Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (17 page)

He pulled open the door and towed her to the front desk. “I need to see Dr. Markowitz.”

The receptionist looked up. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he’ll see me. Tell him Quinn Marshall is here, okay? And tell him I brought a friend.” He turned his blue eyes on her and the receptionist smiled. She was a pretty blonde with big brown eyes, but he didn’t give her a second glance as he led Shan to a couch against the wall.

A few minutes later, Steve emerged and knelt in front of her. “We met last night, Shan. Do you remember?”

She wiped her eyes. “No. Well, maybe,” she ventured, taking his proffered hand gingerly.

“Why don’t you come into my office so we can talk?”

Fear sliced through the dullness on her face. She yanked her hand away and pressed against Quinn’s side, hostility radiating from her green eyes. “Quinn can come, if you want,” Steve said.

“Sure,” Quinn agreed, standing and hauling Shan to her feet. She reluctantly followed Steve down the corridor, but wavered when he paused outside an office. Quinn gave her a shove to propel her through the door. “Stop pushing me,” she said, her eyes glimmering like wet glass.

“Then
move
,” he hissed, giving her another nudge.

When she was ensconced in an armchair, Steve sat down behind his desk. He focused his attention on Shan. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Because Quinn dragged me here.”

Steve kept his eyes on her. “Why do you suppose he did that?”

She swiped a hand over her perspiring forehead. “I think he’s worried about me.”

“And why is he worried?”

She met his gaze reluctantly. “Because I have a drug problem.”

Within fifteen minutes, he’d coaxed most of the information he needed from her. She was fairly cooperative, until he asked her age. Then her face slammed shut, but Quinn spoke up. “She’s sixteen, and she’s a runaway.” She glared at him. He glared back. “She’s afraid you’ll turn her in.”

Steve kept his gaze on Shan. “Shan, this isn’t a detention center. Our program is completely confidential. Now, when are you going to be seventeen?”

She bit her lip and groped for Quinn’s hand. “September second.”

“Well, legally you’ll only be a runaway for a couple more months, then. In the meantime, we can start you on the program today. The first step is detox. You had your last fix last night at around ten?” She nodded. “Then you’re probably feeling some withdrawal symptoms. The worst of that will pass over the next day or two.”

“It takes a lot longer than that,” she corrected him. “I’ve tried this before.”

He inclined his head sympathetically. “Well, there are a few medications that’ll make it easier to get through the first few days, but that’s really the easy part.”

She regarded him doubtfully. “I wouldn’t call it
easy.
”

“I hear you, but getting off heroin is one thing. Staying off it is another. Ours is an outpatient program, once you get through detox. You’re responsible for coming in every day for the medication. What we prescribe is methadone, which is really just a substitute for the smack. Over time, we’ll decrease the dosage and I hope you’ll eventually be drug free.”

“I will,” she said resolutely, “but how long will it take?”

“We want you off heroin for at least a year before we address the methadone dependency.”

Her throat swelled in horror. “
A year?
I was thinking, like, a month.”

“I wish that were the case, but you have to do this at your own pace. And you should know up front that a lot of addicts never get off methadone. It’s not much different from a diabetic needing insulin.”

“But I want off,” she insisted. “I hate living this way, always worrying about the next fix.”

“We’ll do everything we can to help you get there,” Steve promised, “but it really comes down to motivation and strength of character, and that’s completely in your hands.” She thrust her chin out and Steve grinned. “I’m glad to see you have some chutzpah. You’re going to need it.” He placed his hands flat on the desk. “That’s the program. You think you can handle it?” She nodded. “Good. I’m assuming you don’t have insurance?”

“No, but I can pay, at least some.” Quinn shot her a questioning look. “I’ve been saving for a new guitar,” she explained, “and I don’t need anybody’s charity. I can—”

“I know.” Quinn rolled his eyes. “You can take care of yourself.”

“Okay, let’s get started,” Steve said, standing “One of our nurse practitioners will give you a physical exam, then I’ll refer you to one of the rehab doctors, okay?”

Shan looked at Quinn. “Do you have to leave?”

