Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (2 page)

All signs of a long-term junkie. She’d seen it before. Someone could use for years then, seemingly overnight, a relatively normal-looking person turned into a walking corpse.

He smiled and again she noticed the missing teeth. “I was wondering when you’d come around,” he said as he sat down beside her. “I figured you must be running low.”

Shan nodded, running her tongue over her own teeth to make sure none of them felt loose. There were the two on the side that had been missing for a couple of years, otherwise they were all intact. “I was trying to get clean,” she said. Her knee jittered up and down in a nervous staccato.

“Again?” Jorge sniggered. “When you gonna learn?” He set the rock on the table and picked up a razor blade to chop off a small chunk. The cockroach appeared interested. Shan grimaced as it scurried toward her.

Jorge’s lips stretched into an impassive grin as he reached out, drawing his index finger back against his thumb. With a flick, the cockroach was airborne, sailing across the room and disappearing into a stack of cushions. Jorge settled back, resting his arm along the back of the couch behind Shan.

“How much?” Shan asked, shifting away from his touch.

He didn’t respond, but his grin widened.

“How much?” she repeated. “I’m in a hurry. I have to be someplace.”

“Where?”

Like she’d tell him. “Just someplace.”

“One of them music things?”

“Yes. Now how much?” When he didn’t reply, she reached into her pocket and tossed some folded bills onto the table. “Just give me fifty, then. Can I use your bathroom?”

He nodded and she could feel his eyes on her as she stood up. “How about I talk you into skipping the music thing?”

She paused by the bathroom door. “Why?”

“I just got a special delivery.” He pointed to the rock. “We could ride this horse all the way to Belmont.”

“No thanks.” She shut the door and her stomach flipped over again as she switched on the light. The toilet was filthy and she could see more roaches scurrying for cover in the bathtub drain.

Breathing through her mouth, she surveyed her reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. She looked like hell, face flushed deep red and shiny with perspiration, eyes clouded and teary. Her pupils were so dilated that they almost obscured the green of her eyes. Her dark hair clung to her forehead and cheeks in long, snakelike strands and she saw one lock was twisted around her silver nose stud.

She untwisted it, turned on the faucet and splashed cool water over her face, then used a sliver of soap she found to scrub it, as if she could wash away the febrile redness. When the door opened behind her, she didn’t hear it.

Then she felt a hand. She jerked upright, startled.

Jorge was right behind her, grinning his gap-toothed smile. “All nice and clean?”

She shrugged away from his touch. “Get your hands off me.”

“Why? They been on you before.”

He moved closer. Shan sidestepped, but he caught her wrist.

“Oh, come on,” he whined. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“I already paid you. In
cash,
remember?”

“Well, how about a discount?” He caught her wrist again. “It’s always nice doing business with you. Besides, I miss you,
querida
.”

She swatted his hand away and tried to push past him, but he when kicked the door shut Shan was momentarily disconcerted. “Will you get out of the way?”

He caught her by the waist. The glare from the uncovered bulb highlighted the yellow tinge in his complexion. His dark eyes were narrowed, predatory, and for the first time she felt a cold shock of fear. “Jorge, stop it. You need to let go of me.
Now
.”

“There’s only one thing I need,
querida
,” he informed her. When he pulled her close, she felt his erection against her stomach.

She pulled away but he held fast and kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. His breath was sour and she felt a surge of revulsion, then a sharp burst of anger. She brought her teeth together, hard, and tasted the warmth of blood in her mouth.

He jerked his head back and his amiable, stoned grin vanished. “You little cunt!”

She kicked him, eliciting a yelp when her foot connected with his shin. He caught her by the neck, gripping hard, and she made a small sound of pain, then clawed savagely at his face.

His expression twisted into a mask of fury and he slapped her hard enough to knock her off her feet. Then he was on top of her, ripping at her clothes. Through a daze, she felt his hands fumbling at her crotch. He gave a hard yank to the zipper on the front of her jeans and it broke.

When she felt him groping between her legs, it jolted the fuzziness from her brain. Her nails connected with his eyes, wresting a snarl of pain from him, and he slugged her, slamming her head against the base of the toilet. She lay dazed as he pulled back to tear open his pants.

