Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (8 page)

“Wow,” she breathed when they finished, “you guys sound fantastic!”

Quinn shrugged. “We’ve been doing it for a long time. And it’s harder to blend male and female voices in a harmony. They have different qualities. When it works, though, it’s powerful. And we’re going to make it work. Try it again.”

They went back into the same piece and she tried harder, emulating what she’d heard Dan do with his voice. After a few minutes, Quinn held up his hand again. “Better, but you still haven’t got it. You sing lead and I’ll harmonize. Listen to the difference.”

They went through it again and Quinn joined her on the chorus. He danced around her main melody, not competing with her voice, but enhancing it. She was shaking with excitement by the time they finished.

She wasn’t the only one. “Hot damn!” Ty yelled gleefully. “What a fucking sound! We’d better add some duets to the old repertoire.”

Quinn nodded. He wasn’t altogether displeased himself. They were good together, as he’d suspected they would be. “Right now she has to learn the playlist. You need a lot of work,” he said bluntly and Shan’s face fell. “You’re going to pick up most of the lead vocals, but there’s a few I’ll have to keep. They’re guy songs,” he added, “and Dan and Ty can handle the harmonies temporarily. Not long term, though, because it’s hard for Danny to sing and play drums.”

“But I don’t want to take the lead away,” she said. “You’re such a good singer.”

He nodded. “I am. I’m a good singer. A very good singer. But
you
,” he reached out and tapped her lip lightly, “can be a great singer. And you will be, because I’m going to coach you.”

Dan rolled his eyes and Ty chuckled. “Here comes Quinntila the Hun,” Dan said, sending Shan a sympathetic look. “Better make sure you have your armor on.”

Four hours later, Quinn flipped the cover over his keyboard. “We can break for today.”

Dan stood and stretched, checking the clock. “Hey, my girl oughta be home soon.”

Ty grinned. “I have a date myself tonight. Man, I
love
New York!”

Shan placed Joanie in her case. She couldn’t believe they were talking about doing anything at all after the grueling afternoon they’d had. Her shoulder hurt, her back ached, and her fingers felt like she’d held them on a grindstone. Her legs were starting to cramp, too, and her eyes to water, signals that it was time for a fix.

Since none of the guys showed any signs of leaving, Shan excused herself and went into the bathroom. She pulled out the small stash she’d hidden inside her cosmetic bag, pushed aside the heavy black curtain to open the window, and sat down on the toilet, lighting the strawberry-scented candle that resided on the tank. In her bedroom, she used incense to camouflage the fumes.

She discovered that she’d left her tooter there, so she pulled the last few sheets off the toilet paper spindle and used the cardboard tube. Just a couple of hits were enough to quell the jones. Another hit and she’d be feeling fine, but instead she blew out the candle. She returned the stash to her cosmetic bag, spraying air freshener to further disguise the smell.

When she came back to the living room, Ty was gone and Dan had vanished into Denise’s bedroom. Quinn was waiting for her. “You’re not gigging tonight, are you?”

“No, thank God,” she groaned. Her eyes felt fuzzy and she blinked hard to clear them. “I’m exhausted. And starving,” she added, realizing she hadn’t eaten anything since that morning.

“You want to split a pizza?”

She felt a rush of dismay. She didn’t want to go anywhere with
him
. As Dan had predicted, he’d been all over her ass all day. After he finished criticizing her voice, he’d started in on her playing. He had a problem with one of her solos. Too rough, he’d said. Too wild, not enough structure. He’d made her play it over and over till her fingertips felt like chunks of raw hamburger.

“Not tonight. Maybe some other time.”

“I’m not asking you for a
date
,” Quinn sneered. “You and I aren’t finished yet. You need coaching on your vocals and, if you’re not gigging, then we’re starting tonight.”

“But I thought you liked my voice. Why would you want to mess with it?”

“I’m polishing it, not messing with it. You oughta be thanking me, angel. When I coach people at school, I get forty bucks an hour. Now, what do you like on your pizza?”

