by J. L. Brooks
Falling Stars
Copyright © JL Brooks 2014
Published by JL Brooks
Cover art © by MHM Photography
No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity, explicit sexual situations and drug consumption.
Love Vinyl Records and Twilight Sleep have been used with the respective proprietor’s permissions. No copyrights have been violated.
All Rights Reserved
This is for all of the friends and loved ones the EDM scene has led me to because I know you are there for life.
For those who are now in the sky shining down on us, especially Tammy “True Blue” Bender, Little Kelly, and Jamie P, you will never be forgotten.
And most of all
Peggy “Mamagroove” Brooks
For opening your home to so many, making the worlds best fried chicken, dragging us all to church and using your love to impact the world. You can stop reading here. ;-)
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1- The Great Escape
Chapter 2- On the Table
Chapter 3- Against the Tide
Chapter 4- New Eyes
Chapter 5- The Fall
Chapter 6- Awakening
Chapter 7- Hear No Evil
Chapter 8- Electric
Chapter 9- Coming Down
Chapter 10- Need
Chapter 11- No Place like Home
Chapter 12- Punch Love
Chapter 13- Empty Bed
Chapter 14- Into the Furnace
Chapter 15- Counting Sheep
Chapter 16- Passage
Chapter 17- Rapid Change
Chapter 18- Summer Love
Chapter 19- Dusty Shoes
Chapter 20- Wrong Side of the Bed
Chapter 21- Desert Blues
Chapter 22- Stolen Dance
Chapter 23- What Happens In Vegas
Chapter 24- Rising from the Ashes
Chapter 25- The Great Unknown
Chapter 26- And the Dust Settles
Chapter 27- Sanctum
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Her lips were the deepest shade of ruby. Contrasted against pristine olive skin, they rested perfectly on her face. Long, glossy ebony locks only added to her natural beauty. Thick strands of hair I knew all too well from the scheduled sessions with the boar bristle brush she purchased in Europe on some trip long ago. The same brush that served to welt my skin when I failed to follow direction or when she was feeling particularly feisty. Once she said she was of Cherokee descent, which could never be argued. Her eyes were as dark as onyx, cold and fierce. I met the Black Hearted Bitch, or BeBe as I referred to her, when I was sixteen. I had run away from home and followed the Grateful Dead when the caravans of hippies traveled through our wholesome town outside of Peoria, Illinois.
She found me wandering the lot, consumed with the delusions created by the consumption of magic mushrooms. Her bosom welcomed me warmly as I sat in the rickety lawn chair in front of her camper. She gave me Egyptian Licorice tea and sang sweet lullabies. While djembe drums pounded from the circles formed along the edge of the tree line. Free spirits splashed in the river and danced to the music in a blur.
“You are far too young boy to be out here alone, where is your mama?” Bebe asked me while swaying to the rhythms around her.
“I ran away. I couldn’t take it anymore.” I said softly against the warm ceramic cup.
She did not respond for several hours. Many greeted her as if she were the village healer, coming for every form of ailment. Her tinctures of sage, wild barks, crystals and energy healing were sought out at a dizzying pace. All the while I sat solemn in my plastic seat watching the spectacle. Occasionally she would look at me and wink while tending to her charges. I watched as she ground spices and packed poultices. Her wisdom was definitely unlike anything I had ever seen before. Growing up, I was told all evils came from the devil and only prayer and righteous living could cure the maladies. Her medicine was strange and intriguing, but those that came believed.
“Boy, you can come with me. I need a strong body to help me along. Road life isn’t easy. Should you choose to come, know that in advance.”
I did not doubt her words, but she was my ticket out of hell. Bebe was a force to be reckoned with, and she was extending her hand to freedom.
“Yes ma’am,” was all I said before stepping into the camper. Nag Champa incense was burning low, filling the room with a sweet exotic aroma. From a small cabinet she pulled a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter. Making me a sandwich, she set it down and demanded I eat. My stomach was in no condition for food, but something about her told me not to go against her commands. The bread stuck dry to the roof of my mouth. I searched for water, which I found in a dingy cooler. The slushy cubes surrounding the glass bottles were the only relief I could access.
After finishing the sandwich, I exited the camper and hopped into the cab of the old Ford truck. Bebe smiled and patted my leg as we drove out of the dusty field and onto the long stretch of highway headed west. Things were not always so sweet between us, yet she never let go of her grasp on my life. In between tours, we traveled to a small cabin in the woods of North Carolina. Three other women lived with Bebe during those times, in which I was essentially a slave. I was forced to comb their hair, paint their nails and bathe their bodies. My days were spent preparing meals and cleaning up for them as they rummaged the forest or went into town for supplies. In the evenings, I cared for them in different ways. I was required to visit each woman and satisfy her needs on a regular basis. They each trained me in how they liked being pleasured, while punishing me if not up to par. A week of bleeding and bruises was all that it took before I mastered my tasks.
