Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (5 page)

She looked out over the SoHo rooftops as she began to play. The air was chilly and she recalled what it was like to live on these streets. She’d moved from neighborhood to neighborhood, sleeping on benches and in subway tunnels, foraging through supermarket Dumpsters for food, and begging for nickels and dimes. She’d never forget that first January on her own, huddling inside doorways with nothing but a denim jacket between her and the cold of the New York winter.

She shivered and began to sing. It was a song that didn’t have a name, really, just a song that she sang when she was on the roof, the verses changing according to her moods.

I’m in a place where I’m allowed

To let the things that hurt

Drift on up among the clouds

They don’t bother me

And I don’t care

‘Cause I’m on the roof and dreaming

She played for a long time, gazing up at the sky as her melodies wafted down over the sleeping city.

Quinn stirred as voices infiltrated his sleep. He burrowed his head into the pillow to muffle the noise, but a burst of laughter jarred him further awake. Annoyed, he yanked the pillow over his head and his forehead hit the arm of the couch with a solid thwack.

Tossing the pillow aside, he sat up and scowled at Dan and Ty. They were at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking a joint. Ty lifted his cup. “Wake and bake!”

“No thanks.” Quinn hoisted himself off the couch and headed for the bathroom clad only in his boxer briefs. He slammed the door behind him and positioned himself in front of the john, the seat of which was conveniently upright. That’ll change soon enough, he reflected, eyeing the pile of mascara, lip gloss, and other cosmetics on the shelf behind the toilet.

He came back and scrounged for his jeans at the foot of the couch, then fished through his duffel bag for a T-shirt. He found one and pulled it over his head. Berklee College of Music curved lyrically across his chest.

Quinn poured a cup of coffee then sat down at the table. “That couch is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever slept on,” he told Dan. “Where’d you find it, an S&M shop?”

“Considering some of the places I’ve seen you wake up, that’s saying a lot.” Dan fitted the joint into an ornate roach clip. “If you’d come in at a decent hour you could have fought Ty for the other side of the bed, but you’d rather stay out all night fucking some frequent flyer.”

“Why not? It’s preferable to sleeping next to your hairy ass.”

“You could have stayed with the waitress,” Ty said, taking the joint from Dan.

“Uh-uh. One of the golden rules. You wake up with a chick, next thing you know she wants you to meet her mother. Pass.” Quinn’s eyes were on the joint. “We have a lot of ground to cover today. It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”

Ty rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “Are we going to hit the Bitter End?”

“We should.” Quinn took the roach clip from Ty and flicked the joint into an ashtray. “They liked our demo. Let’s go over there tonight and sweet-talk them.”

“It’ll have to be late,” Dan said, “because our new guitar player called. We’re meeting her at six.”

“Did you find out what happened last night?”

“She just said she ran into some trouble,” Dan replied. “She offered to feed us to make up for it, though.”

“Cool!” Ty exclaimed, but Quinn shook his head.

“The last thing we want is to hook up with someone unreliable.”

“She’s not, usually,” Dan said. “I’ve never known her to miss a gig.”

“You also never answered when I asked you what she looked like,” Quinn reminded him.

Dan radiated a heavy sigh. “She’s cute, okay? Just give her a chance, dude.”

“Look, we can get by without a guitar. I can do those parts on keyboard. I can sing all the fucking songs, too, if I have to,” Quinn said. “I’d rather do that than play with some second-rater.”

“I’m looking to do more than get by,” Ty broke in. “The whole point of coming here for another summer was to make some money. How are we going to do that with only half a band?”

“She’s not second rate,” Dan insisted at the same time. “You think I’d hook us up with an amateur?”

“But when you introduce a new element into an established band, it changes the dynamic,” Quinn said. “We’ve got a good formula, Danny. I don’t want to fuck with it.”

“I hear you,” Dan said, “but I have a good feeling about this. Trust me, will ya?”

Quinn looked up at the funky metal building, a type he’d only ever seen in SoHo. “Denise is still living in that loft, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dan nodded, his long hair stirring in the breeze.

“You should move in here, then, if you’re really serious about living with her,” Quinn said. “This would be a great place to practice. I bet the acoustics are good,” he added as they climbed the three flights to the apartment.

