Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (35 page)

He nodded. “I get that. Would you rather I left you alone?” She shook her head, sat down on the periwinkle steps, and patted the spot beside her.

He joined her on the steps and they sat together in companionable silence for a few minutes. “I wonder if New Orleans really looks this way,” she remarked after a time, looking through the brick archway that led into the square.

“It does, actually,” Quinn said, following her gaze. Disneyland’s version of New Orleans was a pastiche of wrought iron, polished brass, and trailing ivy. There was even a steamboat churning away on a mini-Mississippi and strains of a Dixieland band wafted over on the breeze. “It’s really something, the way they’ve captured it. All that’s missing are the Bourbon Street bars.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there. I’d love to see the Preservation Hall Jazz Band or catch some blues at Tipitina’s.”

“We’ll do those things together,” he promised, “when we headline there.”

She smiled at him. “You think that will be anytime soon?”

“I think it just might,” he said and she noticed that he wasn’t smiling back. “I’ve talked to a lot of people tonight, angel. We’re a hit.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. These people could make rock stars, but could it really happen to them? It seemed like a fantasy, something so unattainable, like reaching for the moon. For just a few minutes while they were onstage it had felt like the dream was within their grasp, but now it felt like it had happened to someone else, the events of the evening already receding into a hazy, surreal memory.

She heard a muffled explosion. “The fireworks must be starting. Should we go out there?”

“I suppose. The others will be looking for us. My folks, too.” He stood, extending a hand to help her up. His voice sounded normal, but his eyes sparkled in the moonlight, betraying his excitement. He was beautiful in his joy and she felt a tightness in her chest.

She let him pull her to her feet, but kept hold of his hand. “Why did you kiss me today?” she asked impulsively.

He paused, then shrugged. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Well, it’s not something you do, usually. You haven’t kissed me since…” Her voice trailed off.

“Since that day on the mountain,” he finished and she nodded. “I feel like it’s a boundary between us, kissing. One that we probably shouldn’t cross. I mean, look at what happened the last time I kissed you.”

She saw his point and flushed. “But you did cross it today. Why?”

“Because you were freaking out.” He looked sheepish. “And that was freaking
me
out. You had me worried, angel. I figured it would be good if you had something other than the gig to freak about.”

Shan’s smile faded. “Oh.”

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get tragic on me.” He reached out and took hold of her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “I’m not making light of it. It isn’t light, this thing between us. That’s why we’ve got to be so careful with it. Besides, you’ve got to know what it does to me when I kiss you.” He traced her lower lip with his thumb.

“You could kiss me again,” she said, after a pause.

He hesitated for what felt like an endless moment, then he leaned closer to brush his lips against her forehead. She raised her face to meet him, but he drew back. “Boundary,” he reminded her. “For now. Come on.” He caught her hand, tugged it in the direction of the square.

Shan let him lead her out of the courtyard, releasing his hand only when she spied their bandmates gathered by the river. She paused to look up at Quinn. He was watching her, the familiar blond lock drooping over his forehead. As she reached to smooth it back, she thought of the first time she’d ever touched him, back in the SoHo loft. That was the first time she’d felt it, the powerful current that ran between them.

He smiled and she was absolutely positive that he was remembering the same moment.

Shan spent New Year’s Day watching the college bowl games with everyone except Quinn, who’d gotten on his bike and roared off before noon. Football bored her, but the ever present cloud of pot smoke was an effective anesthetic and she joined her roommates in rooting for Washington in the Rose Bowl and Miami in the Orange Bowl. He still wasn’t back by the time she went to bed and she tossed and turned until well past midnight, when she heard his bike pull into the driveway.

It rained for the next two days so she spent them cooped up with her roommates, everyone except Quinn who continued to vanish early. Since the gig at Club 33 she felt perpetually off balance, nervous and jittery like a ceaseless jones, and being in the house with the others made it worse. They were jumpy, too, and hopeful, and the atmosphere was portentous, crackling with excitement and anxiety.

