Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (11 page)

It was such an uncharacteristic outburst from mellow Dan that both Shan and Quinn were startled into laughter. Dan wrapped another pillow around his head with a groan.

Ty set his Fender Jazz aside and cleared his throat. “It’s time we set some new ground rules.”

Quinn regarded him dubiously. “What do you mean
new
rules?”

“You’re spending too much time debating every fucking thing. We’re supposed to be
practicing
. That’s why we call it
band practice
.”

“
We’re
the ones coming up with the tunes you’re so excited about,” Quinn said.

“Q’s right,” Shan chimed in. “
We’re
doing the work. All you have to do is learn the songs.”

Dan sighed. “You know, I’ve noticed that it seems to be just fine for the two of you to insult each other, but if me or Ty state a different opinion, then one of you immediately jumps in to defend the other one. How is that fair?” Quinn shrugged and Shan thrust her chin out, frowning.

Ty tried again. “Look, we’re not saying anything negative about the music. It’s the balls—we’re all in agreement there. It’s your method that needs to change.”

“Ty’s exactly right,” Dan said. “When we’re together, we should be concentrating on learning the new material. There’s
four
of us, remember? It isn’t just the O’Hara-Marshall show.”

Shan’s eyes went huge with guilty realization. “I’m sorry. I never thought of it that way.”

“I’m not sorry,” Quinn said disagreeably. “The music we’re turning out benefits all of us, and you two”—he pointed at Dan and Ty—“are blocking.”

“Can’t we just go back to the way we handled your writing before? He always had it finished before he played it for us,” Ty told Shan.

“But we’re bringing it to you as we go along so you can be part of the process,” Shan said. “This way, the whole band is contributing.”

“They contribute plenty after the songs are written,” Quinn said, “and that’s how it should be. You were the one who insisted on a group love fest, which I knew would turn into a cluster fuck.”

“But don’t you think it’s better if we all work together?” Shan persisted, ignoring Quinn. “It’s a more organic way of writing and then the songs belong to all of us, not just me and Quinn.”

“You two are having enough trouble collaborating just with each other,” Dan said. “If all four of us are involved, we won’t get anything done at all.”

“Right,” Ty said, “so let’s drink on it. All composing takes place
outside
of band practice. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Quinn said immediately. Shan nodded reluctantly and, as a clink of bottles carried the motion, she swiped a hand across her eyes. They were a little watery and she was perspiring, too. “Excuse me for a minute.”

Dan waited until she left the room, then leaned forward to fix Quinn with an evil grin. “Hey, Mr. Footloose,” he whispered, “who’s pussy whipped
now
?”

Quinn’s face turned to granite. “Certainly not me.”

“Bullshit,” Dan jeered as Ty chuckled. “I can’t believe the shit that little girl gives you. And you’re not even fucking her!”

Quinn scowled. He didn’t have a good comeback, because he definitely did put up with more shit from Shan than he’d ever put up with from anyone else, male or female. Dan’s barbs were right on, which made them supremely irritating.

Not that he was whipped, he assured himself as Shan came back, now dry-eyed and composed. Pussy struck, maybe, but not pussy whipped. There was a difference. A big one.

She settled down on the pillows next to Quinn. “They’re right,” she said to him, “and I feel terrible. I never meant to act that way.”

“You’re hanging out too much with Quinntila here,” Dan said, “and you’re picking up his bad habits.”

“Not much chance of that,” she assured him, “unless I acquire a taste for inflatable blondes.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I never said I was opposed to an occasional brunette.”

He loved her curly hair and was always ruffling the shiny locks playfully. There was one little curl in particular that fascinated him. It dangled down her forehead just over her right eyebrow. Even when she pulled the rest of her hair into a braid, that one curl escaped defiantly.

He grabbed that little curl now and gave it a tug, but she tossed her head to yank it out of his grasp. “I’m not your type,” she said. “You’re just as rigid with your women as you are with your music.”

“I’m all for equal opportunity, though.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Ty chortled, “especially when you’re rigid.”

Quinn rose and flipped the cover over his keyboard.

“Are we stopping?” Ty asked.

