Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (13 page)

“I think it’s spooky.” Denise wrinkled her nose.

“It’s supposed to be,” Quinn said. “It’s Goth, and the door take averages two grand.”

“I thought that didn’t matter,” Dan said, “and aren’t you always saying the number of assholes rises in proportion with the number of people?”

Quinn shrugged. “They have decent security. Decent enough for Black Sabbath, at any rate,” he added with a grin. “They played here last weekend.”

Dan muttered under his breath, but unfastened the amp rack covers.

Quinn was right again. The place filled up fast with an assortment of black-clad patrons sporting eyeliner, black fingernails, and earrings in places Shan wouldn’t have thought could be pierced. By eleven Prometheus was jammed. Several fights broke out, but the bouncers were more than adequate, a group of forbidding-looking fellows clad in executioner’s garb.

Quinn had modified their list to play to the crowd—dark, hardcore stuff, never Shan’s taste. Instead of the blend of hard rock and acid jazz she’d grown accustomed to, that night she was performing the punk and deathrock tunes Quinn had insisted they learn, covers of artists like Alice Cooper, the Cure, and Black Flag. The crowd roared.

In spite of her distaste for the music, Shan found herself responding to the enthusiasm of her audience. She loved performing in such an ornate venue, which appealed to her theatrical side. She vamped and shimmied around the stage, sneering like Wendy O. Williams.

During “Putting Out Fire with Gasoline,” Shan thought she spotted Jorge. Since he knew the name of her band now, it would be easier for him to find her and she’d been afraid all night that he’d show up.

“
Feel my blood enraged. It’s just the fear of losing you
,” she sang, narrowing her eyes against the lights to get a good look. The strobes kicked in, blinding her, and she blew a line, humming her way through it. She could feel the disapproval radiating from Quinn and when the strobes stopped, the man she’d seen was gone.

They finished at two. “What happened to you on ‘Putting Out Fire’?” Quinn growled as they packed. “That’s not even a new song. You know it backwards.”

“There was some weird guy staring at me,” Shan said, glancing over her shoulder. “He gave me the creeps.”

“Everyone here is creepy. It doesn’t hurt to be careful, though. He isn’t still here, is he?”

“I don’t know.” She scanned the crowd uneasily. “I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Just don’t go wandering off alone. Here, put these in the box.” He handed her a coil of audio cables and Shan went back to packing. She continued to scan the crowd, but she knew Jorge rarely left his neighborhood. She’d never known him to venture this far downtown.

Quinn and Ty were stowing the last of the gear as Shan climbed into the van.

She paused. “Crap,” she said, climbing back out. “I left Quinn’s jacket in the band room.”

“Better hurry up,” Dan said, “I want to get out of here before all those drunken Goths start looking for somebody to sacrifice.”

“I’ll just be a sec. I know right where it is.” Shan dashed back into the building. She made her way through the still substantial crowd and slipped backstage. After pausing to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the near darkness, she went to the old dressing room still equipped with a stage mirror, milky around the edges and rimmed with white lights.

She groped for the light switch and the mirror blazed. She spotted Quinn’s jacket immediately. It was right where she’d left it, hanging on the back of a chair. She slipped it on and turned off the light, then headed back down the passageway that led into the club. They’d turned on some canned music and the weird, Goth beat was pounding at an unbelievable volume.

Suddenly she stopped. She could see a figure in front of the door, bathed from behind in a red glow cast by the exit sign. “Who’s there?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

No response, at least none that she could hear over the music.

Jorge.
She’d known it was him. Why, why hadn’t she trusted her instincts? Her hands involuntarily shot to her abdomen, where the point of his knife had left a bruise.

The figure moved.

Shan didn’t wait. She turned and fled down the passageway, away from the entrance to the club. Her high heels impeded her but, when she tried to kick them free, she tripped and went sprawling. She rolled quickly, but he was already over her and she flinched, holding her hands in front of her face, already feeling the sting of the switchblade.

“What in the hell is the matter with you?”