“Mushrooms and pepperoni,” she said meekly. She went for the phone, suppressing a sigh. It was going to be a long night. In fact, she was starting to think it was going to be a long summer.

For the next week, Shan spent four to five hours a day practicing with the band and another two being coached by Quinn each night. Every minute she wasn’t practicing, she was scrambling to memorize the twenty-six songs she had to know for the Saturday night playlist. She’d never worked so hard in her life.

Her head had to be clear so she dosed on small amounts of heroin, but had to do it often to keep stable. She developed a routine of dosing when she first got up, again during midafternoon, once more before they started their evening coaching session, and at bedtime, to take her through the night. She knew it was the least she could get away with, because she could feel the jones setting in just before she dosed.

When she thought about it, which she tried not to do, she acknowledged that the H was the dominant force in her life. She had to arrange everything around it—her time, her work, even her sleep—and she hated being such a slave to it. She fantasized about getting clean, being able to live like a normal person, but she knew it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Turkeying was definitely not compatible with the nonstop work required by her new band.

At least she had plenty of H. The rock she’d taken from Jorge was huge, enough to keep her supplied for a long time, and so far she’d seen no sign of its owner. She’d always been careful to conceal her address from him and she’d cancelled all her solo gigs, so it would be hard for him to track her down that way. Still, she experienced a twinge of unease every time she scraped a chunk off the rock.

When she wasn’t dosing, she didn’t think about Jorge much because she was so focused on learning the new music. She loved playing with her talented bandmates, although Quinn’s coaching sessions were less enjoyable. They consisted of a grueling, repetitive series of voice exercises that went on and on. He worked with her in her bedroom, which was tiny. Quinn usually sprawled across her futon with a beer in his hand while Shan stood. Sometimes he made her sing with her hand over her abdomen to feel her breathing. Occasionally he had her play guitar while she sang. She had to practice the scales endlessly and it was torturous. Her throat was killing her by the end of every session.

When she complained, his face took on the condescending sneer she was growing to hate. “It hurts because you’re singing in your throat. If you don’t learn to control that, you won’t have a voice left in a couple of years. You’ll burn it out. Now do it again, and pull it down into your chest this time.” And so it went, on and on.

Band practice was much more pleasant most of the time. Quinn was still a tyrant, but at least there were three of them in his line of fire. She was the usual target for his abuse, but he jumped all over Dan and Ty, too, if he disapproved of something they did.

At first she wondered why they tolerated it. Dan was an incredibly adept drummer and Ty’s intricate bass playing approached the level of a virtuoso. Why did they put up with him?

Because he was invariably right, she discovered. No matter what musical debate erupted, he had an answer and could always back it up. Also, while the rest of them occasionally went flat or hit a wrong note, Quinn never did. He was always on pitch, on key, on time. It was uncanny.

Once she asked Dan why no one ever challenged his decisions. There were four of them in the band, after all, but Quinn was unquestionably the leader. He always had the final word.

“Well, it’s his band, technically,” Dan told her. “He formed it, named it, then handpicked the rest of us. And, musically speaking, Quinn is a genius. He plays keyboards, piano, and bass expertly, and drums and guitar well. You already know he’s a great singer, and you ought to hear him on hand percussion. He’s an awesome composer, too. He wrote all our originals.”

She’d figured that out already, because she’d been barked at for suggesting minor changes to the arrangements on a couple of them. “I know he’s brilliant,” Shan said, “but he’s not willing to listen to anybody else and I can’t believe how mean he can be.”

An unpleasant incident had occurred at practice that day. She’d been searching for a particular high note and she’d scooped, her voice wavering uncertainly. Scooping was one of Quinn’s pet peeves and he’d swooped on her.

“You sound like a reamed-out sow squealing an orgasm,” he’d snarled. “If I wanted a hack, I’d have at least gotten one old enough to get in the clubs without a hassle. You’re supposed to be a professional. You’d better start sounding like one,” he’d concluded in a threatening tone.

