it’s better if we all work together?” Shan persisted, ignoring Quinn. “It’s a more organic way of writing and then the songs belong to all of us, not just me and Quinn.”
“You two are having enough trouble collaborating just with each other,” Dan said. “If all four of us are involved, we won’t get anything done at all.”
“Right,” Ty said, “so let’s drink on it. All composing takes place outside of band practice. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Quinn said immediately. Shan nodded reluctantly and, as a clink of bottles carried the motion, she swiped a hand across her eyes. They were a little watery and she was perspiring, too. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Dan waited until she left the room, then leaned forward to fix Quinn with an evil grin. “Hey, Mr. Footloose,” he whispered, “who’s pussy whipped now ?”
Quinn’s face turned to granite. “Certainly not me.”
“Bullshit,” Dan jeered as Ty chuckled. “I can’t believe the shit that little girl gives you. And you’re not even fucking her!”
Quinn scowled. He didn’t have a good comeback, because he definitely did put up with more shit from Shan than he’d ever put up with from anyone else, male or female. Dan’s barbs were right on, which made them supremely irritating.
Not that he was whipped, he assured himself as Shan came back, now dry-eyed and composed. Pussy struck, maybe, but not pussy whipped. There was a difference. A big one.
She settled down on the pillows next to Quinn. “They’re right,” she said to him, “and I feel terrible. I never meant to act that way.”
“You’re hanging out too much with Quinntila here,” Dan said, “and you’re picking up his bad habits.”
“Not much chance of that,” she assured him, “unless I acquire a taste for inflatable blondes.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I never said I was opposed to an occasional brunette.”
He loved her curly hair and was always ruffling the shiny locks playfully. There was one little curl in particular that fascinated him. It dangled down her forehead just over her right eyebrow. Even when she pulled the rest of her hair into a braid, that one curl escaped defiantly.
He grabbed that little curl now and gave it a tug, but she tossed her head to yank it out of his grasp. “I’m not your type,” she said. “You’re just as rigid with your women as you are with your music.”
“I’m all for equal opportunity, though.”
“I’ll bet you are,” Ty chortled, “especially when you’re rigid.”
Quinn rose and flipped the cover over his keyboard.
“Are we stopping?” Ty asked.
“Might as well. You’ve completely destroyed my concentration.” Quinn dropped to his haunches to wind up the power cable to his Kurzweil. His T-shirt slipped out of the back of his jeans, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. Shan stared, transfixed.
“Give it a break,” Dan said. “We’ve been at it three and a half hours already. Don’t want to get stale, right?”
Quinn laughed. “Right.” He stood back up, and turned to check the clock. “What do you want to do about dinner?” He looked at Shan.
She quickly pulled her eyes up to his face. “You read my mind.”
“Why, you cooking?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope. I’m not a den mother. How about Chinese?”
“You’ll never make a good wife,” he told her. “You rely too much on take-out.”
“So do you. I’ve never eaten so much pizza in my life.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a wife,” he said with conviction. “Or get one, either.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “Why should I have to cook some guy’s food?”
“I like the Chinese idea,” Dan said. “But I’d rather go out. How about if I call Denise and tell her to meet us at Big Wong?”
“Speaking of wives,” Quinn snorted. “Works for me, as long as you keep the missus at the other end of the table.”
Shan rolled her eyes. “Yes, call her,” she told Dan, ignoring Quinn.
Later that
“You two are having enough trouble collaborating just with each other,” Dan said. “If all four of us are involved, we won’t get anything done at all.”
“Right,” Ty said, “so let’s drink on it. All composing takes place outside of band practice. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Quinn said immediately. Shan nodded reluctantly and, as a clink of bottles carried the motion, she swiped a hand across her eyes. They were a little watery and she was perspiring, too. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Dan waited until she left the room, then leaned forward to fix Quinn with an evil grin. “Hey, Mr. Footloose,” he whispered, “who’s pussy whipped now ?”
Quinn’s face turned to granite. “Certainly not me.”
“Bullshit,” Dan jeered as Ty chuckled. “I can’t believe the shit that little girl gives you. And you’re not even fucking her!”
Quinn scowled. He didn’t have a good comeback, because he definitely did put up with more shit from Shan than he’d ever put up with from anyone else, male or female. Dan’s barbs were right on, which made them supremely irritating.
Not that he was whipped, he assured himself as Shan came back, now dry-eyed and composed. Pussy struck, maybe, but not pussy whipped. There was a difference. A big one.
She settled down on the pillows next to Quinn. “They’re right,” she said to him, “and I feel terrible. I never meant to act that way.”
“You’re hanging out too much with Quinntila here,” Dan said, “and you’re picking up his bad habits.”
“Not much chance of that,” she assured him, “unless I acquire a taste for inflatable blondes.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I never said I was opposed to an occasional brunette.”
He loved her curly hair and was always ruffling the shiny locks playfully. There was one little curl in particular that fascinated him. It dangled down her forehead just over her right eyebrow. Even when she pulled the rest of her hair into a braid, that one curl escaped defiantly.
He grabbed that little curl now and gave it a tug, but she tossed her head to yank it out of his grasp. “I’m not your type,” she said. “You’re just as rigid with your women as you are with your music.”
“I’m all for equal opportunity, though.”
“I’ll bet you are,” Ty chortled, “especially when you’re rigid.”
Quinn rose and flipped the cover over his keyboard.
“Are we stopping?” Ty asked.
“Might as well. You’ve completely destroyed my concentration.” Quinn dropped to his haunches to wind up the power cable to his Kurzweil. His T-shirt slipped out of the back of his jeans, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. Shan stared, transfixed.
“Give it a break,” Dan said. “We’ve been at it three and a half hours already. Don’t want to get stale, right?”
Quinn laughed. “Right.” He stood back up, and turned to check the clock. “What do you want to do about dinner?” He looked at Shan.
She quickly pulled her eyes up to his face. “You read my mind.”
“Why, you cooking?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope. I’m not a den mother. How about Chinese?”
“You’ll never make a good wife,” he told her. “You rely too much on take-out.”
“So do you. I’ve never eaten so much pizza in my life.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a wife,” he said with conviction. “Or get one, either.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “Why should I have to cook some guy’s food?”
“I like the Chinese idea,” Dan said. “But I’d rather go out. How about if I call Denise and tell her to meet us at Big Wong?”
“Speaking of wives,” Quinn snorted. “Works for me, as long as you keep the missus at the other end of the table.”
Shan rolled her eyes. “Yes, call her,” she told Dan, ignoring Quinn.
Later that
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