Occasionally, I would run away and return to Peoria, or some other large town and find work. Our travels had introduced me to a large network of people and I was always welcomed in their homes and given a place to rest until I was able to stand on my own. Inevitably years later, Bebe would find me, and I could not resist the siren’s call from her ruby lips. The bitches were waiting with her, their warm bodies and cold hearts ready to remind me I was nothing more than a dog at their feet. I never knew her real name, and for over a decade I allowed this to go on. That was until I met Margaret in the summer of 1986.
She was unlike anything I had ever encountered. Her porcelain skin and soft downy thighs warmed my bones during winter in a different way than I had known before. She was supple and submissive, and asked nothing in return but my pleasure. Her lips wrapped greedily around my cock each night and emptied me to the point of oblivion. She too was from Peoria, not far from where I was raised. Her father was a traveling salesman, never home and presumed to have another family in Wichita. Her mother was a bitter hag who kept Margaret hidden from the world as long as she could. One day when I was out delivering produce to a local market, I caught her eye while she was shopping with her mother. For weeks we communicated through stolen glances and shy smiles. Eventually she snuck up to me and slipped a note in my pocket. I was to meet her later that afternoon at Luthy Botanical Gardens.
As soon as I entered the humid building, her hands caught mine and pulled me through the tropical displays and under the waterfall where she kissed me sweetly.
“Meet me again” she asked with desperation.
“Whe
n?” I replied.
“Every day and every night, I am your destiny you shall see.”
With that she bounded off and laughed with a haunting tune. Margaret Miller was my destiny. I feared that Bebe would sweep in and ruin the first chance I would have at real love. I could have a family, and children. Thoughts I never allowed myself to think came pouring forth among the lush foliage and trickling stream inside the garden.
But Bebe never returned. At twenty-seven years old, I married Margaret and had a family. She bore me three beautiful children. Two boys and a girl. Never once did she demand I degrade myself for her happiness. I was attentive in ways she never imagined, and in that, she was always content. Her friends would comment that their spouses were aloof, giving Margaret a sense of pride. Yet I often wondered what Bebe was doing, no matter how much time had passed.
Our relationship was not conventional, but she gave me what I needed. A mother, a lover, a protector. Despite the humiliation, those moments were short lived. I was seen as a pet, but came out of it a man. I knew how one should not be treated, which set me apart when I courted Margaret. I would never grow sick of her, as fate would snatch her from my hands all too quickly. The cancer ravaged her body faster than we could control it. Until the day she died, I loved her heart and soul. Left alone to raise my children, my heart was strong from the women who loved me.
There were times during Margaret’s illness I wanted to run to Bebe, but I refrained. I stayed by her side until the bitter end. Now I am faced with the decision to allow love back into my life. I have loved both the devil and an angel, who on earth is left to compare?
I read the words and held in the sobs before the small crowd in the bookstore. My truest fans had gathered to listen to my latest work, my soul poured on paper and several tears matched mine as I closed the reading. I was proud of this book in ways my others had not moved me. Each was a special entity, but this one, this one shook me to my very core, and it translated through my fingers perfectly.
Seven weeks “The Little Traveler” held steady on the NY Times best seller list. I could not have dreamed of the prestige it would gain. My publisher and agent breathed a sigh of relief each week the numbers rolled in. They were nervous this story would push some of my typical readers away, yet instead it was picked up by book clubs across the country and devoured with fervor. Each time I was faced with the challenge of besting my last book. Knowing I poured everything into each one I published making it that more difficult to begin anew. When editors ripped my work apart, I would fight tooth and nail to ensure certain parts made the cut. So much was out of my control since I chose to publish traditionally. I loved the perks, yet despised the washing of my work to make it more palatable.
After this I was technically finished with my contract. I was being held on a book by book basis. Due to the fact I had made Blank Page so much money, I was given special concessions. As I closed the last cover during the signing, my heart told me I was in for an awakening. At the crescendo of my journey, I knew this was temporary. I smiled brightly and refused to let onto my doubt. At any moment, the rug could be swept from under my feet. So is the life of an artist. You take risks, and hope it pays off. I waited for my soul to become inhabited by vivacious characters, waiting to tell a story through my words. Unfortunately now when I came home at night, I was alone.
7 months later
Not a hair was out of place, or a missed wrinkle in the fabric of the beautiful coral ball gown. There was no remnant of the girl I once was, hard and insecure, fighting everything to make something of herself so she could get the hell out of Cleveland. Failure never looked so fabulous. If I were going down, they would surely miss the view as I walked out the door. Knowing that tonight would be my last night with Blank Page Publishing was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it was my decision.
Three days previously, my agent Dinah Vogle showed up at my doorstep in a pair of hot pink and black Louboutin’s I had spied on a recent shopping trip, a poignant reminder of what I would never be able to purchase again. I had thirty-six hours to produce a sample worth pitching, and here I was without a manuscript and an apartment full of boxes, half packed, simply waiting for me to hit the send button. I had spent the morning typing up my resignation without shedding a single tear. I knew they would let me go, so I chose to save them the trouble and leave with a bit of dignity. No one wants to admit they could have prevented their demise, even though I knew word would fly and the questions would come.
