Punk Rock Resurrection

by Jenna Galicki

  The fans were out of control at times. They pumped their fists high above their heads, whistled and hollered. They stomped their feet and had a small aggressive mosh pit going in the center of the room. It wasn’t uncommon to see a black eye after the show, yet it wasn’t borne from violence – it was part of a radical camaraderie. The same two people shoving each other in a mosh pit could often be seen with their arms slung over the other’s shoulder and sharing a beer after they had just beat the hell out of one another.

  Sixty minutes went by and Immortal Angel’s set was over before Alyssa realized it. The shows always ended too soon, and she thought about mentioning it to Angel. They should have a longer set. She waited for Damien near the stage, but he never emerged from the back room. He usually came up front right away, so she scanned the crowd in case they missed each other. Even though others in the bar had colored hair and some had mohawks, his blue mane was easy to spot. She found Jimmy and Angel, and caught Karl heading out the front door, but no Damien, so she went in the back to search for him.

  There was a guard at the entrance to the corridor that led to the back room, and she thought he’d stop her, but he recognized her and let her through.

  Damien was sitting on the couch, plucking away, absorbed in the resounding growl of the bass on his knee. “C’mere. I want you to listen to this.” He never looked up from his strings.

  “What am I listening to?” Alyssa sat next to him, crossed her legs and rested her elbow on her knee.

  “A beat. It’s been in my head all day, but it wasn’t quite there. When we were on stage just now, it all came together.”

  “You wrote a song while you were playing another song?”

  “Not a song. The baseline.”

  She had no idea about the song writing process, but composing a beat while playing a different one sounded like a contradiction. Damien was more talented than she thought. She knew he played well, but she didn’t realize he was a songwriter.

  He tightened a key on the head of his bass and plucked a string. “Ready?”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  He paused in deep concentration before he broke into a compilation of notes. She didn’t know much about music, and listening to just a single instrument sounded disjointed, but she felt the rhythm in the brief piece that Damien played. If was fast and catchy. “I like it, but it’s a little hard to judge without the guitar and drums.”

  “Listen to it again, and this time try to feel it.” He tapped the center of her chest. “In here.”

  He played the arrangement again and repeated it several times. She tapped her foot to the beat and concentrated on the memorable rhythm.

  He stopped and waited for her critique.

  “It’s good. I like it better than the first time you played it.”

  “But did you feel it?”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “Yeah. I felt it.”

  A crooked smile crept across his mouth. “No you didn’t.” He sat back further on the couch, moved his bass guitar from his knee and patted his lap. “Sit here. I want you to feel the music the same way I feel it.”

  She was enjoying this personal serenade and settled on top of his thighs. She hunkered down and nestled into his body, with the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her back.

  He slung the bass in front of her so it rested against her body, and he reached around her with his long arms to hold the neck and positioned his fingers on the strings. She never realized how big and heavy the instrument was before. Damien carried it on his shoulder like it was as light as a feather.

  His lips were at her ear, and she could feel his breath on her neck. Goosebumps ran down her arms, and her heart beat a little faster. She was an excited groupie on her favorite rock star’s lap.

  “Let the music infiltrate your body when I play it. Don’t listen with your ear. Listen with your heart and your soul.” He touched the center of her chest again, but this time his fingers slid down and landed directly in between her breasts. “I want you to feel it here first.” His fingers made a slow, erotic descent down her body, over her navel, and slipped into the little Y in between her legs. He cupped her crotch in his hand. “Let the music find its way right here. I want it to make you wet.”

  He was serious. He wasn’t being coy or illicit. He really wanted her body to respond to the music. His hand was still between her legs, giving her an itch that needed to be scratched. She let out a sad whimper when he removed his hand and placed it on the strings of his bass.

  He straightened up a little so he could see over her shoulder and brought the bass closer. It was touching her breasts and sitting in her lap at the top of her thighs. When he began to play, the notes pulsed into her body. Her chest boomed and her lower half vibrated. He played the same arrangement repeatedly, faster and louder each time. She was grinding her body into his leg and pressing her breasts against his bass. The instrument rumbled and fucked her with its deep booming notes. It made her body tremble. When he suddenly stopped playing, she was out of breath. “I never knew music could do that to me.” She melted and slid off his lap and into the corner of the couch.

  He ran his hand up her thigh. “Did you feel it?”

  She held her breath and nodded.

  His hand moved up further and rubbed the warm area between her legs. “Did you feel it right here? Did it make you wet?”