Dan rapped on the door. They heard the clicking of multiple locks and the door opened. “Hi, sweet stuff,” he cooed as Denise’s round blue eyes peered through the crack.

They went into the apartment, redolent with the smell of marinara. Quinn recognized Oda Solomon, the bartender from the Grotto, who was at the stove stirring the vat of sauce.

Denise was smiling at Ty, reaching out with both hands. Her red hair stood up like a rooster’s comb. “Ty, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you remember Quinn, of course,” Dan prompted as Ty squeezed her hands.

“Yes.” Denise’s smile lost some of its warmth. “Hi, Quinn.”

“Denise—always a pleasure,” Quinn replied, his tone polite but guarded.

Denise led Dan and Ty into the other room, but Quinn lingered in the kitchen with Oda, who was now mixing tomato juice and Worcestershire in a glass pitcher. “Need any help?” he asked. “My Bloody Marys are famous.”

Oda laughed, a deep sound that seemed to emanate from the bottom of her belly. “I’ll put mine up against yours any day. I’m a bartender, remember?”

“Me, too,” he said. “At least when school is in session. I guess I’ll have to have a couple to see if your Marys taste as good as your cooking smells.”

Oda poured the tomato mix into tall glasses, adding a healthy splash of vodka to each. “I’m not the cook,” she confessed, handing him a drink. “Your guitar player is.”

Quinn experienced a surge of annoyance as Oda went into the other room with the tray of drinks. Everyone seemed to think this was a done deal, but he wasn’t going to accept a musician just because it was convenient. He wanted only the best in his band.

He followed her into the living room, which was big and open, furnished with a couple of Papasan chairs, a low table, and a big ottoman. The sparse room was bathed in a soft glow by the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the wide windows. The walls were covered with matted photographs, city shots, mostly, although there were a few pictures of Dan. Naturally, since Denise was the photographer, a student at the New York Institute of Photography.

One of the chairs was occupied by Ty. In the other was a girl. When Quinn saw her, he paused with his drink halfway to his lips.

She was sitting with one leg curled underneath her, a beat-up acoustic guitar in her lap, her fingers twisting a string around one of its tuning pegs. Her hair was shiny black, hanging to her waist in a riot of corkscrew curls. Her face was a stunner, with high cheekbones and eyes that were almost too big, wide set and soulful, their color a striking light green. Her mouth was full, her lips a soft, clear pink.

When she looked up at Quinn, he caught the full voltage of her laser eyes. “I guess you’re Quinn, the keyboard player?” she said shyly.

“And I guess you’re Shan, the guitar player.” She bobbed her head, the black curls dancing around her slim shoulders, and turned her attention back to Ty.

Great.
Quinn took a big gulp.
Now she’ll think I consider it a done deal, too.
It was rare that he was at a loss for words, but this girl had caught him off guard. She was a babe, all right. A serious knockout, in fact. He turned to Dan.

“Nice fake. You did that on purpose,” he accused, whispering so Shan wouldn’t hear.

Dan smirked. “You’re the one who decided she’d be a shaved whale in a flannel shirt. I told you she was cute.”

“Yeah, you said
cute
. You didn’t mention that she was a fucking
goddess
.”

“I don’t think she’s your type,” Dan said, “but wait’ll you play with her.”

“I plan to play with her, all right. And we can skip the audition!”

“We’re looking for a guitar player,” Dan reminded him, frowning. “Behave yourself.”

A timer went off and Shan set her guitar aside, unfolding herself from the deep chair. Quinn moved out of her way as she headed for the kitchen. She was slim and very slight, he saw as she paused to look up at him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said to him. “Thanks for letting me feed you to make up for it.”

“No problem,” he said, zapping her with one of his high-caliber smiles as Dan and Ty exchanged knowing looks. “It gave us a chance to check out the Grotto. You’re a regular?”

Shan nodded. “It’s a nice gig, and the money’s great.”

As she moved past, Quinn met Dan’s eyes, grinned wolfishly, and did a quick about-face, following her into the kitchen.

Shan was peering through the glass pane on the front of the oven. He gave her another once-over. She was dressed in that hippie bohemian look he hated: faded jeans ripped at the knees, an Indian shirt with little mirrors all over it, and a silver ankle bracelet that tinkled as she walked. She had a tiny silver stud attached to her nose, too. Starving artist style.