When she finally awakened to sunshine, she paused only long enough for methadone and coffee before setting off into the mountains with Sugaree and the Angel. After a time she found a good spot and situated herself with her back against a tree. Sugaree settled down to chew on a stick as Shan began to play. She played for a long time, choosing the songs of her childhood, musical comfort food. “Big Yellow Taxi.” “Blackbird.” “Diamonds and Rust.” They didn’t soothe her as much as usual, so she switched to another favorite, her old SoHo roof song.

All the manic, static

Slowly turning me deaf

They’re all stressing out together

And that’s why I left

I’ve got the cure

That’s for sure

On the mountainside and dreaming

She was dreaming up a new chorus when she heard a shout. She paused.

“Shan!” Quinn’s voice. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Here,”
she called back. Sugaree woofed helpfully and, a minute later, Quinn appeared over the ridge. When he saw her he hunkered down, breathing hard with his hands on his knees, and she saw that his T-shirt was soaked with perspiration. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’ve been running all over this mountain looking for you. Why do you have to hike so fucking far from the house?”

“What’s going on?”

“You have to come home,” he said. “Now. We have a gig to get ready for.”

“Tonight? Since when?” She frowned. “We didn’t have anything scheduled.”

“We do now. It’s big.”

“How big?”

“Monu-fucking-mental. I just got a call. We’ve been invited to perform at a showcase. Tonight, at the Troubadour. And the invitation came from Brandon Terry.”

“Is this all right?” Shan asked, walking into Quinn’s bedroom.

He was brushing out his long hair. “If you don’t learn how to knock, you’re going to walk in on me naked one of these days.”

“So?” she smirked. “I’ve seen it before.”

He snorted as he set down the brush and pulled his hair back into a tail. She fidgeted until he gave a final twist to the elastic, then turned away from the mirror. “
Wow!
”

She began a slow rotation. “I’ve had this for a while, but I’ve been afraid to wear it. I thought it looked all right in the store, but I’ve been worried it makes me look…well…slutty. It might be right for tonight, though. I mean, it’ll make a statement, don’t you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was too busy feasting his eyes on her slim figure in the backless black dress, which fit snugly to midthigh then flared out in diaphanous fringes that hung to her calves. A deep plunge under each arm revealed a curve of breast as she turned and his eyes got even bigger when she completed the rotation, displaying a magnificent triangle of cleavage.

She saw his expression and groaned. “I knew it. It’s awful.”

“It’s not awful,” he said. “It’s fucking awesome, but I’m not used to seeing so much of your skin. Christ, your bikini covers more of you than that does.” He was still examining her, beginning to look a little dubious. “You’re comfortable performing in that?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you look hot.
Really
hot. Dirty hot. Every guy who sees you in that is going to want to rip it off of you. If you’re okay with that, then rock it. If you aren’t…” he shrugged.

She hesitated, pondering his words, and he raised his gaze from her chest to her face. “Well, we’ve established that your body looks great. How’s your head?”

“Scared,” she said. “What if I flub the lyrics? What if I screw up the solo on “Black Mile,
”
like I did last time? What if…”

“What if you shut up before you freak yourself out?” he suggested. “You were awesome on New Year’s. Fab, remember?” She caught a fringe of her dress, worrying it between her fingers. “Come on,” he said in a more businesslike tone. “If you’re sure you’re ready, then get your axe.”

Shan hovered backstage, watching the band that was on before them. She’d changed her clothes and now wore low-rise jeans with a floaty white, poet-style top. It bared both her shoulders and her navel, which sported a dainty belly ring that she’d gotten in Hollywood a couple of months before. Her hair was loose and sparkly chandelier earrings swung from her ears.

The band was good, though she didn’t care for the vocalist’s style. Her voice was grating and she mumbled, but the music was fresh and original. All bands they’d heard tonight were good, each with some unique quality that set them apart from the thousands of groups that teemed through the LA club scene, but Shan didn’t think any of them were better than Quinntessence. They’d shine in this forum, assuming she stayed cool.

“We’re next,” Quinn warned, examining her face for signs of freakiness.

“I know. I’m glad I changed my clothes. If I hadn’t,” she added, “I’d look like that.” She nodded at the singer, who was slinking around the stage in a skintight, wet-looking number that exposed her camel toe.

