Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (20 page)

She remembered what she’d been told at the clinic, that the physical withdrawal was really the easy part. She hadn’t wanted to believe that was true, but now she knew it was. What remained after the shakes and the sweats and the nausea subsided was far more sinister and, months later, it still hadn’t gone away, the craving that percolated like a malignancy.

She turned to NA and tried to supplant her hunger for drugs with a compulsion to attend meetings. She went every day, sometimes twice a day, but like before found she couldn’t embrace the “higher power” doctrine that was the backbone of the program. Still, the meetings helped. She made a few friends, listened to their stories, and knew there were lower bottoms than the one she’d hit. She’d never hurt anyone but herself, after all, and she was still alive and functioning. She knew she had Quinn to thank for it. It was torturous, having him so far away.

“I miss him so much,” she told Oda. “My life feels empty without him.”

“Well, you’re going to have to fill it up,” Oda said. “Quinn’s not here to do it for you.”

She couldn’t think of any way to do that, especially with the jones and its insidious taunting. She tossed at night, her craving for heroin battling her longing for Quinn. Sometimes she didn’t think she’d make it and her music provided the only respite. Her music, and his phone calls.

He called often and they talked for hours, amassing spectacular phone bills. They talked about everything, sharing their opinions on the war in the Persian Gulf (bad), the hole in the ozone layer (very bad), and the Milli Vanilli scandal (unconscionable). She soothed him when Cincinnati beat the A’s in the World Series, although Shan knew very little about baseball, and mirrored his excitement over the development of something called the World Wide Web, about which she knew even less.

The one thing they didn’t talk about was their relationship. Quinn never mentioned what had happened between them on his last night in New York and Shan didn’t know how to bring it up. Instead, she waited for his calls and grew more and more dependent upon them, reveling in their growing closeness and relying on it to keep the jones at bay.

When she confided her fears about relapsing, Quinn had a practical solution. “Of course it’s hard, but don’t sit around and wallow in it. Do something, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you take some music lessons?”

“Do you think I need more vocal coaching?” she asked.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I don’t want anyone undoing the work I did on you. Some guitar instruction wouldn’t hurt, though. Manhattan School of Music offers master classes.”

“I’m pretty hand to mouth right now. The methadone is so expensive…”

“I’m sure there’s a scholarship program,” he said. “You’re something special and that’s what they want. Dan’s got connections at MSM, so let’s see what we can work out.”

As it turned out, the artist in residence for the spring semester was Dexter Reinhardt. Quinn sent a demo, Dan talked to the school, and the next thing she knew she was learning from a master.

The sixty-seven-year-old Reinhardt was a music legend, an electric blues guitarist who hailed from the Louisiana bayou. He’d been among the first of the bluesmen to cross over into the rock arena and he was renowned for his razor-sharp sound. His bare-finger plucking style was his trademark, one that Shan occasionally emulated in her own work.

“You’re a real guitar player’s guitar player,” Reinhardt told her. “Your fretwork—it’s blistering, among the best I’ve heard. Sometimes, though, you’re a little
too
splattery. You could use some discipline.”

“Just be careful not to get too enamored with him,” Quinn said when she bubbled over. “He’s awesome, but you don’t want to start sounding like a Reinhardt clone. Don’t lose your personal style.”

So she studied, and learned, and practiced with a newfound purpose. Her work was evolving, developing even more of an edge, and she adopted some of the avant-garde blues and funk that characterized Reinhardt’s playing. Her gigs became forums for her experiments, and she was gratified by the reaction she earned from her audiences.

She’d always played guitar religiously, practicing every day, but now it became an obsession and she didn’t realize how much until the last few days of the cross-country trip. When they first set out she played in the van often, but once in Colorado Dan had to swerve sharply to avoid a mountain lion. Shan was flung against the door and she heard the neck of her guitar hit with a sharp whack. The Angel was unharmed, but it scared her so much that she hadn’t taken it out again while the van was in motion. By the time they reached the California state line, she was battling a guitar jones on top of all the others.