She lowered her hands. It was Quinn, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“I told you not to wander off alone.” He extended his hand, frowning. “Are you all right?”

She found her voice. “I’m fine. I just freaked for a minute. I thought you were him. That creepy guy, I mean.” She scrambled to her feet, wincing. She’d scraped both knees and they stung.

He was still eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” she assured him, limping a little as she hurried down the passageway. “Fine.”

When they arrived at home, Shan grabbed the guitars and went upstairs. By the time they finished unloading, she was hiding out in the bathroom. Her hands shook as she dosed, blowing the smoke out the window. She listened to the voices in the living room. They lingered for a long time, longer than usual after a gig, but she stayed put and eventually she heard Quinn and Ty leave.

She opened the door. The apartment was silent. Dan and Denise must have gone to bed. Shan went to her room and took off the black dress. It was ruined now, badly torn when she fell.

What a jerk she was, panicking over nothing. She could imagine what Quinn was thinking. He hadn’t said anything to the others, but kept giving her suspicious looks all the way home.

The H had calmed her down, but she knew she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. She changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, then took Joanie and headed for the roof.

She settled in her metal chair. Joanie was just slightly out of tune and she concentrated on adjusting the peg. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and she breathed in the cool air, feeling herself begin to relax for the first time all day.

Then, behind her on the dark roof, someone cleared his throat.

Shan turned. Jorge was leaning against the door into the building, casually flicking his seven-inch blade open and closed. He smiled.

“Hi,
querida
.” He started toward her. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. Shan’s eyes were riveted to the knife in his hand, glimmering in the dim light of the rooftop. “Is it a good time to finish our discussion?” Even his voice sounded slow, like a record playing on the wrong speed.

She rose from the chair. Joanie slid from her lap, landing on the ground with a soft slur of notes. Shan backed away as Jorge continued to advance, one step at a time. It felt like they were doing a dance.

When he’d moved far enough from the door, Shan made a dash for the stairwell. She was almost there when she felt sudden agony across the back of her head as Jorge grabbed her hair. He used it to jerk her to the ground and, as she hit, she felt the gravel scraping against her cheek and hands. She got to her knees, wincing, then she heard the metallic click and the blade was pressing into the flesh under her chin. She froze.

His breath was against her ear. “
I want my fucking money, bitch
.”

“I have five hundred dollars,” she whispered, feeling the point of the knife against her voice box. She knew it could slice through her flesh like butter. “Just let me go down and get it.”

He moved the blade and she started to get up, then he swung his foot. When his heavy work boot connected with her tailbone she screamed in pain, dropping back onto the roof. He kicked her again, his boot slamming into her ribs this time.

She assumed a fetal position, which she knew from long experience was safest during a beating. She wrapped her arms around her legs and ducked her head, tensing for the next blow.

She stayed that way for what felt like an hour, but she knew in reality that it was only seconds. Cautiously, she raised her head.

Jorge was no longer standing over her. She couldn’t see him at all, but she had a clear path to the door. She scrambled to her knees, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side. She looked around and gasped.
“Put that down!”

Jorge was near the edge of the roof, one foot resting on the ledge. In his hands was Joanie.

“I see you’re still playing your mama’s guitar,” he said.

She got to her feet, winced, gripped her side. “Give it to me, Jorge!” She moved toward him. Just as her fingers were about to touch Joanie’s wood grain, he pulled it away and extended his arm, holding the guitar out over the edge of the roof, nine stories above the street.

“What else you gonna do for me?” he asked.

“Give me my guitar!”

He tossed it lightly into the air then caught it, leaning a little farther out into space. “How about you get down on your knees? Show me how grateful you are?”

“Grateful for
what
?
”

“Grateful that I didn’t cut your fuckin’ throat,” he replied, “or at least that I didn’t give you more scars than you already got. I still might. I could slice your pretty face to ribbons. Then the big blond guy you’re screwing won’t want ya.” Her face must have betrayed something, because he suddenly looked uglier. “Yeah, I seen him. I been watching you all week. He wouldn’t be with you if your face was one big fucking scab, now, would he?”

