so obnoxious?”
“I can understand why you’re pissed off at me, but you don’t have to take it out on her,” Dan chimed in.
Quinn turned on Dan. “I can’t believe you have the balls to even open your mouth, after putting us in this position. You don’t tell anyone when we lose a crucial band member, then you hook us up with a player who turns out to be jail bait. Now, because of you, we’re wasting another night waiting on Marcia fucking Brady instead of putting together some viable alternative like we ought to be doing. Where’s your brain, you stupid fuck?” Dan started to answer, his chin quivering defensively. “Do me a favor, okay? Shut up.”
Dan closed his mouth and mutely shifted his attention to the stage. The spotlight was on, bathing Shan in stark-white light. Her black hair glimmered under the lights, almost as much as the tiny mirrors sewn into her shirtwaist, and she sparkled all over as she climbed onto the tall stool. She adjusted the microphone and smiled at the audience.
“Welcome to coffeehouse night at the Grotto, ladies and gentlemen.”
The audience gave her a hearty hand. A ripple of anticipation seemed to pass through the room as she began the opening chords from “Diamonds and Rust.”
Quinn sipped his drink, noting that her playing was tight and polished, her changes smooth. He knew Dan was waiting for a reaction and kept his face impassive, but he approved of her tasteful style. Technically she was quite good. It wasn’t a particularly easy piece and her fingers moved over the frets with skill. She had none of the hesitancy about her movements that was the first indication of an amateur.
Quinn’s approval grew when she broke into the opening verse. She had a solid voice: sweet, clear, and confident. Her breathing was even and measured, her diction clean, and she held the notes with strength and purpose.
Dan was watching him openly now. Quinn was determined not to give him the satisfaction of any kind of response, so he picked up his drink and downed it, his face arranged in an elaborate expression of bored tolerance.
Shan moved into a difficult part of the song. Her vocals took off, swelling with conviction and filling the room, and the audience burst into a spontaneous wave of applause.
“Jesus Christ,” Ty croaked. Quinn ignored him, leaning forward to listen intently. He forgot to worry about feigning indifference for Dan’s benefit, focusing instead on the powerful things that were happening to his hypersensitive auditory canals.
Dan was right; he’d never heard anything like her. Her pitch was perfect and her range amazing, slipping from dusky lows to shimmering highs with flawless ease. She sang with a profound intensity that he could feel himself react to on a visceral level. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized, sneaking a glance at the rest of the audience. She had charisma, enough to match her astonishing vocal chops, and she had the crowd on the edge of their seats.
Angelic was the word that came to mind. She sounds like a fucking angel.
Quinn experienced a chill. He looked down at his arms and saw his flesh rising up into small, tight pinpricks. He watched for a moment, as the sensation spread across his chest, then met Dan’s eye across the table. An unwilling smile crossed his lips as he held up his fist to display the back of his forearm.
Dan grinned from ear to ear. He knew what the goose bumps meant. And the goose bumps were never wrong.
Forty-five minutes later, Shan finished her first set. She’d performed the best of her covers, “Sugaree,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” and “Blackbird” among them , tossed in some originals, and finished with a modified Bob Marley tune. She went to the bar for a club soda, took a deep breath, and swiveled to face the table.
They were all watching her. Even Quinn.
Her mouth went dry and she could feel her stomach gyrate. She went to the table, suddenly wishing she’d never agreed to this at all.
“I can understand why you’re pissed off at me, but you don’t have to take it out on her,” Dan chimed in.
Quinn turned on Dan. “I can’t believe you have the balls to even open your mouth, after putting us in this position. You don’t tell anyone when we lose a crucial band member, then you hook us up with a player who turns out to be jail bait. Now, because of you, we’re wasting another night waiting on Marcia fucking Brady instead of putting together some viable alternative like we ought to be doing. Where’s your brain, you stupid fuck?” Dan started to answer, his chin quivering defensively. “Do me a favor, okay? Shut up.”
Dan closed his mouth and mutely shifted his attention to the stage. The spotlight was on, bathing Shan in stark-white light. Her black hair glimmered under the lights, almost as much as the tiny mirrors sewn into her shirtwaist, and she sparkled all over as she climbed onto the tall stool. She adjusted the microphone and smiled at the audience.
“Welcome to coffeehouse night at the Grotto, ladies and gentlemen.”
The audience gave her a hearty hand. A ripple of anticipation seemed to pass through the room as she began the opening chords from “Diamonds and Rust.”
Quinn sipped his drink, noting that her playing was tight and polished, her changes smooth. He knew Dan was waiting for a reaction and kept his face impassive, but he approved of her tasteful style. Technically she was quite good. It wasn’t a particularly easy piece and her fingers moved over the frets with skill. She had none of the hesitancy about her movements that was the first indication of an amateur.
Quinn’s approval grew when she broke into the opening verse. She had a solid voice: sweet, clear, and confident. Her breathing was even and measured, her diction clean, and she held the notes with strength and purpose.
Dan was watching him openly now. Quinn was determined not to give him the satisfaction of any kind of response, so he picked up his drink and downed it, his face arranged in an elaborate expression of bored tolerance.
Shan moved into a difficult part of the song. Her vocals took off, swelling with conviction and filling the room, and the audience burst into a spontaneous wave of applause.
“Jesus Christ,” Ty croaked. Quinn ignored him, leaning forward to listen intently. He forgot to worry about feigning indifference for Dan’s benefit, focusing instead on the powerful things that were happening to his hypersensitive auditory canals.
Dan was right; he’d never heard anything like her. Her pitch was perfect and her range amazing, slipping from dusky lows to shimmering highs with flawless ease. She sang with a profound intensity that he could feel himself react to on a visceral level. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized, sneaking a glance at the rest of the audience. She had charisma, enough to match her astonishing vocal chops, and she had the crowd on the edge of their seats.
Angelic was the word that came to mind. She sounds like a fucking angel.
Quinn experienced a chill. He looked down at his arms and saw his flesh rising up into small, tight pinpricks. He watched for a moment, as the sensation spread across his chest, then met Dan’s eye across the table. An unwilling smile crossed his lips as he held up his fist to display the back of his forearm.
Dan grinned from ear to ear. He knew what the goose bumps meant. And the goose bumps were never wrong.
Forty-five minutes later, Shan finished her first set. She’d performed the best of her covers, “Sugaree,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” and “Blackbird” among them , tossed in some originals, and finished with a modified Bob Marley tune. She went to the bar for a club soda, took a deep breath, and swiveled to face the table.
They were all watching her. Even Quinn.
Her mouth went dry and she could feel her stomach gyrate. She went to the table, suddenly wishing she’d never agreed to this at all.
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