“Might as well. You’ve completely destroyed my concentration.” Quinn dropped to his haunches to wind up the power cable to his Kurzweil. His T-shirt slipped out of the back of his jeans, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. Shan stared, transfixed.

“Give it a break,” Dan said. “We’ve been at it three and a half hours already. Don’t want to get stale, right?”

Quinn laughed. “Right.” He stood back up, and turned to check the clock. “What do you want to do about dinner?” He looked at Shan.

She quickly pulled her eyes up to his face. “You read my mind.”

“Why, you cooking?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope. I’m not a den mother. How about Chinese?”

“You’ll never make a good wife,” he told her. “You rely too much on take-out.”

“So do you. I’ve never eaten so much pizza in my life.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a wife,” he said with conviction. “Or get one, either.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “Why should I have to cook some guy’s food?”

“I like the Chinese idea,” Dan said. “But I’d rather go out. How about if I call Denise and tell her to meet us at Big Wong?”

“Speaking of wives,” Quinn snorted. “Works for me, as long as you keep the missus at the other end of the table.”

Shan rolled her eyes. “Yes, call her,” she told Dan, ignoring Quinn.

Later that night, they came back to the loft for a coaching session. Quinn assumed his customary position on the futon while Shan stood in front of a mic stand with her hand on her diaphragm. He watched her mouth formation as she began the scales.

As her lips shifted position with each note, he noticed again how lush and sensual they were. Watching them positioned against the cylindrical mic led him to idly wonder how they’d feel pressed against another cylindrical piece of equipment.

His erection was instantaneous. And obvious, he realized with dismay. If she happened to glance up, she couldn’t help but see that he was standing at full attention.

Abruptly, he rolled over on his stomach and tore his gaze away from her mouth. Instead he concentrated on her breathing. It was a hot night and she was dressed in a cropped white tank that stopped just above her navel. Her hand was resting over her diaphragm and, with each breath, the thin material tightened over her chest.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Suddenly his jeans felt two sizes too small. He had to get out of that stifling little room before he grabbed her and let her have it, right there on the convenient futon.

Shan broke off in the middle of a
ti
note. “Are you all right?” she asked, with some concern. He’d broken out in a sweat and his face was flushed.

“Fine.”
He rolled off the futon and scrambled to his feet.

“Are we stopping?” she asked as he stalked into the living room.

“Yes, we’re stopping,” he said testily, snatching up a stack of sheet music and positioning it strategically in front of his groin. “I’m done coaching you. I have better things to do than listen to you sing the goddamn scales.”

Shan drew back, stung. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that I’m sick and tired of being cooped up in this goddamn place and I’m sick and tired of you, too.”

Shan watched, openmouthed, as he stomped out of the loft, slamming the door behind him.

Quinn was preoccupied during the subway ride from SoHo to his sublet in the East Village. When he switched to the F train at Washington Square, someone sat next to him and he didn’t even notice.

He jumped when an elbow nudged him and when he turned, he discovered his neighbor Steve Markowitz. Steve was doing his residency at a clinic over near St. Vincent’s and Quinn had gotten to know him a little when he’d gone to have a suspicious burning sensation checked out. He had an absolute horror of STDs and was relieved when Steve diagnosed a minor urinary tract infection.

“I said hi,” Steve said, “but you seemed lost in thought.”

Quinn shrugged. “Long day.” He liked Steve. During his visit to the clinic, he’d gotten the third degree regarding sexual history and the young doctor had been taken aback at the number scribbled under partners. “As a doctor, I’m appalled,” Steve had told him. “As a man, I want to know your secret.”

They both disembarked at east Eighth Street. “I’ve had a long one, too,” Steve admitted. “Think I’ll stop for a beer. Want to join me?”

He indicated a tavern on the corner of Astor Place. Two women were getting out of a cab in front. One was a tall blonde, but it was the other woman who caught Quinn’s eye—a petite brunette with curly hair almost the same color as Shan’s.

“Sure,” he said and followed Steve into the tavern.

Just as Shan slipped the tooter into her mouth, someone rapped on her bedroom door. She jumped, stuffing the foil back in the drawer and slamming it shut. “Yes?”