“What happened?” They would say.
Dinah would run her mouth and rim her immaculately manicured nails around a martini glass slowly while telling the tale of how she offered me the plot of the century, how I could have been rich, but no, I was a stubborn fool who couldn’t get over her demons in order to save her career. I wouldn’t even touch it. Dinah had found the small shoebox full of laminates and ticket stubs sitting on the coffee table, half-opened and beckoning her to peruse the contents.
She audibly gasped while digging through the tangible fragments of a past no one was privy to, except those closest to me. Once upon a time I wasn’t afraid to take chances, could have been labeled wild, and never hesitated to make a move when an adventure presented itself. That was then. Months had passed since The Little Traveler released and the advance had run dry. I tried my hardest to find some inspiration, something new, yet everywhere I turned, I failed to find that spark that would eventually turn into four hundred pages of perfection.
“This is your story; you have to write about this!” Dinah shouted, wide-eyed and a bit crazed.
I shook my head. “Absolutely not, end of discussion.”
She would not take no for an answer, especially when she came across the faded image of a younger me, perched on the knee of a handsome man, smiling innocently and full of promise.
“You have to be fucking kidding me Lila, tell me this is not him. Tell me this is not Arial Assault.”
Hearing her refer to him by his DJ name reinforced why this story would never happen.
“'Him' has a name. Hunter Michaels, and yes it is. We knew each other when we were kids, but I haven’t talked to him in years. He still talks to my brother occasionally, but I do not know him like that. Not anymore.”
A tinge of sadness pained my heart looking at the photo. I was able to date it by the lack of ink covering Hunter’s body. This was not as simple as penning a story about being a salacious club bunny. The contents of the box spoke volumes about late nights in abandoned warehouses transformed into massive dance halls, seedy clubs, and ultimately ending with broken hearts. Cleveland was proud of their latest music hero; there were even talks about inducting him into the Hall of Fame. However, like everything else when it came to him, I would only become aware through family chattering and radio broadcast. I did not actively seek out to know anything about him. If I could, he would remain at the bottom of the shoebox where I placed him, never to be heard from again.
Sliding into the jeweled, gold-strapped heels, I took one last gulp of Cabernet and headed for the party. It was Blank Page’s annual black tie gala, their most extravagant and dramatic; the upper crust of literary aristocracy. Tonight I would play my part of publisher’s darling and smile politely as others spoke on my behalf. Guests strategically socialized as the evening progressed, using the party as an opportunity to expand networks and verbalize deals. Dinah made a beeline towards me as I entered the ballroom, gritting her teeth in a saccharine smile and holding her arms out emphatically.
“Why is your phone disconnected? Come, come, there are so many people excited to see you this evening.”
Gripping my arm tightly and moving swiftly in the direction of the stage, glasses raised as I was dragged behind her in confusion. Whispering as low as I could, and keeping a cool demeanor, I began to seethe. Something was very wrong and I was about to find out.
“What is going on Dinah, why is everyone looking at me like this?”
Spinning me around in her direction, her arm squ
eezed with more force as her grin pulled tighter.
“Don’t say a fucking word. I just saved your ass. Go with it and everything will be fine.”
Dinah’s eyes looked over me as she patted my cheek firmly. “Showtime Miss Keaton.”
Just then, a familiar firm hand placed against the bare skin on my lower back creating a painful shiver. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was, I could smell him. Instantly memories flooded my brain as my skin felt flush under his touch. Giving a lethal stare at Dinah before turning around, she returned it with her own nefarious glare.
Standing next to Mr. Nunnery, the CEO of Blank Page, was none other than Hunter Michaels. Before I could process what was happening, Mr. Nunnery’s arms opened wide and pulled me into a suffocating embrace.
“Congrats Keaton, I was sweating bullets until Dinah came to me with your next series and said Mr. Michaels was on board. He flew in right away as soon as he heard we would be announcing the deal tonight. Isn’t that something? I do love enthusiasm and I must say you both outdid yourselves. Let’s celebrate shall we?”
There was no way to protest without appearing a fool. Dinah knew exactly what she was doing, or so she thought. I refused to be cornered into a project I rejected to begin with. I could only imagine what she told Hunter to convince him to come here on such short notice. As Dinah laced her arm through his elbow and began to strut beside us, his smile faded with each step. He knew something was terribly off and did less than I to hide his discomfort.
Stopping at a large table where a maitre’d held several glasses of champagne on a serving tray, Mr. Nunnery handed them out to the small group before lifting a silver knife from the table and gently chiming it along the stem. I refused to look at Hunter as my world came crashing down. Not only was I being utterly humiliated in public, the aftermath of submitting my resignation would be even more dramatic. I knew Dinah played dirty, but I never imagined she would use such tactics on her own client. The only thing keeping me breathing knew in a few hours from now, this would all be over. My decision to leave the game could not have come at a better time, although it would not be with the graceful exit I had hoped.
