Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (6 page)

“Why don’t you do it more often, then?” Shan broke in. She and Dan had been deflecting Denise’s verbal attacks on Quinn all through dinner. Every comment Quinn directed at Denise was tinged with sarcasm, too.

“No time,” Quinn said. “I’m in class all day and either gigging, working, or in the studio every night.”

Shan regarded him thoughtfully. “You take your music pretty seriously, don’t you?”

“I take it
very
seriously,” Quinn agreed.

“It’s a shaky career choice to invest all that time and money in. I mean,” she said as he frowned, “it’s not a sure thing. If you have an engineering degree, you get a job as an engineer. When your degree is in music, there’s no guarantee. You must have a lot of faith in yourself.”

“I do.” His dark look cleared. “I’ve spent too much time listening to second-raters complain how they never got a break, and that’s why they never made it. If you have enough confidence in yourself, I think you can make your own breaks happen. It just takes dedication. And talent,” he added. “You can’t learn that, no matter how hard you try.”

“Remember, I warned you about this guy,” Dan interrupted, looking at Shan. “He’s a frigging slave driver. If things pan out, you’d better be prepared.”

Shan smiled, but Ty chimed in. “Listen to the man, now. He’s not kidding. It ain’t always a party in this band, not with the Q-man cracking the whip. He’ll be all over your ass until you’re playing the way he wants you to. And he never lets up, ever.”

“Somebody has to take the lead,” Quinn said. “Are you sure you want to get mixed up with a tyrant like me?” he asked Shan. “I’ve been told I fall slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.”

“I’m tough,” Shan said, “and I don’t think you’re
too
scary. I know it’ll be a stretch to be ready by Saturday, but I’ve already started learning the songs.”

“Good,” Quinn said. “We’ll see what happens once we check out your chops.”

Shan nodded, then rose from the table. “Anyone for dessert?”

“Dessert!” Ty’s face lit up. “Shan, you just scored my vote!”

She beamed at him. “Terrific! Now I just have to convince Quinntila.”

They all laughed and Quinn shot her another killer smile as he jumped up to help clear the table. “No convincing’s required. Just show me what you can do.”

They carried the plates and utensils into the kitchen where Shan opened the refrigerator and took out a glass bowl filled with whipped cream and chocolate. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play,” Quinn said. “I have a hunch I’m in for something special.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint you.” She turned her eyes to him and Quinn again admired their unusual color, noting that the green was speckled with flecks of gold. “I really want this to happen. I think I could learn a lot from you.”

He smiled. “Well, maybe you will,” he said, a trifle loftily. “Just don’t be nervous.”

When Shan reached up to retrieve a jar of chopped nuts from a high shelf, Quinn surreptitiously checked out her chest. Nice set. Not huge, but perky.

She scattered the nuts on top of the dessert, then picked up the bowl. As she did, he noticed an angry bruise just below the curve of her jaw. “What happened here?” he asked, touching it.

She flinched. “Nothing.”

He slid his hand to her shoulder. Her scent was intoxicating; some kind of musky, woodsy blend. “Looks sore,” he said, his gaze traveling to her mouth.

Shan didn’t reply. He began fingering the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Their faces were only a few inches apart and he moved closer, his eyed riveted to her lips.

Abruptly she thrust the bowl into his stomach, wresting a pained
oof
out of him. He grabbed the bowl and shot her a look of confused indignation.

“Why don’t you take that in the other room before it starts to melt?” She snatched up the dessert plates and stalked into the dining room.

Dan hurried into the kitchen as Quinn shifted the bowl to one hand and touched his stomach with a grimace. “What’d you
do
?” he whispered.

“Nothing much.” Quinn glowered.

“I told you to behave.” Dan frowned. “I thought you never mixed business with pleasure.”

“I could in this case. Might take some persuading, though.” He rubbed his gut gingerly.

Dan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I’m serious, man. You don’t want to mix it up with this one.”

“Why? Is she gay?” He watched Shan head back toward the kitchen, emanating outrage.

“No,” Dan hissed. “She’s only sixteen. Isn’t that another one of your golden rules? Never overnight, never unprotected, and never underage?”

Quinn’s jaw dropped.

