Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (56 page)

She went over to the display rack and perused some of the titles.
Barely Legal.
She made a face.
Axis of Anal.
Ewww.
Fisting Freaks.
Good grief.

She made her way farther down the racks, which seemed to get less weird towards the front of the store. There was a special case trumpeting “New Arrivals” and she paused at one that bore the title
Quinntessential Quickie.

Perfect! She was taking one of the videos off the rack as Denise joined her. “Did you find something?” Denise inquired.

Shan nodded. “I think so. This is…” She looked down at the videotape.

And froze.

The cover depicted a man up on his knees, head thrown back and fair hair cascading past his shoulders, while two buxom blondes attended to his erect penis. The picture was grainy and the member itself was obscured behind a black rectangle, but Shan knew what it looked like.

Particularly because she’d seen it up close, when she’d ministered to it so tenderly just that morning. “What the
fuck?
”

Denise looked at the photo, then gasped. “Oh no! It can’t be him, Shan. It must be a lookalike.”

It wasn’t, though. The man on the video box was Quinn. Shan knew it.

She’d recognize that star-shaped freckle anywhere.

I suspect that this part of the book is a source of stress for most authors, the I-couldn’t-have-done-it-without-you part. There’s so much influence, so many voices that go into the making of a novel that it might be downright impossible to list them all.
Rock Angel
is a story about musicians and their music, written by a librarian whose only hands-on musical experience came from guitar lessons during which the instructor kindly suggested I acquire a metronome. I also sang in the South Junior High School chorus, where the voices of fifty other members drowned out my off-key efforts. But from it I gained a lifelong love and appreciation of music, largely thanks to David Huxtable, the hippest music teacher ever, who later gets a nod in this book. I couldn’t be a musician because I don’t have the talent, so I used the written word to make my music. Here it is.

First and foremost, I need to thank the real music makers who helped bring this book to life. Linda Worster, who crafted most of the songs that Shan and Quinn wrote together (“The Wedding Song,” “Echo Flats,” and “Wanderlust”). “Rev Tor” Krautter, who allowed me to borrow liberally from his original lyrics (“Fallen Angel,” “Voluntary Exile,” and “The Black Mile” began as Rev Tor songs). John Zarvis, guitar god and troubadour of “On the Roof,” Matt Mervis, who graciously permitted me to lift his lyrics for “The Only Perfect One,” and Elizabeth Thorne, lyricist of “Puppy.” Thanks to all of you for helping me put the music into Quinntessence. And thanks to Joan Jett and Blackheart records. Thanks, too, to Valentine Miller, daughter of Henry, for use of his quote.

Thanks to all the people who helped me understand the technical stuff behind a rock band, how to run cord for a microphone, what a drummer sits on, how to pick a name for your guitar, and more: the aforementioned Linda, Tor, and John, Paul de Jong, Tistrya Houghtling, Allen Livermore, Dan Broad, Mike Basiliere, Jeff Martell, Rick Leab, Dave Lincoln, Aubrey Atwater, Bruce Clapper (who also earned a nod), Gina Coleman, Kali Baba McConnell, Jason Webster, Bernice Lewis, Bill Patriquin, Mike Dermody, David Grover, Robin O’Herin, and Jeff King. Thanks to you all. I really couldn’t have done it without you.

Then there’s Frank Kennedy, who deserves a paragraph all his own. Thanks for the technical advice, the music education, the long-suffering tolerance when I couldn’t talk or think about anything but this story but, mostly, the love. This is his book almost as much as it is mine, which is why it’s dedicated to him, my only perfect one.

Thanks and much love to my mother, Micki Bogino, for all the love, support, and encouragement. Thanks, too, for reading
Rock Angel
in all its stages, Mom, even though I know you skimmed the dirty parts. Thanks to my dad, Buster Kohlenberger, who loved me and believed in me, too. I wish he were here to see this book published. Thanks to Marion Boure, my gram, for her love, faith, and firm belief in my general awesomeness whether I deserved it or not. Thanks to Geordi and Juniper (aka Sugaree), the heartbeats at my feet, for the puppy love, wags, and long walks where most of the writing actually took place.

Thanks to Deb Francome, überfriend, ally, and chief cheerleader. She’s been further into Shan and Quinn’s world than anyone except for me. Also, she’s the best person I know.

Thanks to the readers. Julie Angello, my first and foremost reader, the one who in so many ways made this book happen. Thanks to Margaret Holes, forever friend and first editor. Thanks to my aunts Betsy Emery and Berta Schreiber and my friends Ami Levine, Sue Hunter, Wendy Krom, and Marlene Ullmann for reading the manuscript in its earliest, thousand-page stage (that’s dedication!). Thanks to Elizabeth Holleran Hess, Julia Pomeroy, Jeannine Tonetti, John Zarvis (again), Betsy Hess, Dr. Robert Taylor, Betsy and Max Gitter, Jane Feldman (who also shot my author photo), Danny and Clellie Lynch, and Dr. Robert Benner for much appreciated technical advice on everything from social workers to contracts to drug-addicted infants. Thanks to Bill Reichert, best English teacher ever, and Sonia Pilcer, my mentor, who both shaped me into the writer I am. Thanks to Tresca Weinstein, Amy Herring, Sandy Herkowitz, Chris Adams, Richard Matturro, and Alex Olchowski—every writer needs a group.

Special thanks to Marlene Adelstein, editor extraordinaire and my copilot on this literary journey, and Wendy Lipp, publisher, friend, and an angel in her own right. Thanks to Crystal Patriarche, Christine Marra, and super special thanks to Gina Coleman, my own personal angel, who has an uncanny knack for appearing at all the truly pivotal points of my life. I love you, sister.

And thanks to my “family” friends, the ones who keep me sane through hours and hours and days of the whole messy process of living and writing: Elizabeth Clough, Susan Brown, Michael Prescott, and Margaret Holes (again). Your music is in these pages, too.

By day, Jeanne Bogino is director of a small but busy library in rural New York. By night, she writes at her western Massachusetts homestead. She’s published short horror, fantasy, romance, memoir, and gay fiction, and is a regular contributor at
Library Journal,
where she was named 2011’s fiction reviewer of the year. An expert on zombie lit and horror films, Jeanne has published articles and appeared on panels devoted to these subjects.
Rock Angel
is her debut novel with Prashanti Press.

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