Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (48 page)

“What about antibiotics?” Quinn asked, but the doctor shook his head.

“This is a viral infection, so drugs won’t touch it. A humidifier will help with her breathing, but mostly what she needs is fluids and plenty of rest.”

When Quinn heard that, he pulled out his mobile and called Jeff, ordering him to charter a plane to fly Oda and Angie home.

“I’m going, too,” Shan told him.

“You are not going. We have to be in Seattle tomorrow. Jeff’s booking us seats on the red-eye.” The buses with the rest of the band and the crew had departed hours earlier.

“I have to. I can’t leave her when she’s
sick
, Q.” She thought about the times when she herself had been sick as a child. She couldn’t remember a single time, not once, when her mother hadn’t been there to take care of her.

“I’m not crazy about this either, but we don’t have a choice. You heard the doctor. Angie’s better off at home, but you and I can’t just leave, not right before a show. It’s not an option.”

So Oda and Angie flew home while they flew to Seattle, Shan fretting the whole way. The doctor had told them that most babies recovered from bronchiolitis quickly, but that complications could result if they had underlying health issues.
Like methadone addiction?
she wondered.

It awakened all the anxiety and fear Shan had experienced when she was pregnant, the ever-present worry that she’d injured her daughter through her drug use, that she’d cursed Quinn with a damaged child to go along with his damaged wife, that her own weakness would inflict permanent harm on those she loved most. By the time they arrived in Seattle, she was a mass of ragged nerves. Quinn slept through most of the flight but Shan remained dead awake and terrified, heart pounding with the urgency she felt. The plane had barely touched down before she called Oda. She was reassured to hear that Angie was safe, finally asleep, but it did little to stem her compulsion to get closer to her daughter.

When they arrived at the Kingdome, the roadies were setting up. Quinn went to inspect the monitors and, when he turned back from the stage, he saw Shan huddled in the front row with her mobile glued to her ear. He could see her worried countenance from across the room.

He climbed down from the stage. “How is she?”

She was folding up the phone. “Her fever is back up to one hundred.” Her eyes were wide and frightened. “She’s had some Tylenol and formula, and now Oda’s giving her a bath.”

“The doctor said that might happen,” he reminded her. “It means that her immune system is fighting the infection. It sounds like Oda has the situation under control.”

She glared at him. “If this situation was under control, then we’d be at home taking care of her, not stuck here! Can’t we just
go
?”

“No, we can’t. Do you have any idea what it would cost us to cancel a show?”

“Whatever it costs, it’s not worth more than your daughter!”

Dan glanced at them uneasily and Quinn dropped his voice. “You’d better calm the fuck down. We’ve got a couple of days before Portland, so we’ll fly home in the morning. I’ll charter a plane if I have to, but we can’t go tonight, Shan. It’s not an option.”

“You can’t play one fucking show without me?”

“
No,”
he snarled, his temper finally snapping, “
we can’t.
Twat rock, remember?”

“Which you hate,” she shrieked, “so, for once, why don’t you try it without the twat?”

She flung her phone at him, snatched her purse, and headed for the door.

By seven o’clock, Shan was nowhere to be found. Quinn couldn’t call her, because she’d left her phone behind. Eventually one of the roadies came backstage and handed him a note. She was long gone, on a flight bound for LA.

They limped through the concert, offering a story of sudden illness to explain the absence of their lead singer. They managed to piece together a show with Quinn singing lead, but it did little to appease the outraged audience, who booed them.

When the band got back to the hotel, Quinn parked himself at the bar. He’d curtly refused to speak to any of the press after the show and Dan watched with foreboding as he ordered the first of what was to be many drinks. His eyes were narrowed to slits.

Eventually Dan sidled up and quietly joined him. Quinn was on his third double T and T in less than an hour. “You okay?”

“I’m fucking great,” Quinn sneered, “at least until the fucking papers come out and we get fucking crucified.”