“Yes,” Steve cut in. “He does. You need to concentrate on getting better now.”

Quinn held her gaze. “I’ll come and get you when you’re ready to leave, okay?”

As the nurse led her into the examining room, Shan shot one last yearning look at him over her shoulder. She looked lost and terribly small.

Quinn watched until the door swung shut behind her. “I hate to leave her here alone.”

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s not,” he said. “She’s with people who can help her, but you can be there when it’s time for her to face the outside. She’ll need some support and you’d be a good one to give it. I get the feeling she’s very attached to you.”

Abruptly Quinn pulled away. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.

“Hey, did I say something wrong?” Steve called after him, puzzled.

Quinn did not reply, just headed out the door. When he hit the street he headed for the subway, to take the A train to Spanish Harlem.

Five days later, a pale, shaky Shan emerged from the clinic. She’d been assisted through the withdrawal process with a host of chemicals and had begun the treatments that would transform her from a heroin addict into a methadone addict. The methadone was creepy stuff. It came in an ampoule, a tiny bottle filled with thick, orange liquid that had an odd sort of solidity to it. Imagining what it looked like once it hit her stomach had made her vaguely uneasy as she chased it with the requisite glass of water.

When Shan came into the reception area, Quinn was waiting, looking over the plethora of Narcotics Anonymous propaganda tacked to the wall. She approached him with a mixture of relief and embarrassment but, when he turned toward her, she was momentarily distracted. There was an ugly purple bruise under his left eye.

When he smiled, she noticed his lip was swollen, too. “Are you okay?” he said.

“Yes. Are
you
?” she asked and he nodded. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “You hungry? Want to go somewhere for lunch?”

She shook her head. “All I can taste is methadone. But, Q, your eye—”

“Doesn’t sound too appetizing,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’ll take you home, then.”

He had the van and drove her home. She was silent, but kept sneaking glances at his eye. He was quiet during the ride as well, and, when they got to the loft, she went into the living room and wearily dropped into a chair. Finally she spoke. “What did you tell everyone?”

“That you were sick. They think you were at my place.” He grinned. “Be prepared to get the third degree from Denise. I’m sure she thinks we’ve been screwing our brains out.”

“What about our gigs? Did you play them without me?”

“No, I found replacements. No serious harm done.”

She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”

“It’s okay, Shan.”

“It’s not. And I’m not who you thought I was,” she said miserably. “I hoped you’d never have to know. I lied to you, over and over.”

“I can see why. You were scared, and that’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. I lied to everybody, not just you. I’m so sorry, and I understand if you don’t want me around anymore.”

“Now you’re being an idiot.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

“All I’ve been is a giant pain in the ass ever since you met me,” she said, hanging her head, “and I don’t want you feeling like you have to stay here and take care of me now.”

He was silent for a long time, then, “Where’d you learn to have so much faith in people?”

She looked up to find him glaring at her. “Q, you’ve been amazing, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated—”

“I thought we were friends.” He was scowling. “To me, that carries an obligation.”

“But…” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes and her voice was so low he had to lean forward to hear it. “I don’t know why you’d want to be my friend, after the things I’ve done.”

“Well, you were right when you said you weren’t who I thought you were, that’s for sure.” She winced, but he went on. “You’re a lot tougher. I’ve been thinking about you a lot over the last couple of days,” he continued, reaching for her hand again. “I haven’t thought about much else, to tell you the truth. All the shit you’ve been through…I can’t believe you survived it.”

She kept her head down, but gripped his hand. “It doesn’t take much to survive.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I think most people would have given up, but you got through it. You even held on to your talent, kept it alive. I don’t know how you did it. I couldn’t have.”

“You’d never hit bottom like I have,” she said. “You’re so together, and so strong. The strongest person I know.”

He was silent for a long time. When she looked at him, she saw he was frowning down at their clasped hands. “What is it?” she asked.

He looked up, studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “Nothing. Want to play for a while?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what I want to do.” She waited, because he seemed like he wanted to say something more, but when he dropped her hand and got up to undrape his keyboard, she went for her guitar.