“You almost ready?” Quinn’s voice. “Time to get moving.”

“Be right there!” She waited until she heard him move away before retrieving the foil. She finished the hit, then reached for a bottle of Visine to camouflage the redness in her eyes.

“Just in time to watch us finish packing,” Dan teased when she came into the living room “Just leaving it to us roadies, huh?”

“She always hauls her share,” Ty defended her. “Besides, she looks real cute.”

Quinn was carefully fitting the microphones into a cushioned box. There were a dozen of them, Beyerdynamic and Sennheiser. Shan had learned that they were specially ordered and quite expensive. The band had purchased them the year before at Quinn’s insistence. They had another set of mics, as well, perfectly respectable Shures, but Quinn was a stickler about sound equipment. “It doesn’t matter how well we play if the sound is bad,” he’d lectured, more than once.

When Quinn finished arranging the mics, he glanced at Shan. “That new?”

“Yeah. What do you think?” She spun to model her violet slip dress. It was almost sheer, decorated with beaded fringes that gave it a twenties flair, and she’d acquired a pair of sexy spike heels to go with it. Her hair fanned out as she turned, revealing that the dress was backless. Ty whistled and Quinn slid a hand beneath her curls to run his fingers across her bare back.

“Hey!” She leapt away. “No groping!” Every so often, he’d slip out of his usual nonchalance and flirt playfully with her. She found it disconcerting, to say the least.

“You’d better not turn your back on me, then. That little number is way too hot.” He began fingering the row of fringes that adorned her neckline.

Denise came out of her bedroom, resplendent in pink pleather and black mesh, and frowned when she saw Quinn’s hand on her roommate. “Go slobber on someone else,” she told him, catching hold of Shan’s arm and tugging her out of his reach.

The guys began inching the stack of equipment toward the door. Shan took up two of the guitar cases and waited while Denise gave her spiky red hair a last spritz. Together they descended the stairs. “You must be getting sick of hearing the same songs night after night,” Shan said.

“A little, but Dan likes it when I come. Besides,” Denise added, “it’s entertaining to see what Quinn plans to drag home.”

“He never takes any of them home, remember? He always goes to their places, so he can get up and leave when he’s done.”

Denise wrinkled her nose. “God, he’s disgusting!”

As they reached the street, Shan noticed that Denise was still grimacing with distaste. “You really do hate him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Denise said.

“Why?” Shan asked curiously. “I know Quinn can be tough to take sometimes, but your reaction seems way extreme. I mean, he’s never done anything to you, has he?”

“I still can’t stand him,” Denise snapped, her face flushing. “He’s such a dick, so rude and self-centered and full of himself.” She scowled down at the ground, tracing the curb with the toe of her strappy sandal. “I wish he’d go back to Boston and stay away from us, because—”

She broke off in midsentence and her blue eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Shan said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s mutual, you know,” Denise sniffed. “He hates me just as much as I hate him.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” Shan said although she wasn’t, entirely. Quinn and Denise sniped at each other constantly, a fact that had become even more apparent since he’d been spending so much time at their apartment. She’d noticed it was always Denise who started it, though.

“Yes it is,” Denise swiped at her eyes. “Quinn despises me and he doesn’t like that I’m with Dan, either. He seems to think I’m going to pull a Yoko and break up the band, but I’d never do that. I’m behind Dan one hundred percent, because he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” she concluded with a sob, “so of course I have to go to every gig. Quinn always has so many girls hanging around him. That means they’re hanging around Dan, too.”

Shan pulled a tissue out of her bag to wipe the dots of mascara from under Denise’s eyes. “Oh, Denise, Dan adores you. Anyone can see that. I’ve never seen him even look at another girl.”

“Well, I still worry.” Denise took the tissue and mopped her eyes. “Why can’t Quinn just get himself a real girlfriend? Then he’d be more like a normal person instead of a slut magnet.”

Shan laughed. “You’d better not count on that.”

“I won’t.” Her eyes shot over Shan’s shoulder. Quinn was coming down the stairs, laden with a stack of equipment. Her face hardened. “Just fuck ’em and forget ’em. That’s all he can handle.”