinn said as she filled flutes and passed them around. “Here’s to the new album. Let’s call it Quinntessence: Excrement.”

  She ignored him, but the color on her cheeks was deepening as she raised her glass. “To Quinntessence,” she began. Everyone dutifully picked up their glasses. “It’s been a long haul, but here we are, together again. I’m excited to be gearing up for this new project…”

  “Without the injection of semen,” Quinn said, “a substance that apparently has been rejected in favor of vaginal secretions.”

  “Quinn, shut up and let her talk,” Denise said, glaring at Quinn.

  “You shut up, Denise,” he shot back.

  “You really should both shut up,” Oda remarked.

  Shan raised her voice, talking over all of them. “…and I’m especially proud of what we’re accomplishing, blazing a new trail for women in music. Especially with this album, we’ll be leading the way for other girl rockers to make music about the issues women face, both in the rock community and in society—”

  “Oh please,” Quinn said. “This band is not a platform for pussy.”

  Shan whirled on him. “Twat rock, remember?”

  “Screw twat rock,” Quinn sneered. “This music deserves a brand new name. How about tampon pop? A compilation of whiny, hormonal, premenstrual tunes performed by the most self-righteous, self-absorbed cunt of the century.”

  Shan’s eyes narrowed as Quinn set down the untasted flute of champagne and headed for the door. She put down her own flute, then picked up the bottle.

  Dan’s eyes widened. “Q, look out!”

  Quinn began to turn, caught a yellow flash out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The bottle smashed to pieces on the cement wall behind him, showering him with champagne and glass shards. He felt a sting as a large chip ricocheted off the wall, catching him just under his right eye.

  He winced and touched the spot, then stared in disbelief at the stain of blood on his fingertips. “What in the fuck is wrong with you? Have you gone completely insane?”

  Shan was coming straight at him and the old hatred was back in her eyes. “I’m self-absorbed? I am? What about you, you prick? You took my fucking life away from me!”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but she punched him before he could utter a sound. Quinn’s lips collided with his teeth and he cursed as he tasted more blood.

  “Stop it!” he commanded, sidestepping to evade the fingers that streaked toward his face. Her nails raked his cheek as he hurriedly backed away. Thank God guitar players can’t have long nails! “I’m sorry I called you a cunt! Stop hitting me!”

  She kept right on coming and pounded his chest with her clenched fists. “Go ahead! Hit me back! It would hurt less than finding you fucking a pile of frequent flyers in a hotel room!” She aimed a slap at his face and he deflected it, throwing her off balance. She stumbled and, when he grabbed her arm to steady her, she knocked the wind out of him with a well-placed shot to the gut.

  “Shan, knock it off! This is not fair! You know I would never hit you!” He succeeded in locking his arms around her and twisting her so she was facing away from him. “There! You’d better calm the fuck down, because—”

  His words broke off in midsentence as she flung her head back, catching him squarely in the nose. He saw stars and was silent for a moment, clutching her with his chin jammed against her shoulder to prevent her from head-butting him again.

  They were motionless and their combined heavy breathing was the only audible sound. Quinn snuck a glance at the rest of the room. Nobody was moving. Time seemed frozen.

  He took a deep breath. “Are you finished acting like a turbobitch?”

  She went slack in his arms and he caught her weight a little closer. His head snapped up and he regarded her with concern. Had she fainted? Then he saw that she’d pulled her feet right up off the ground, extending her legs straight out in front of her. He stared down at them for a moment, wondering what the hell she was trying to do.

  Thwack! She brought back both her heels with every bit of force her hundred-and-fifteen-pound frame could muster. Quinn flung her away and sank to the floor, gripping his shins.

  She swung over him, formidable as an Amazon warrior, and he flinched. “I give up! What do you want? I’ll do it! Only stop hitting me!”

  She wavered and, in that split second, went from giantess to Lilliputian, tiny and fragile and young as the sixteen-year-old child-woman he’d met in a SoHo loft four light-years before.

  “You can’t give me what I want,” she whispered, beginning to tremble.

  He got to his feet, wincing at the pressure on his injured shins, and regarded her with caution. Her face had gone a sick, cottage-cheesy color. “Are you all right?”

  Her eyes brightened ominously.

  “No! Shan, don’t…” She collapsed and he caught her just before she hit the ground, completely overcome by the violence of her sobs.

  “Stop it,” he ordered, bracing her against his chest. “You never cry, remember?”

  A sound came out of her that was something like a keen, a long, drawn-out wail of anguish.

  “Maybe I was wrong,” he heard Oda say. “It’s possible she hasn’t let herself feel all of the pain, after all.”

  Shan buried her face against Quinn’s shoulder and howled like a she-wolf discovering the slain body of her only cub. It was the most heartbreaking sound he’d ever heard.

  “Sounds like she’s feeling it now,” Dave said.

  “I think the Q-man is the one feeling the pain,” Ty said, “since she just kicked the living shit out of him.”

  Nosy fucks. “Shan, you’ve got to calm down,” Quinn said. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” He looked around at their friends, all watching with interest, until he met Dan’s eyes. “Leave, please.”

  Dan’s paralysis evaporated and he jumped to his feet. “Yeah. Let’s go, guys.” Oda, Ty, and Dave made a beeline for the stairs, but Denise hung back.

  “Not a chance,” she chirped, her round, inquisitive eyes fixed on the drama before her as she reached for a handful of chips from a nearby bowl.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Quinn struggled to keep Shan in an upright position. No easy task, as she was blubbering uncontrollably and her body was as limp and amorphous as a glob of overcooked spaghetti. “Denis
e, I’m warning you…”

  Denise scowled as Dan caught her arm and hauled her to her feet. “But—” He pushed her after the others. “We can’t go now!” Dan gave her a firm shove, propelling her up the stairs. “For God’s sake, Dan! Don’t you want to see if they get back together?” she entreated.

  “Christ, Denise, give them a little privacy. This isn’t the Jerry Springer show!” Dan banged the door shut behind them.

  Quinn sank to the floor and held Shan. She wailed and sobbed, and pretty soon he was drenched in her tears. He looked down at himself.

  The front of his shirt was covered with blood.

  “What—?” He pulled away and looked at her face, then heaved a resonant sigh and moved her off his lap. He propped her against the wall with her legs splayed out in front of her and her face buried in her hands, her shoulders quivering as the furious fit of weeping continued.

  Quinn went into the tiny basement bathroom, returning with a fistful of wet paper towels. He knelt down, pushed her hands aside, and began to mop off her face. Shan opened her eyes and stared and stared at the blossom of red on his chest. “What…what’s that?” she gasped.

  “You gave yourself a bloody nose. Put your head back.” She let it fall backward obediently, still sniveling. “I told you you’d make yourself sick, but you never listen.” He pressed the paper towels over her nose. “Fucking women. None of you listen. You’re as bad as Denise. She never listens, either, especially when she’s in nosy, meddling bitch mode.”

  “She’s our friend,” Shan protested through the paper towels. “Don’t call her that.”

  “She couldn’t mind her own goddamned business if her life depended on it. Didn’t you see the way Dan had to drag her out of here?” He removed the towels and squinted at her nose. “I think the bleeding stopped.”

  She lifted her head and touched her nose gingerly. “Maybe she does interfere and meddle, but only because she loves us.”

  “Loves you,” Quinn said. “She hates my fucking guts.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Shan said and sniffed. “She loves you, too. She told me so herself.”