She made it only as far as her bedroom door and froze. She stood there for a long time and, eventually, she spoke. “Q, could you do something for me?”

The words were strained, enough to bring him to her side. She was still frozen, staring at the dresser. She pointed at the top drawer. “In there.”

He squeezed past her and opened the drawer. His eyebrows shot up.

“Would you get rid of it?” Without a word, Quinn took what was left of the heroin rock and went out the front door.

He returned about ten minutes later. “All gone. Got any more stashed?”

“No.” Her voice was still tense. “What did you do with it?”

He chuckled. “There’ll be some happy rats in the sewer tonight.”

“Thanks, Q.”

“No problem. What’s a friend for, if not to take your dope?”

“I mean it.” Her voice shook. “I couldn’t do it myself. I thought I could, but…”

“It’s okay, Shan. I understand how you feel.” He touched her shoulder.

She flinched. “No, you don’t. You don’t know what this feels like at all.”

He studied her silently. She was still frozen, like she was perched on the brink of something. “Look, grab your guitar. Let’s go to my place.”

She eyed him with surprise. “Really?” He’d never suggested that before. In fact, that night after the Carnegie Hall gig was the only time she’d ever been there.

“Sure.” He shrugged. “We can play there as well as we can here. You’ll have to listen to my Yamaha keyboard, which doesn’t sound half as good as the Kur, but it’ll be easier, won’t it?”

It would, she realized. The counselor at the clinic had warned her that it might be stressful for her to be in her home at first, because the craving could be triggered by the environment. “I don’t want to intrude…” she began, but he went back into the bedroom and fetched her guitar.

“If it was an intrusion, I wouldn’t ask. Let’s go.” He caught himself. “Unless you don’t want to. Would you rather be alone?”

“
No,
” she said. “I mean…I don’t want to put you out, but I’d like to be with you.”

He grinned. “All right, then. Ready?”

“Only if you answer a question first. What happened to your face?”

He shrugged. “I paid a visit to your buddy in Spanish Harlem.”

“I knew it was something like that.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “I just knew it! Oh, Q, I told you I didn’t want you getting mixed up with him.”

“He had our mics,” Quinn reminded her. “They cost over two thousand dollars, Shan. There was no way I was just going to let them go.”

“I could have gotten them back. He’s just holding them because I owe him money. I can pay him most of it now—there’s almost enough in my guitar fund, although I had to spend some on the clinic stay and the methadone…” Her voice trailed off when she saw the look on his face.

“If you ever go near him again, I’ll kill you myself.”

“But I have to pay him,” she insisted. “He’ll never leave me alone until—”

“I did. With interest.”

Her mouth fell open. “You settled my drug debt?”

“Yes.” He smiled faintly. “It took some negotiating, but he’s a businessman, after all. He won’t bother you again.”

“But he’s
dangerous
, Q. He’s—”

“Not going to bother you, I said. I guarantee it,” Quinn said firmly. “I told you, I negotiated with him. It took some doing, but he finally saw the light. And if you think I look bad, you ought to see
him.
”

Shan went over to Quinn’s place, but made a stop at the bank in order to withdraw enough from her guitar fund to pay him back. He argued furiously with her, telling her to use it on a guitar, but she insisted he accept the sixteen hundred dollars she’d managed to save. Afterward she had only twelve dollars left in her account, but she figured it was money well spent.

After that, Shan began spending a lot of time at Quinn’s. They did their writing there, although band practice was still at the loft. Eventually it became easier for Shan to be at home, as she developed new routines that didn’t revolve around fixing. She went to the clinic every day for her methadone, attended sessions with a clinic-assigned counselor, and went to NA meetings, although she was having trouble with the whole “higher power” thing.

Shan wasn’t an atheist, exactly, but she wasn’t a believer even though she’d been raised Catholic. Her father had been outwardly devout, going to church even when he reeked of the alcohol he’d consumed the night before. She supposed that was the basis of her own lack of faith, that God-fearing man who prayed in church, then burned her with cigarettes when he came home.