Quinn chuckled. “You couldn’t if you tried. You’re too dainty.” He glanced at her outfit, which was her usual boho-chic style. “You look really pretty,” he added, his eyes softening.

She looked up and, when she saw his expression, she wondered if he’d touch her lip, like he had before their Valentine gig.

He didn’t. Instead he began to lecture her. “Remember what to do if you start to freak. Just look at me—” he began, but she shook her head.

“I won’t have to. Funny, but I’m not nervous now, Q.”

“That’s because you just did this, angel.” Then he did touch her lip. “Time to do it again.”

When they hit the stage Shan was radiant, Quinn commanding, and Dave’s tremolos had never shone more brightly. It took no time at all for Quintessence’s front members to get everyone in the packed venue out on the dance floor. They modified the set they’d played at Club 33, pulling “Voluntary Exile” and “Shelter Me” and adding “Sweet Addiction” and “Wanderlust.” By the time they wrapped with “The Only Perfect One,” the audience was in a frenzy.

Troubadour down at the coffee shop, pen poised in the air

Just about to nail down that tune when she stunned him with her stare

But out the door those big eyes went

His heart was broken and his song was spent

He knew the only really perfect one

Was the one that got away

Afterward Shan was forced to network, never her strong suit. She stayed close to Quinn, who was employing his formidable skill at charming people, and followed him around until he turned around and barked at her to “mingle, for fuck’s sake!” Everyone seemed to want to talk to her and she did her best, smiling modestly when people complimented her performance or raved about her guitar chops. She lost sight of Quinn for a while, then spotted him in the bar with a tall, light-skinned, exotic-looking black woman who was vaguely familiar. He spent an inordinate amount of time with her and was still there talking to her when the rest of the band left around midnight.

Quinn pored over the LA newspapers during the next few days, combing the
Times
and the
Daily News
and
LA Weekly
for mentions of the showcase. He found several, reporting that Quinntessence had been singled out for glowing accolades. He was beginning to get calls from clubs and agents inquiring about the band, but nothing as exciting as an offer from a record company. Shan wondered what they were supposed to do next, how long they’d have to wait before something happened.

Not long, as it turned out. The following Monday, a black Lexus pulled into their driveway. The car looked incongruous in front of the weathered cabin, but not nearly so much as the sleek, elegant woman who emerged from it. Shan recognized her as the one she’d seen Quinn talking to after the Troubadour showcase. She had sharp, intelligent eyes, shoulder-length hair styled in a smart shag, and wore an ensemble that was saved from the label “power suit” only by its hue, a screaming shade of fuchsia. With it, she wore strappy Jimmy Choos with spike heels that sank into the sandy ground as she picked her way up the driveway.

Quinn came downstairs, looking surprised as he opened the door for the stranger. “Hi, Lorraine. What are you doing here?”

“We need a conference,” she told him. “I’ve been trying to call you for two hours.”

He shot an annoyed glance into the living room at Shan, who flushed. She’d just gotten off one of her marathon calls with Oda. “It’s time you met everyone, anyway,” he said, holding open the door for her. “This is Lorraine Slater,” he said to the rest of them. “She’s our new manager.”

“Why do we need a manager?” Dan asked Quinn. “You’ve always handled the bookings.”

“The role of a manager isn’t really to book the gigs,” Lorraine said, before Quinn could respond. “That’s an agent’s job. I’m going to see that you get one of those, too, but
my
interest is in guiding your career.”

“So far, we’ve guided our own careers,” Ty pointed out, “and it’s been fine. We don’t have to pay ourselves a percentage, either.”

“That’s about to change, I think. You need someone to handle your contact with the record companies. I have an idea of what you can expect as an offer from Cardinal and I can negotiate the deal for you. Once you’re signed they’ll want you in the studio right away, so I’ll engage the technical personnel, like producers and engineers. Road managers and instrument techs, too, when it comes time to tour. I can put you in touch with the best in the business.” She turned to Quinn. “I’ve received a call on your behalf, but we do need to formalize our arrangement prior to beginning any negotiation.”