The most painful longing was about to end, though. Dan was turning off the canyon highway, starting down a bumpy trail with a dusty sign identifying it as Echo Road. At the bottom, she saw a rambling lodge-style cabin of faded clapboards. A stone porch with a couple of weathered Adirondack chairs decorated its front and parked outside was a shiny black motorcycle, the Harley she knew belonged to Quinn, and Ty’s silver Mazda. Behind the house, Shan saw a windy stream meandering along the foot of a steep, brush-covered hillside.

As they approached the house, Dan laid on the horn. Almost immediately, the front door opened and there was Quinn, barefoot, in surfer shorts and a white T-shirt.

Shan was out and running before the van came to a full stop, her feet spraying gravel as she flew over the sandy ground. When she reached Quinn, she flung her arms around him with wild, reckless joy, plowing into him with such force that she felt him stagger backward.

“Q! Q!” she babbled, absolutely unable to form another word. “Oh, Q…”

She felt him catch his bearings, then enfold her in a massive bear hug.

She heard a screen door slam, then Dan’s and Ty’s voices as they greeted each other. After a time she drew back to look up at Quinn. His smile was enormous as he let go of her waist and took her face between his hands. “Angel,” he said, gazing down at her warmly. “Damn, I missed you.” He kissed her on the mouth, brief but hard, with a loud smack.

Shan’s gaze fastened on him with rapt adoration. He was tanned now and his blond hair was longer, pulled back into a tail, but he was still beautiful, just as heart stopping as ever.

She heard Ty laugh softly. “Hey, you two, the rest of us are here, too, you know.”

Without taking her eyes off Quinn, Shan reached in Ty’s general direction. She felt him take her hand and squeeze it. “It’s good to see you, Ty,” she said, still gazing up at Quinn.

This time all of them laughed. Quinn released her and grabbed Dan’s outstretched hand, clapping him on the shoulder in a manly, one-armed hug.

“Quinntessence,” he said, “together again.”

“And me,” Denise chirped.

Quinn rolled his eyes, but smiled. “And you,” he agreed. “Come on in.”

They followed him into the house, which was roomy and rustic, with unpainted, rough-hewn walls and very little furniture. “It’s not a palace,” Quinn warned. “No air conditioning and the hot water runs out in ten minutes, but it’s big and it’s affordable.”

“Kind of remote,” Dan said. “I was surprised when you said Tujunga. It’ll take at least half an hour to get into LA proper.”

“More like forty minutes, depending on the traffic,” Quinn said. He took them through the eat-in kitchen and tiny laundry room, which he commented might be a good space for Denise’s darkroom, since they didn’t have a washer or dryer anyway. Next he showed them the den, which had a stone fireplace, explaining that this would serve as their living room. He led them to the intended living room next, commenting that its sloped ceiling made it an acoustically suitable music room. He’d put down a carpet to further improve the sound; the room contained an array of percussion instruments, amplifiers, a four-track recorder, and a big console mixer in addition to Quinn’s keyboard and Ty’s collection of bass guitars.

Next Quinn led them up the stairs. “Ty’s here,” he said, pointing at the first door on the left, “and you two are across the hall.” He opened another door to usher Dan and Denise inside.

“What about me?” Shan asked.

All across country she’d been fantasizing about this moment. She’d envisioned him throwing open a door to a romantic, ocean-view room with a sumptuous bed, saying, “Here, with me. We’re together now, angel.”

Instead he led her down the hall to a miniscule room that had a tiny window overlooking the creek. “This is your room,” he said.

She was so disappointed she couldn’t speak. When Quinn saw her expression, his face fell. “Don’t you like it? We could swap, if you want. Mine is a little bigger…”

“No, this is fine,” she said, recovering.

“I know it’s small, but you don’t have that much stuff. Your room in New York wasn’t much bigger. And I’m right next door,” he added, “which I thought would be convenient.”

“For what?”

“For all the late nights we’re going to have.” He winked at her, then headed back down the hall. Shan trembled in anticipation of the activities she hoped they’d indulge in during those late nights.

The house had only one full bath, but there was also an outdoor shower. Shan and Denise took turns using the bathroom while Dan headed outside with a bar of soap. When they’d all showered and changed, they trooped downstairs where Quinn had burgers sizzling on a charcoal grill. Ty was tossing a salad and boiling ears of corn on the stovetop.