Not his usual type at all, but for this girl he’d make an exception. “Can I help?” he asked.

“No thanks. Linguine is my one specialty,” she said, beginning to grate a block of Parmesan. “So you go to Berklee.” She glanced at his T-shirt.

“Yup,” he replied. He could tell she was intimidated. Berklee was a prestigious music school, one of the best in the country. The place was highly competitive and admitted only the best students from all over the world.

“What’s your major?” she asked.

“BA in composition and a dual master’s in professional music and contemporary performance.”

“Wow.” She looked impressed. “Your parents must be really proud of you.”

Quinn grimaced. “Not so much. How about you? Are you studying?”

“I’m not in school.”

“Do you plan to be?” Quinn asked and Shan shook her head. “Have you had any formal training?” he persisted, his mind turning to business. He was big on education, especially when it came to guitar players. So many of them had no formal background at all. “Can you sight-read?”

“Yes,” she said, with a sideways glance at him. “I took piano for years.”

He cocked his head to the side and grinned, his light hair falling across one eye. “Me, too.”

“I can tell. I’ve heard your demo. Great chops.”

“Glad you like it,” he said, pleased. “What made you switch to guitar?”

“It’s tough to bring a piano to a gig, don’t you think?” she asked him.

“Not if it’s electric. Mine’s pretty transportable.”

“I’m guessing it’s a Kurzweil?”

“How’d you know?” he laughed.

“If you can afford Berklee, you can probably afford the best.”

Quinn shrugged. “I suppose. What’s that axe you had in there?”

“Well, Joanie’s a Takamine—”

He tilted his head quizzically. “Joanie?”

“My guitar, I mean,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I have a Peavey electric, too, and a Fullerton twelve-string. Nothing fancy. Someday, I’ll get a Martin acoustic and a Gibson ES. Those are
my
dream machines.” She was perspiring, suddenly, and Quinn saw her hands tremble as she took out a metal strainer. She looked flushed, too.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s just hot in here.”

It wasn’t, really, but Quinn took the strainer from her. “Here, let me get that.”

“Would you excuse me? I just want to splash some water on my face.”

“Sure,” he said, and Shan disappeared into the living room.

Obviously he made her nervous. Well, a lot of girls became flustered around him. Still, he’d expect more poise from someone used to an audience. He was frowning as he strained the linguine, but a few minutes later she reappeared looking cool and composed. “Everything’s ready,” she pronounced. “Can you put it on that on the table while I call the others?”

“Sure.” Quinn picked up the bowl of pasta, looking around. “Where’s the table, exactly?”

Shan pointed at a doorway behind him. Approaching to investigate, he discovered another room, furnished with a rectangular table set with six places. “This place is huge,” he marveled.

“I know. I’m so lucky. Oda just happened to mention that she and Denise were looking for another roommate. It’s rent controlled, so I could actually afford it.”

“Choice location, too.”

She nodded. “And it’s a great place to practice,” she added. “Good acoustics.”

He shot her a keen look as she turned back toward the kitchen. “Can I do anything else for you?” he asked, with a little smile.

Shan paused. “Sure. You can open the wine.” She disappeared. Quinn gazed after her for a moment, still wearing the inscrutable smile.

Ty pushed his plate away. “Shan, that was great. The only time I get a home-cooked meal is when I go home to Detroit for Christmas.”

Shan topped off his wine. “Don’t you like to cook?”

Ty chuckled. “No way. I’d starve if it wasn’t for the microwave. Quinn’s a pretty fair chef when he gets the urge. Unfortunately that’s not too often.”

Denise gaped at Quinn. “I’d expect you to think cooking was beneath you. Women’s work and all that.”

Quinn gave her a sour look. “I don’t mind cooking,” he replied, thinking that Denise Jennison was as much of a rag as ever. Charming women was usually effortless for him, but she clearly detested him and had from the moment she’d met him more than two years before.

For the life of him he couldn’t understand why Dan was so hung up on her. She was attractive, leggy, and hot in a punky New York way, with her spiky red hair and kohl-lined eyes, but she’d probably turn into a skinny shrew as she got older. By then, she’d have squeezed out a couple of puppies so Dan would be stuck with her forever. He suppressed a shudder.