Dan didn’t know what to say. Lorraine had flown in to meet with the promoter and she’d been with him all night, frantically trying to reach a compensation agreement. They were almost certain to wind up on the receiving end of a lawsuit, though, and, if they did, it wouldn’t be Shan personally. It would be the whole band. She hadn’t just fucked herself, she’d fucked them all. But mostly she’d fucked Quinn who, Dan could see, wasn’t just angry. He was enraged.

He watched Quinn order another T and T. He was beginning to exhibit a crazed, maniac-on-the-warpath look, so Dan resolved to stay close, in case he blew his famous cool and decided to slug some innocent drunk who was unfortunate enough to look at him the wrong way.

After a while Dan noticed Quinn looking across the bar, eyeing a busty blonde who’d been checking him out all night. This wasn’t unusual. The Q-man had maintained an appropriately monogamous state since taking himself out of circulation, but he still flirted playfully with the women who pursued him so relentlessly. Shan didn’t like it, but she dealt with it. She’d confided to Dan that expecting Quinn not to flirt would be like expecting the sun not to shine. It was an ingrained part of his personality, and it was harmless.

Except that, in this case, it was looking less harmless than usual. He was returning the blonde’s admiring gaze with something resembling the predatory expression that the old Quinn had always referred to as visual foreplay.

Eventually, the blonde worked her way around the bar. Her name was Janelle, she explained, and she was a
huge
fan. Dan watched Quinn turn on the charm and play her like an instrument. After a few minutes of casual conversation rife with sexual innuendo, she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Probably to dry herself off, Dan reflected. It was uncanny, the effect the guy had on women.

He nudged Quinn. “What are you doing, man?”

Quinn’s face was expressionless. “None of your fucking business.”

“Don’t get crazy, dude. I know you’re pissed off at Shan. You have a right to be, but don’t do something you’re gonna regret just because you’re drunk and pissed off.”

Quinn’s response was stony silence.

Dan gripped his arm. “Q, chill out. I’m serious, man. You’re fucking with the band now. You screw that broad and Shan finds out, then you’ve screwed each and every one of us, too.”

Quinn’s head swiveled and his eyes were like chips of blue ice. “Get your hands off me, Danny,” he said. “Right now.”

There was a clear warning in his words and Dan hastily released him. The blonde returned, sitting even closer this time. Within minutes, Quinn had his hand on her leg, his thumb massaging her inner thigh in what had once been a signature move.

At one point, he raised his glass to his mouth and the blonde’s gaze fastened to his wedding band. “You’re married, aren’t you? To Shan O’Hara?” Dan heard her ask.

Quinn followed the path of her gaze and he regarded his left hand speculatively. After a moment, he looked her right in the eye. “Is that a problem?”

Apparently it wasn’t, because the blonde rushed to her table to tell her friends she was leaving and, when Dan looked around again, Quinn was gone.

The next morning, Quinn woke with a monstrous hangover. He ordered an extrastrength Bloody Mary and a pot of strong coffee, downed them both along with four aspirin, then staggered into the shower. After a couple of minutes, he began to feel human again.

As his mind cleared, he was assaulted with a sickness of a different sort. After a quick stop at the hotel shop, he’d returned to the suite with the blonde in tow, fucked her a couple of times, then thrown her out at four o’clock in the morning citing the fact that his wife might show up as an excuse. It was a good one, as she’d departed hastily.

It was the first time he’d touched another woman since he and Shan had been together. For better or worse, as the saying went, and it hadn’t been a hardship, even though he’d been subjected to a little bit of the worst just lately. He still checked out the groupies, flirting with them in a teasing manner. It amused him that they still pursued him so doggedly, even when Shan was standing right next to him. As if, especially when none of them could hold a candle to her.

He could live without them because he’d known fidelity was part of the deal right from the start. If Shan ever caught him screwing around, he knew exactly how she’d interpret it. She wasn’t worthy of him. She wasn’t enough for him. It would destroy her.

But she was. She was
everything
to him, her and their daughter, and he’d never jeopardize their family just to scratch an itch. But now he had, in a fit of pique, with somebody whose name he couldn’t even remember. Jane? Janet? What difference did it make, anyway?