“I’m not
with
him,” she said.
Why do I have to keep explaining this?
she wondered irrationally, her eyes glued to the guitar in Jorge’s hand.

“Don’t care if you are,” he said, swinging Joanie like a pendulum. He reached out with his other hand and caught Shan by the front of the sweater to yank her closer.

“Give us a kiss,
querida,
” he whispered, “then get down on your fucking knees.”

Shan could see the gaps in his teeth, his scabbed skin, the bilious yellow of his eyes. She remembered what it was like to be in his bed, his hands all over her, his cock inside of her.

She drew her head back.

And spit in his face.

He looked shocked for a moment, then his face twisted. He let go of the guitar.

Shan flung herself past him, her arms stretching out over the edge of the roof. She thought she felt her fingers just graze the guitar’s body, then she was watching Joanie soar through the air, tumbling end over end in a graceful downward trajectory.

Shan made a sound like an animal in pain but she only had a moment to mourn, because the next thing she knew she was sprawling across the roof with Jorge bearing down on her. His fingers closed around her windpipe. “Now let’s work on that face,
querida
.”

His grip on her throat tightened, but suddenly something flashed past and Jorge’s head snapped back. He uttered a strangled sound and the pressure on her throat relaxed as he fell off of her. Her hands shot to her throat. She looked up.

Quinn was towering over her with a clenched fist and a dangerous scowl.

Jorge sat up, dazed, and in a split second Quinn was between them. “You wanna play, motherfucker? How about picking somebody your own size?”

Shan watched Jorge inspect Quinn with clear apprehension. She noted that they weren’t even close to the same size. Quinn was bigger. A lot.

Jorge’s eyes shot back to her. “
I treated you decent
,” he cried. “I took care of you when you had nothin’, and now—”

Jorge lunged. He was quick, but Quinn was quicker, lashing out with his foot. Jorge caught it under the chin and suddenly he was airborne. When he landed, his nose and mouth were bloody.

Quinn took a menacing step closer, his fists doubling up, and Jorge scrambled to his feet. He fled across the roof, bursting through the door. His footsteps echoed through the stairwell.

Shan didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled, then her entire body started shaking. Quinn knelt down and put his arms around her. He held her for a long time, until the tremors stopped. “What the fuck, Shan?” he said, when she was still.

She let him help her to her feet. “Where did you come from? I thought you left.”

“I did, but I came back. You’ve been weird all night, then that shit backstage at the club? I knew something was up.” He knelt to examine a shiny object on the ground. Jorge’s switchblade. His face darkened. “I was about to come upstairs when I saw your guitar sail off of the roof.”

Joanie!
Clutching her side, she headed for the stairwell and hurried down the eight flights to the front of the building.

Joanie was in pieces. The headstock was mostly intact, with part of the neck still clinging to it. The rest was destroyed.

She sank to her knees, staring at what was left of her mother’s guitar. She touched the bridge, which had detached from the body. The strings were twisted and gnarled but some of them still connected the small piece of wood to the smashed instrument, like an umbilical cord linked to a corpse.

“Shan.” She turned. Quinn was standing beside her. He raised his hand, showing her the switchblade. “Come inside. We’ve got to call the cops.”

“No!”

“But…”

“No cops, Quinn.” She shook her head, pulling the pegs to release the strings from the bridge and taking it in her hand. “I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”

She marched upstairs without looking back, but he dogged her, coming up the stairs right behind her. “Fine?” he asked. “How can you possibly be fine, after that?”

She unlocked the door to her apartment and Quinn followed her inside. “Just because I ran him off doesn’t mean he won’t come back,” he continued, turning the tumbler on the deadbolt. “You have to do something.”

He turned and realized he was speaking to an empty room. He went into the living room. No sign of Shan, so he went to her bedroom, knocked briefly, and opened the door.

The room was dark. His eyes adjusted and he saw that she was in bed. Her eyes were shut, her breathing even, and she looked very small under the covers. “I know you’re awake,” he said.