The Grotto turned down most of the lights on coffeehouse night, relying on candles and the neon glow from the bar for illumination. Only the performer onstage was bright, incandescent under a stark-white spotlight. It was reminiscent of the beatnik joints from the sixties which, Dan guessed, was what they were going for.

He risked a glance across the table at Quinn, who was staring into his drink sullenly, and mentally kicked himself for not mentioning the age thing sooner. He’d worried that Quinn would nix the girl up front if he knew. Even Ty might not have been willing to overlook that particular detail, although he was more open-minded than the Q-man.

The potential problems with an underage band member were multitudinous, the very least being that some of the clubs might not let her in. More seriously, if the kid got caught drinking or drugging, the adult members of the band were right in the line of fire for a “contributing to” charge.

Then there was the sex thing. Three adult males traveling with an underage female were at high risk anywhere, anytime, for any number of unsavory situations.

He’d planned for them to meet the girl and hear her play, then he’d casually mention her age after they got excited about her. The trouble was that Quinn had gotten a little too excited a little sooner than Dan anticipated.

He should have foreseen that wrinkle. Expecting Quinn not to hit on a hot babe was like asking the sun to stop shining, but Shan didn’t fit his usual specifications. Quinn invariably went for long-legged blondes with big tits, and Shan was totally at the opposite end of the hotness spectrum. She was smoking, though, in her cute little hippie chick way. He’d expected the guys to appreciate her looks but he hadn’t anticipated Quinn snapping at her like a trout at a worm, especially since his typical MO with women was to play it cool while transmitting subtle encouragement. Quinn liked the chicks to come to him and they usually did, captivated by his good looks and facile charm, but tonight he’d followed Shan around with his tongue practically hanging out.

Now he was sulking, joining the conversation only when asked a direct question and even then giving monosyllabic responses.

Man, what an ego. One turndown and you’d think the world was ending.

Quinn was annoyed. He didn’t see the point of this audition. The girl was too goddamned young, so it didn’t matter if she was any good. Even if she sang like Whitney Houston it wouldn’t make any difference, so she was wasting his time.

He glowered at her. “I play folk,” she was telling Ty, “because that’s what people want from a solo acoustic. I’d really prefer to experiment with different kinds of music.”

“What are your desert isle picks?” Ty asked.

“I like the Grateful Dead,” she said and Ty nodded his approval. “B.B. King. Joni Mitchell.”

So far Quinn had been quiet. Now he spoke up. “How about from this century?”

“Van Halen,” Shan replied, lifting her chin. “Bonnie Raitt. The Chili Peppers. Valentine. Guns N’ Roses. Cyndi Lauper. And Madonna, of course,” she added.

Quinn gave a derisive snort. “Now there’s a shining example of musical prowess.”

“Maybe she’s not the strongest singer, but she’s got terrific style and she’s a great performer. I think an artist has an obligation to put on a good show.”

“I agree,” Ty nodded again. Quinn thought he looked like one of those dogs people put in their rear car windows, the ones that bobbed their heads in sync with the potholes. “Look at Michael Jackson. Good singer, kick-ass performer. You’ll have to excuse Quinn,” he added. “He’s a bit of an artistic snob.”

Quinn noticed that Ty was gazing at Shan like a lovesick puppy. Christ, what was it about this chick? “I’m not a snob. I just believe that talent counts more than glam. There are too many musicians who spend more time on their stage act than on their skill.”

“I think there’s something to be said for both,” Dan said. Quinn gave a contemptuous roll of his eyes and drained his glass.

“What are your favorite bands?” Shan asked Quinn.

“Rush,” he replied. “Steve Winwood. Faith No More. Pink Floyd.” Shan grimaced and Quinn raised his eyebrows. “You have a problem with that?”

“They’re just not my taste. I like music that makes people move, but when was the last time you saw anybody dance to Pink Floyd? I put them in the same class as Yes. Dull.”

Rick Wakeman, the legendary keyboard player for Yes, was Quinn’s all-time hero. He saw Dan wince.

Quinn sneered in what he knew was a condescending manner. “That would be consistent with someone who’s more concerned with image than talent. Maybe you can pick up a pair of metal cone tits, like Madonna. Then nobody will notice what you sound like. They’ll be too busy checking out your set.”