The sight of his penis jarred her back to full consciousness. Her leg jackknifed.

His howl of pain assured her that her knee had found its mark. She heaved him off her, then watched as he rolled heavily against the door, where he lay twitching and clutching himself.

His body was blocking the only way out. She was trapped.

Her eyes shot to the tiny window over the toilet. She scrambled to her feet and pried it open, then poked her head out, praying for a fire escape or even a ledge.

Instead she saw a sheer drop to the street four stories below.

She heard a moan and whirled. Jorge was pushing himself up off the floor, pausing when he made it to his knees. “You,” he growled, “are going to be very sorry you did that.”

“Oh no I won’t!” Her fingers curled around the edge of the top of the toilet tank and, summoning every bit of her strength, she heaved it through the air and brought it down squarely on his head, knocking him flat. He didn’t move again.

Shan crept a little closer, eyeing him suspiciously, and prodded him with her foot. His head fell to one side and his lips parted, emitting a wheezing sound, like air escaping from a balloon.

She tugged at him, managing to slide his body far enough to inch the door open, then she slipped through the crack and ran for the front door.

She stopped dead with her hand on the knob.
Joanie!
She reversed direction and snatched up her guitar from where she’d left it next to the sofa. Then her eye fell on the big rock of heroin.

What about her stuff? She’d paid for it. She stared at the rock. Her fingers tightened, digging into Joanie’s case as the craving dug at her insides.

She jumped when she heard a throaty moan emanate from the bathroom, followed by a dragging sound, then a thud.

She paused only long enough to jam the whole rock into Joanie’s case, then got the hell out of there.
Nice doing business with
you,
asshole.

Quinn strode down Bleecker Street, raindrops striking the top of his head and the shoulders of his leather bomber jacket. His eyes went from storefront to storefront as he made his way along the crowded, narrow sidewalk.
Where in hell is this place?

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied two women coming up a set of stairs and checked them out as a matter of course. One was a chubby redhead, not to his taste, but the other was his favorite flavor: tall and blond, with an impressive set.

The blonde returned his gaze, but when she moved into the raw light of a neon sign he immediately lost interest. She had bad skin and her attempt to conceal it with a thick layer of foundation offended his finicky sense of cleanliness.

He started to turn away and glimpsed, over her shoulder, a sign announcing the name of the establishment from which she had emerged: the grotto. He pivoted.

The blonde’s face lit up at his approach but fell when he squeezed past. “Evening,” he said with a polite nod, passing her and not looking back.

As he went inside, he heard the blonde arguing with her red-haired friend. “Let’s go back in for one more drink,” she was saying, and her friend was holding out for someplace called Gatsby’s. He hoped Red won.

Inside the club was murky, like an underwater cave. Even the neon signs that canopied the bar were hazy, obscured by layers of cigarette smoke. A wooden stage dominated the room, where a folksy brunette with a guitar was singing a Judy Collins song in a faulty soprano. Quinn grimaced.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he spotted a familiar mop of sandy hair at one of the small tables near the stage. “Danny boy!” Quinn’s face lit up in a big grin.

Dan Reynolds turned, revealing a wide nose, sloped chin, and friendly brown eyes. He was husky and broad, almost too big for the café-style chair he sat in, and he held a drippy double burger in his enormous fists. “Dude! Where’ve you been?”

“Trying to find this hole. Next time give me some landmarks.” He slid into a chair and signaled the bartender, a statuesque black woman with dreads.

“Man,
everyone
knows this place,” Dan laughed. “It’s famous!”

“Really?” Quinn glanced around doubtfully. It looked like a dump to him, although the clientele resembled industry wannabes. He saw men with pony nubs and women dressed to emulate various musical flavors of the month, even one shaved bald like Sinead O’Connor.

“Definitely,” Dan said, taking a bite of his burger. “Dylan was discovered here, you know.”

Quinn smirked. “There are a dozen places that make the same claim.” He turned to inspect an approaching waitress, another busty blonde but with better skin than the last one. “How are you tonight, darlin’?”