By the time he climbed out of the shower, he’d convinced himself that it was no big deal. So he’d done a groupie. So what? He’d done scores of them, over the years. Shan would never know. He’d make goddamn sure of it, and he’d never do it again.

He toweled himself dry and emerged naked from the bathroom with clouds of steam hovering around him, then stopped dead.

Shan was in the room, standing next to the bed, with something clutched in her hand.

As she turned and he saw the look on her face, he swayed a little, suddenly realizing he was about to tumble over a precipice.

Shan had heard the shower running as she let herself in to the hotel room. She briefly considered undressing and climbing in there with Quinn, but just as quickly abandoned the idea. Better to wait him out.

By the time she’d arrived in Los Angeles, she’d come to her senses. What had she been thinking? She’d bagged a sold-out show. Quinn would be furious, not to mention the rest of the band and her record label. She knew she’d screwed up royally, so she called Oda, confirmed that Angie was all right, then immediately booked a return seat.

Quinn’s clothes were strewn over the floor, an indication that he’d staggered to bed in a drunken state. Quinn was neat, as a general rule, neater than she was. When she undressed she tossed her clothes on a chair but he folded each item fastidiously, unless he was in a hurry to get her into bed. On such occasions their clothing flew like confetti.

She heard the shower turn off as she began collecting his clothes from the floor. Then her eye fell on the nightstand and she dropped the pants she’d been folding, moved around the bed, and picked up a couple of crumbled pieces of foil from its top.

Condom wrappers. Two of them.

Time seemed suspended as Shan stood and stared at the objects in her hand. She heard the bathroom door open and turned, clutching the wrappers in her fist. She watched Quinn emerge and freeze at the sight of her, then opened her hand and let the wrappers flutter to the floor.

They stared at each other across the room, her eyes wide and disbelieving, practically uncomprehending, his radiating shock and…something else. Guilt?

Shan broke the silence. “Say something,” she whispered.
Say anything. Say Dave used the room, or Ty, or even Dan. I’ll believe whatever you tell me. I’ll make myself believe it.

She could see the lie hovering on his lips, then he shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

His words came at her from a vast distance. She started to tremble and forced her suddenly wobbly legs to move. She walked to the door and paused to look back, her hand on the knob.

His eyes told her everything. There wasn’t a trace of the anger she’d expected to find this morning. All she saw was the guilt.

The trembling in her limbs increased and she left the suite, pulling the door closed very quietly. He didn’t say a word, just stood still and watched her leave.

When the tour bus arrived in Portland, Shan was already there. She skipped sound check and showed up at the arena thirty minutes before they were due onstage. She was cordial to Quinn in a distant way and installed herself in the greenroom where there wasn’t the slightest chance they could exchange a private word.

After the show, he hurried back and caught her as she was gathering her things.

He hesitated. He still didn’t know what the fuck to say to her. “Can we talk?”

“No,” she said, snapping her guitar case shut. “I have a plane to catch.”

“You’re leaving?” His words caught in his throat. “
Now?
”

“Yes. I don’t want to be away from Angie any longer than I have to.” She collected a couple of packets of strings and stuffed them into her backpack.

“Well, I’ll go with you. We’re wrapped up here, so—”

“No,” she said sharply. “I don’t want you with me.”

Quinn frowned. “You have a right to be pissed, but don’t blow this out of proportion.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not.” She gathered up her things.

He grabbed her arm. “Shan, you have to at least talk to me!” She shook his hand off and moved toward the door, but he was past her in a flash, holding it closed. “Don’t leave. Please?”

She whipped her head around. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Quinn. Quite frankly, the sight of you is making me sick.”

Her green eyes were icy. Over the years, those eyes had radiated a whole spectrum of emotions in his direction. He’d seen them blazing with anger and wide with fear. He’d seen them sparkling with joy and liquid with passion. He’d seen them tender with love, but he’d never once seen the emotion emanating from them now.

They were narrowed with hatred.

Did she really hate him? How could she? He let his hand fall away from the door.

“I fucked up,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, angel,”

She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “I’m going. Don’t follow me.”