Free Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) by Jeanne Bogino Page B

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.”
     
    The next day at practice Quinn was his usual bossy self, but Shan felt better equipped to handle his criticism. He didn’t seem quite so scary now and when the band was rehearsing one of his originals, a blues-rocking tune called “Wanderlust,” she improvised a little on the guitar solo.
    “This tune should be tight as a drum,” Quinn growled. “Why can’t you get this right?”
    “I think I do have it right,” she said, quaking inside.
    Quinn cocked his head, the beginnings of his customary sneer moving across his face. “Come again? I don’t recall a ragged, nonintegrated guitar riff being part of the arrangement. And I think I’d probably remember, since I wrote the goddamn song.”
    “I think the way we do this song is dull,” Shan said. “It has no groove to it.”
    Dan winced and glanced at Ty, who shook his head. Quinn was staring at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
    “ You’re telling me that you think my music is boring? Give me a break. Don’t start thinking you’re a composer just because a few people tossed quarters at you in the subway.”
    She drew back, stung. “I’m sorry I ever told you about that, you insensitive jerk! I should have known you wouldn’t understand. You don’t know anything about emoting or moving people with your music. Yours is as mechanical as a metronome.”
    “You a music critic, all of a sudden?” he inquired, his brow descending.
    “No, I’m not,” she shot back, screwing up her face and scowling right back at him, “but how come everything we play has to be your style? There are four of us in this band, you know. It’s not just the Quinn Marshall show.”
    His face reddened and he glared at her silently for a few moments. Then, in a quick reversal, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “We can try it.”
    Her mouth fell open. “We can?”
    “Sure.” He shrugged. “I said I wanted you to develop more confidence. If this is what it takes, let’s give it a try. Even though I happen to think you’re dead wrong.”
    He let her do it her way, adding a new, looser interpretation to the guitar riff around the tight rhythm line and, when they finished, Dan looked thoughtful. “We might be on to something here,” he said, keeping a wary eye on Quinn. “What do you think?”
    Quinn didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at his forearms, watching the goose bumps rise up in tight little knots.
     
    During their session that night Quinn was moody and noncommunicative, but Shan was feeling playful, high on the triumph of the afternoon. She ran through her usual series of voice exercises without eliciting a single comment from him. After she deliberately sang flat without getting a reaction, she took a thin paperback from her bookcase.
    The book bounced off his head. “Ow!” he yelled, rubbing his injured cranium.
    She grinned. “When I sing flat without you letting out a single swear, I know something’s wrong with you. What’s up?”
    “Nothing,” he said testily. “I’m just tired.”
    “An admission of a human failing? That’s not like you, either, Quinn.”
    “Well, there is something I want to talk to you about.” He waited until she flopped down beside him. “I think we ought