“Fine,” she said pleasantly. “What can I get for you?”

“Tanqueray and tonic, please.” He watched her as she returned to the bar.

When the waitress looked back at him, Quinn drummed his fingers on the table and idly engaged in a little visual foreplay. He was used to the power he had over women; all it usually took was a smile and they responded. He knew that part of it was the way he looked. He was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His face was angular with a razor-sharp jaw, his nose thin and pronounced, his lips firm with their constant half smile. He had fair, shaggy hair that just brushed his shoulders and a small diamond chip that glittered in his left earlobe. But it was his eyes that ultimately got them, bright blue and intense, deeply set under his well-defined brow.

The intense eyes seemed to be holding the waitress captive. She returned his gaze steadily, then leaned back against the bar and crossed her ankles, slowly rubbing one over the other.
This one’s in the bag.

Dan cleared his throat and Quinn pulled his attention back to the table. Dan was grinning. “Sorry to interfere with target practice, but we have stuff to go over. Where’s Ty?”

“He said he’d meet us here. He’s probably cruising up and down Bleecker Street like I was, trying to decipher your crummy directions.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Anyone in New York could tell you how to find the Grotto.”

“Maybe, but I’m not from New York, remember? I’m just visiting from the cold, crappy town of Boston.”

“You’re not from there, either,” Dan said, between bites. “You’re a California dude, like me.”

“And I can’t wait to go back there,” Quinn said. “I miss it, don’t you?”

Dan shrugged. “There’s things I like about the East.”

“Not me. I have dreams about being back in Cali, riding my Harley on the PCH. The minute I finish school, we’re gone. Remember that, Danny. Thanks, darlin’.” He shifted his focus back to the waitress as she delivered his drink.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked.

“Not right at the moment, but be sure to check back later, okay?”

Dan laughed as she walked away, wiggling her ass. “I see you haven’t changed a bit!”

“Well,
you
have, judging from the way your apartment looks.”

Dan looked sheepish. “So you found the key all right?”

“Yup. You did some redecorating,” Quinn said. “I like the curtains. The Tampax in the bathroom is a nice touch, too. There’s Ty.” He raised his hand to hail a tall, black man just coming down the steps from the street.

Dan popped the final morsel of his burger into his mouth as Tyrone Cowan joined them. He was lean and bearded, with close-cropped hair, chestnut-brown skin, and tiny gold hoops in both ears. “Dan, my man, ’sup? Thanks for putting us up. I was sick of listening to the Q-man bitch about staying at a hotel.”

Quinn looked affronted. “Like I have money to burn? Besides, most hotels aren’t furnished as tastefully as Dan’s place. That feminine touch, you know?”

Ty regarded Quinn with amusement as Dan seemed to shrink into his chair. “At least the dishes are washed. That’s new.”

“There’s an upside to everything,” Quinn agreed. “Also, it was good to see your refrigerator without any science projects growing in it.”

“Look, I have a steady girl,” Dan said. “Why should that bother you?”

Quinn shrugged. “It doesn’t. I’m just wondering when the wedding plans will start.”

“No wedding anytime soon. I
have
been thinking about moving in with her,” Dan said, after a pause, “but she’s got roommates. It’s tricky.”

“Good, because she’d really have a leash around your balls then,” Quinn said. “Wait’ll she starts yanking it. She’ll have you heeling in no time.”

“Denise isn’t like that,” Dan said.

“They never are in the beginning. Just you wait,” Quinn said. “That one has
marriage
spelled out across her forehead in neon letters.”

“Would you lay off? I’ve been with her a couple of years now and I like having her around. What’s it to you?”

“We’ve been working on getting this band established for more than a couple of years,” Quinn said. “What’s gonna happen if Denise decides she wants something bigger than your little studio and starts making noises about how unreliable a musician’s salary is? You gonna cut your hair and start working for IBM?”

Dan shook his head, his long hair swinging from side to side. “Dude, there’s nothing wrong with having
one
girlfriend. It’s called monogamy.”

“No,” Quinn sneered, “it’s called pussy whipped.