She’d gone white-faced as both Ty and Dan turned on Quinn in a chorus of indignation. He’d backed off sullenly, but she’d been shaken and sang badly for the rest of the day, quaking every time he looked in her direction. “It was so humiliating,” she moaned to Dan later. “And what if he decides he wants me out? I’ll be screwed. I gave up all my other gigs, and you and Ty always go along with whatever he says.”

Dan was quick to reassure her. “That won’t happen. First of all, we don’t
always
let him have the last word and, secondly, he’s really impressed with you. He told me so himself.”

Shan was still dubious. During their session that night she continued to sing badly, her voice uncertain and lacking her usual self-assurance. When she scooped again during a standard voice exercise, she cringed visibly and stared at Quinn, awaiting a verbal blitzkrieg.

He sighed, then sat up and patted the futon beside him. “C’mere.”

She hesitated.

“Come on,” he said. “I won’t bite you.”

She perched on the edge of the futon and eyed him with mistrust.
Here it comes,
she told herself.
You’re not going to work out, he’ll say. Sorry, but that’s rock ’n’ roll.

“I owe you an apology,” he said instead. “I had no right to lambaste you like I did today, especially not in front of the others, and I can see that it’s really upset you. I acted like a dick,” he concluded, not without difficulty, “and I’m sorry.”

“You mean I’m not fired?”

“Fired?” His eyes widened. “Why would you think you were fired?”

She pulled her legs in against her chest. “It seems like you’re not happy with anything about me. I’ve been just waiting for the axe to fall.”

“Just because I critique you doesn’t mean I’m not happy with you. You’re a superb musician,” he said. “One of the best I’ve come across.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Well, why are you so mean, then? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all the time you spend with me,” she added when he frowned. “I’m learning a lot, but you get so frustrated with me…”

“The main thing that’s frustrating me is your fucking lack of self-confidence. You’re a great singer, or rather, you
could
be a great singer, and you’ve got the potential to be an ace guitarist, but you never will be until you start believing in yourself.”

All of a sudden she’d had enough of him. “I
do
believe in myself, in my music, but this is intimidating.
You’re
intimidating,” she clarified, “and I’m sick of you yelling at me all the time. I told you up front that I wasn’t at the same level as the rest of you. I’m trying as hard as I can.”

“I know you are,” he said, “and it won’t be long before you’re completely up to speed. All you need is training, which is what I’m trying to give you. You already have the talent. Come on,” he urged as her green eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you spent enough time around me to know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it?”

“Yes, I guess I have.” She smiled a little. “You’re not big on compliments.”

“No, I’m not, but I don’t mind giving credit where it’s due. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in just the last few days. You should be excited about it. I am.”

A warmth started building in her chest that tingled as it spread all the way down to her toes. “I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you say that, Quinn, because I respect your opinion more than anyone else I know. About music, at least,” she added with a little laugh.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. And I’m glad to hear that you believe in your music, because sometimes you act as if you’re just figuring out that you have talent. People pay to listen to you every time you gig, though. What did you think they were paying for?”

“I know that a lot of people like my stuff,” she said, “and it’s a good thing, because it’s all I really know how to do. It really was a revelation when I realized I could use it as a way of supporting myself.”

“How did it come about?” he asked curiously.

She cast her eyes down at the futon. “I used to play in the subway stations,” she said, after a moment. “At first it was just a warm place to work on my tunes, but then people started dropping money into my guitar case.”

“Sounds rough, if the subway was the only place you had to get out of the cold.”

Shan looked up and examined his face for derision. There wasn’t a trace of it. “It was, I guess, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I made okay money for a busker, but it wasn’t really enough to live on. There was one guy who I’d see in the Washington Square station, though. He always listened, then dropped me a twenty. One night he asked me if I wanted to audition for his club, the Grotto.” She grinned. “It was Mike Shapiro.”

Quinn chuckled. “Not bad, for your first gig.”

“I know. It still blows my mind that people like my music enough to pay for it. It’s a great feeling.” She beamed at him. “Almost as great as hearing you say I’m as talented as all of you.”

Her smile seemed to hit him right between the eyes. He turned his face away. “Okay, let’s get back to the scales. And don’t scoop them this time.”