  “Yes.” She gasped while his hand continued to stroke her through the thin material of her leggings. She opened her thighs a little wider and pressed her pelvis upwards and into the palm of his hand. He pressed back and easily manipulated her body over the thin sheath of her clothing. She was soaking wet, and she felt the heat between her legs.

  Damien dug his middle finger into the center of her crotch until he found the folds of her skin, and he pushed on her opening.

  She sucked in a deep breath and let out a long sigh while he worked a passionate burn into her pussy. His mouth kissed the crease between her breasts and moved over her tank top to take her nipple ring between his teeth. He tugged on it, hard, and the shock sent a tremor down her body. It mixed with the sensations multiplying between her legs. They collided and exploded, and she came with a loud moan. She convulsed underneath his hand, twitching and jerking while she silently rode out a titillating orgasm – without removing a stitch of clothing.

  Damien’s lips moved to her neck while her body shook with aftershocks. He looked deep into her eyes. “That’s what I feel every time I play, and it’s exactly what I want my music to do to everyone who listens to it. Especially you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alyssa couldn’t hide her smile as the tattooed biker in her chair fidgeted in his seat. “I sometimes pass out from needles,” the burly hellion admitted.

  “You’ll be fine. It’ll be over before you know it.” The toughest ones were the biggest babies sometimes. She opened the mini-fridge under her station and retrieved a small bottle of orange juice, just in case.

  She pulled on a pair of gloves, opened an alcohol pad and waved it in the air to alleviate the strong odor. “This’ll probably make you sneeze.” His eyes crossed as he watched her swab his septum. She waited while he twitched his nose and stopped him before he rubbed it with his hand. “Tickle the roof of your mouth with your tongue. It sometimes relieves the itch.”

  “I’m good.” His gruff voice matched his appearance.

  “Are you sure? Because you don’t want to sneeze while I’m pushing the needle through your skin. It could rip your septum.” His eyes widened and he turned a shade paler. The tiny smile on her lips didn’t convey the laughter she was enjoying on the inside. She had an evil sense of humor.

  It wasn’t his fear that she enjoyed, it was the power of the needle, and the knowledge that he voluntarily wanted it stuck through the sensitive membrane of his septum, even though he knew it would hurt like hell. She was the wielder of the sword, so to speak, and it gave her a surge of adrenaline and power.

  She
gave him another second to collect himself and glanced outside at his buddies sitting on their Harleys. She never understood why bikers traveled in pairs of two or four, and sometimes more.

  “Can we hurry this up?” Biker Boy prompted. “My brothers are waitin’, and I gotta meet my ol’ lady. She’s next.”

  She changed her gloves and inspected the instruments that were sitting on the covered tray. She always felt like Dr. Frankenstein when she looked at her implements and at the waiting customer nervously bouncing his knee in the chair next to her. She clamped the forceps around his septum. Once she confirmed it was in the correct location, she asked him if he was ready.

  “Yep. Get to it, young lady.”

  She wasn’t wasting time with a countdown and plunged the needle through his septum. Less than a minute later, he had an awesome septum clicker, and she was fifty dollars richer.

  He admired his new piercing in the mirror. “That’s cool.” He threw an extra $20 on the top of her station. “I’ll be back with my ol’ lady in a half hour.”

  “Perfect. If you have any questions, call or drop by.”

  She deposited the used needle in the sharps container and cleared off the counter, wondering what happened to Damien. He was usually at her station, cleaning up and preparing everything for her next appointment. She missed his help and his company.

  She deposited her client’s money in the register at the front desk and was surprised to see Angel sitting in the vestibule with a pastry box in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you and—”

  “You want a piercing!” He flinched and his eyes widened, but she didn’t give him a chance to protest. “How about some plugs in your lobes or a nice barbell in your eyebrow?”

  “My mother would kill me!”

  She never expected a 22-year-old punk rock singer to care what his mother thought. “How about your nipples then?”

  “God, no.” He shielded one side of his chest with his free hand and brought the pastry box up to protect the other.

  “Come in the back.” She took his hand and dragged him to her station. He was fun to tease, and she laughed as he eyed the photos on the wall which identified different body piercings. He grimaced and took a closer look, still clutching the pastry box.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to impale you. I just didn’t want you to sit by the front door like you’re a visitor.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. Where’s Damien? He’s usually at the front desk.”

  “I’m right here.” Damien appeared from the back of the shop, slapped Angel’s hand, and pulled him in for a one-shoulder hug. “I was throwing out the trash. What brings you here? Are you looking for some ink?”

  “Not right now.” Angel held up the pastry box. “I brought cannoli.”

