Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (52 page)

She’d never seen him cry, ever, didn’t think he was even capable of it, but his eyes were wet, red, and there was something in them that made her heart twist into a knot. “All I ever meant to do was take care of you and make you happy,” he said. His voice shook. “The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. I’m sorry, angel. So fucking sorry.”

She backed away from the car. Seeing him was hard enough, hearing him, but this? It was enough to annihilate her. “I’ve got to get away from you,” she said, her voice quivering like a fiddle string.

“Wait.” He jumped out of the car, swiping his fist across his eyes, and unlocked the trunk. “
I’m
not your higher power, Shan, but you do have one. It’s been inside you, all along. What’s killing you now is that you’ve turned away from it.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”
she cried, her voice scaling up. “I’m sick of you always telling me what to do, how to be!
How the hell do you know what’s inside of me?”

“Because I’ve been right where you are,” he shot back, shouting too, now. “Only I wasn’t stupid enough to throw away the one fucking thing that held me together!”

He yanked open the trunk and pulled out a guitar case. “Take it.
Take it,
” he ordered, shoving it into her arms even as she was shaking her head. “Do something to help yourself, instead of bitching about what a fucking villain I am or whining about what a fucking victim you are.”

“Fuck you, Quinn!” she shrieked, clutching the guitar case.

“
Fuck you too, Shan
.” He got back in the car and drove away, and then she was alone, except for the angel in her arms.

Shan took a deep, bracing breath of the sea air, lifting her face to the sun. Her hair shone, her skin was clear, and the marks on her chin had faded to light-pink specks she knew would eventually fade. It was a gorgeous day in Mission Cove, sunny and warm, the sky as blue as her daughter’s eyes. Or her husband’s.

Ex-husband soon, she supposed. Now that she was back at home, it was time to finalize the divorce. It would be good to get it over with, she reflected, because that day, with its confirmation that she and Quinn were finished once and for all, would unquestionably be one of the very worst days of her life. But it would be good, too, in a way. She needed the closure, the incontrovertible proof that her marriage was dead so she could scatter the ashes and move on.

And she was doing that. After nearly five months at Mountainside, she was clean and healthy, back in her home with her daughter and her dog.

And her guitars.

Shan was making music again, producing a stream of fresh, new material, all on her own this time. She didn’t have Quinn to bounce her ideas off of, correct her mistakes, or provide her with inspiration. She had all the inspiration she needed, deep in her heart.

It had been there all along, really. He’d been right again. Once she let it out, the music saved her, giving her the strength she needed to take her first steps alone into a new life, the same strength that was giving her the courage to confront the last of her demons, the one she’d been avoiding for some time.

Oda joined her on the deck. “I’m taking Angie down to the studio,” she said. “Quinn just called, from his car. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Don’t,” Shan told her. “Just keep her here for a bit, okay?” Then she marched to the door that led to the studio, unlocked it, and vanished down the stairs.

Quinn had vacated their home as soon as she told him she was ready to come home and hadn’t set foot in the house since. He was back living in the hotel and they’d reverted to their old system regarding the time he spent with their daughter. Oda took her down to the studio when he picked her up, following the same routine when he brought her home. Like before, he and Shan avoided any face-to-face contact. The difference was that it was him, not her, who was insisting upon that restriction now.

He’d kept his promise to attend the weekly counseling sessions at Mountainside. For weeks he sat stone faced and silent while she pummeled him with acrimony and castigation and abuse. He maintained his stoicism even when she railed and shouted and threw things, told him he was cold and selfish and cruel. It wasn’t until she insisted that he’d never loved her, that he’d married her only because she was pregnant, that he finally exploded, lashing back with so much rage and vitriol that she was stunned. Then he walked out, refusing to attend any more of the sessions. The violence of his response made her acknowledge, finally, that she hadn’t been the only one hurt by their ordeal.

Although she’d found her higher power, she still had very little use for twelve-step programs. She did recognize the value of some of the steps, though. Especially step nine.

Making amends.

Shan generally stayed out of the studio. She’d gone down there only long enough to retrieve the rest of her guitars, her amp, and the old four-track they’d used in the canyon house. She installed it upstairs and recorded in the living room, respecting Quinn’s request to keep out of his space.

When she came down the stairs, the first thing she saw was the Kur. She switched it on, sat at the piano bench, and hit an A note, appreciating the resonant sound the instrument possessed. She touched the keys, thinking how many times she’d watched Quinn’s hands manipulate them, so skillful and capable, so rarely making a mistake.

When she heard his car in the driveway, she pulled her hands away from the keyboard and laced her fingers together. She took a deep breath as the doorknob turned and Quinn came into the darkened studio.

He didn’t see her right away, going to his desk and switching on the light, then flipping open a file. He selected a page of notated sheet music, held it up, and frowned at it. Then he began humming lightly, tapping out a beat on the desktop with his knuckles.

Shan was motionless, watching him scowl at the music. His face had lost its hollow cast and it looked like he’d had his hair cut recently, the silky strands just brushing his shoulders.

She hesitated, then lifted her hand to the Kur. She ran her fingers across it, producing a smooth slur of notes.

Quinn raised his eyes. When he saw her, he stopped tapping.

“Hello,” he said. It was impressive, how much hostility he could express with that word.

“Hi,” she replied.

He frowned. “Are you working on something? I told Oda I was coming, but she didn’t say you’d be—”

“No, it’s okay,” she told him. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

He kept a wary eye on her. “Then why are you down here?”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“Is something wrong with Angie?”

“No. It’s about us.” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I won’t keep you long.”

His eyes shot to the clock over the mixing board. “You can have five minutes. Not one second more.” He sat down at his desk and folded his arms on top of it. “What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows went up even higher. “Sorry?” His tone was dubious.

“Yes. Sorry for—” she stopped. She’d had a whole speech prepared, but in his presence it vaporized like mist in the sunlight. “Sorry for everything.” That summed it up, she supposed.

He didn’t reply, just continued to eye her suspiciously. She rose from the piano bench and crossed the room. The desk was between them, but she was close enough to reach out and touch him if she chose.

She didn’t, since he looked utterly forbidding. “All those things I said—how I hated you, how you ruined my life—I didn’t mean them.” Her voice trembled. “I was so angry at you, and I wanted to hurt you. I know now that I did. I’m not very proud of myself for it.”

She waited. He didn’t make a sound; just watched her.

She hung her head. “I’m so sorry, Q. That’s really all I wanted to say.” And she moved toward the door.

As she reached for the knob, she heard his voice, very low. “I’m sorry, too.”

She turned. The suspicion was still in his eyes, but now with a trace of sorrow as well.

“That means a lot to me.” She paused, but when she spoke, her voice was still shaking. “I never in a million years would have thought that I could be capable of…of…”

“I never thought I could, either,” he said, “and I never wanted to hurt you. I just…lost my way for a little while. I hope you can believe that.”

“I can,” she said, “because I know how it can happen. You can get carried away with the anger. And the pain. And the drama, too, I
suppose.”

“There’s been a lot of mutual hurting, I guess. I’d like to find a way to put it behind us.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, “to try and repair some of the damage I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do all of it. I started it, remember? And I regret that, Shan. I will until the day I die.” His eyes met hers. She hoped he wasn’t going to apologize again for the Seattle thing. They’d beaten it to death, over and over, in therapy. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

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.