They gathered around the rickety picnic table situated next to the creek and Dan heaved a contented sigh as he sparked up a joint for a predinner toke. “Back in Cali,” he said, taking a hit and handing the joint to Quinn. “Man, it’s good to be home.”

“I hear you,” Quinn said, accepting the joint, hitting it, and offering it to Denise.

“We need more furniture,” Denise said. She shook her head and Quinn passed the joint along to Ty. “I have some,” she continued, “but not enough to fill the whole house.”

“My folks are giving me some. Can you come with me to pick it up tomorrow?” Dan asked Quinn. “They’d like to see you again. I want Denise to meet them, too.”

Quinn nodded and Shan regarded him hopefully. “Have you seen your family yet, Q?” She waved the joint past when it came her way, wondering if she, too, would have a chance to meet his parents.

“We stayed with my brother for a few days when we first got here,” he said, passing the joint along without taking a second hit. “Had to get my bike. It’s been stashed there while I was away at school.”

“How is Ron?” Dan asked, reclaiming the joint. Just he and Ty were smoking it now.

“Same. It was good to see him, and the kids, too. They’ve grown a lot. They’re four and six now and cute as hell. They remembered me, too,” he said, his smile broadcasting his affection for his niece and nephew. “I thought maybe they wouldn’t. I didn’t get back last Christmas, and two years is a long time at that age.”

“And the folks?” Dan said.

“I saw George last week,” Quinn said. “He’s fine and, according to him, my mother is still alive. That’s as much as I care to know. Now can we talk business? I have gigs lined up starting the end of the month, so we need to get right down to it.”

“Why so long? It won’t take much to get back into the groove,” Dan said. “We’re not facing the same kind of issues that we did last year.”

“I wish that were true,” Ty mourned, taking another hit, “but the Q-man has other ideas.”

All eyes turned toward Quinn, who nodded. “I want another guitar player.”

What?
For a moment, Shan couldn’t breathe. “You’re replacing me?” she choked out, when she was able to speak.

Quinn regarded her with disdain. “Right. I dragged you out here so I could fire you. I said
another
one,” he clarified, “meaning two.”

Hot words bubbled up. “That’s bullshit, Quinn. I don’t—”

“Oh, chill out.” Quinn leaned over and put his hand over her mouth. She had to fight the urge to bite him. “Obviously you’d still play lead. I’m talking about a rhythm guitar. It would add some stability and depth to the music.”

“It would also mean a pay cut for all of us,” Ty said, dropping the sputtering nub that remained of the joint into an ashtray.

Quinn shrugged. “In the long run it will pay off.”

“So we need to start auditioning guitar players again?” Dan groaned.

“No,” Quinn said. “It just happens that Dave Ross is available.”

“Dazzlin’ Dave?” Dan’s eyes widened. They were red and glassy from the pot. “No shit! What about the Stone Gurus?”

“On a break. They just came off a tour,” Quinn explained, “opening for Jane’s Addiction. Apparently there’s some trouble in the band. He’s looking for a change.”

“We’ve got to grab him up,” Dan said, obviously excited.

Quinn’s smile widened. “My thoughts exactly.”

Shan was still doubtful. “What kind of music does he play?”

“His training is mostly jazz,” Quinn said, “but he’s one of the most versatile players I know. Solid as a rock, and he does a cool flamenco thing that’s pretty unique. He’s the one.”

Ty shrugged. “You don’t have to sell me. I trust your judgment, at least about music. I’m just worried about the financial impact.”

“It’ll be positive in the end,” Quinn told him. “I guarantee it.”

Later that night, Shan followed Quinn into his room to hear some of his new music. She kicked off her shoes and lay across the bed, assuming what she thought was a fetching pose.

Quinn didn’t seem to notice. He popped a tape into the cassette deck. “This is still a work in progress,” he said, adjusting the volume. “It needs a bit of polish.”

She stifled her impatience and forced herself to listen. After a few moments, the tune captured her attention. It was interesting, sharp and jazzy. She liked it. Still, it lacked the rough edge that characterized the music they’d written as a team. “It’s good, but kind of mechanized.”

“It’s a drum machine and a sequencer,” he bristled. “What do you expect?”

“Don’t get defensive. I know that, but it’s like taking the interstate instead of the scenic route. The ride is smooth, but the view is dull.”