Color rushed to Shan’s face. “Are you always this obnoxious?” she asked. “Or are you just threatened when someone expresses an opinion that’s different from yours?”

Quinn had a stinging response on the tip of his tongue when a fresh drink appeared in front of him. His eyes traveled up the arm that delivered it and he discovered the blond waitress from the night before. She was smiling expectantly at him.

“Hi…uh…” He paused and a faint line appeared between his eyebrows. The smile faded from the waitress’s face as he stared at her blankly.

“Jessica,” she said. “I’d think you’d remember me after last night.”

“How could I forget
you
, darlin’?” he improvised, summoning up his lady-killer smile. It was forced, though, and the words sounded phony even to him.

The waitress looked affronted. “That’s on the house,” she said, indicating the drink. “Consider it payment for services rendered. That’s about what it was worth.” Quinn’s expression changed to one of indignation as she stormed off.

“Losing your touch?” Ty inquired. Quinn shot him an annoyed look and Ty’s face split in a delighted grin. “Dude, are you
blushing?
”

Shan snickered. She’d been observing the exchange with a faint smile. “Sorry to have to step away at such a dramatic moment,” she said, standing, “but it’s time for me to go on.”

“Go right ahead,” Quinn snapped. “Sedate the place with a little folk Muzak.”

Her face stiffened and she turned toward the stage without answering.

“That was rude,” Ty observed as she moved away. “Why
are
you being so obnoxious?”

“I can understand why you’re pissed off at me, but you don’t have to take it out on her,” Dan chimed in.

Quinn turned on Dan. “I can’t believe you have the balls to even open your mouth, after putting us in this position. You don’t tell anyone when we lose a crucial band member, then you hook us up with a player who turns out to be jail bait. Now, because of you, we’re wasting another night waiting on Marcia fucking Brady instead of putting together some viable alternative like we ought to be doing. Where’s your brain, you stupid fuck?” Dan started to answer, his chin quivering defensively. “Do me a favor, okay? Shut up.”

Dan closed his mouth and mutely shifted his attention to the stage. The spotlight was on, bathing Shan in stark-white light. Her black hair glimmered under the lights, almost as much as the tiny mirrors sewn into her shirtwaist, and she sparkled all over as she climbed onto the tall stool. She adjusted the microphone and smiled at the audience.

“Welcome to coffeehouse night at the Grotto, ladies and gentlemen.”

The audience gave her a hearty hand. A ripple of anticipation seemed to pass through the room as she began the opening chords from “Diamonds and Rust.”

Quinn sipped his drink, noting that her playing was tight and polished, her changes smooth. He knew Dan was waiting for a reaction and kept his face impassive, but he approved of her tasteful style. Technically she was quite good. It wasn’t a particularly easy piece and her fingers moved over the frets with skill. She had none of the hesitancy about her movements that was the first indication of an amateur.

Quinn’s approval grew when she broke into the opening verse. She had a solid voice: sweet, clear, and confident. Her breathing was even and measured, her diction clean, and she held the notes with strength and purpose.

Dan was watching him openly now. Quinn was determined not to give him the satisfaction of any kind of response, so he picked up his drink and downed it, his face arranged in an elaborate expression of bored tolerance.

Shan moved into a difficult part of the song. Her vocals took off, swelling with conviction and filling the room, and the audience burst into a spontaneous wave of applause.

“Jesus Christ,” Ty croaked. Quinn ignored him, leaning forward to listen intently. He forgot to worry about feigning indifference for Dan’s benefit, focusing instead on the powerful things that were happening to his hypersensitive auditory canals.

Dan was right; he’d never heard anything like her. Her pitch was perfect and her range amazing, slipping from dusky lows to shimmering highs with flawless ease. She sang with a profound intensity that he could feel himself react to on a visceral level. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized, sneaking a glance at the rest of the audience. She had charisma, enough to match her astonishing vocal chops, and she had the crowd on the edge of their seats.

Angelic was the word that came to mind.
She sounds like a fucking angel.

Quinn experienced a chill. He looked down at his arms and saw his flesh rising up into small, tight pinpricks. He watched for a moment, as the sensation spread across his chest, then met Dan’s eye across the table. An unwilling smile crossed his lips as he held up his fist to display the back of his forearm.