  “Cannoli?” Alyssa thought it was a strange thing to bring to a tattoo shop, but greedily took the box from his hand and tore off the white string that held it closed.

  “It’s from Villabate Alba on 18th Avenue. They have the best cannoli in Brooklyn,” Angel explained.

  “You came all the way over here to bring cannoli?” They looked incredible with thick, rich cream.

  “No. I want to have you over for dinner so we can get to know each other better. You’re important to Damien, so you’re important to me. You make him happy.” Angel looked directly at Damien for emphasis. “And I like seeing my friend happy.”

  That was deep. Although Damien never revealed much about his history with Angel, the closeness they shared and the rapport that transpired between them was clearly apparent. She hoped that by getting closer to Angel she’d learn more about Damien’s elusive past. “How can I say no to such a generous offer? Especially when you bribe me with the best cannoli on the planet.” She took another bite of the decadent pastry. “Just tell me when and what to bring.”

  “Next Saturday, and I don’t want you to bring anything.”

  Angel lived about fifteen minutes away from Alyssa in a fancy one bedroom apartment. The aromas that filled the place were remarkable. “What’s that smell? Are you cooking?”

  “Of course I’m cooking. I invited you to dinner.”

  A ding from the oven called Angel away, and she followed him into the kitchen with her nose leading the way. She didn’t expect a home-cooked meal. When he invited her for dinner, she expected takeout. “You cook?”

  Angel gave a modest nod. “I’m a chef. My dad owns Garcia’s in Park Slope and I work under him.”

  Impressive, and by the smells infiltrating her nostrils, she was about to have the best meal of her life. “Did you make Spanish food?”

  “Cuban, but it’s similar.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “No. I was born here, along with my brother and sister, but my parents were born in Cuba. They’d love to meet you. Especially my mom. She has a soft spot for Damien.”

  Angel was already introducing her to his parents, and she still didn’t know anything about Damien’s family. He was hiding something about his past, and she knew it was the root of his nightmares. Her stomach knotted. She liked Damien – a lot – and she loved his friends, but the last thing she needed was a shitstorm of baggage.

  A roast appeared from the oven and sent her stomach rumbling. “What can I do? Let me help.”

  “Thank you, but you’re my guest. It’s nice of you to offer, though.” His soft smile was sweet and warm.

  There was a knock at the door, followed by Jimmy’s easy laughter. Although Angel had already worked his way into her heart, she was most intrigued by Jimmy.

  He had a six-pack in each hand and was tapping his foot on the floor to the beat of an invisible drum.

  “There she is!” He kissed her on the cheek and offered her a beer.

  She reached for a bottle, but Damien intercepted it, twisted off the cap and handed it to her. His manners always took her by surprise. No one would expect that under his rough exterior lurked a sweet, and sometimes vulnerable, gentleman with a heart of gold. He saw her studying him out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth curled into a tiny smile. He kissed her cheek, and his lips drove a ray of warmth through her body. She was falling for him, but her gut kept telling her that he was trouble, although she wasn’t exactly sure why.

  Angel emerged from the kitchen with brocade oven mittens still covering his hands. He was a trip. “Good. Everyone’s here.”

  “I wasn’t sure whether to get red or white,” Jimmy held up a six-pack, “so I brought gold.” He had an appealing smile and a charismatic nature to his voice. He could probably get away with giving someone the worst insult, as long as he had that winning smile on his face.

  “Lovely.” Angel eyed the beer in Jimmy’s hands with a friendly smirk. “It’ll go perfect with my lechón asado.”

  There was such clear brotherly affection between the three bandmates, and Alyssa loved listening to them interact with one another.

  Damien took it upon himself to put the beer in the fridge. When he returned, Alyssa’s eye went straight to the tall glass of whiskey in his hand. Before she had a chance to fully decipher her feelings on the amount of liquor he planned on drinking with dinner, Angel corralled everyone into the dining room. The table was covered in platters of food: a chicken dish; a beef dish; rice; a pot of black bean soup; and a huge platter of pulled pork. “It looks wonderful, Angel, but who’s going to eat all this food? We’re only four people.”

  “Yes, but the three of you are single and live alone. In my family, when you come to dinner, you leave with dinner.”

  Damien leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I’d starve to death if it weren’t for Angel and his family. Wait until you taste it.”

  He piled a generous amount of food on her plate, taking a little from each dish. She noticed that he added a glass of diet soda to his meal, but he still had his glass of whiskey on the side. She hated that she watched how much he drank. At least he could hold his liquor, and he was never obnox
ious. Actually, alcohol had the opposite effect on him than it did on most people. It made him quiet and stoic, which was probably why he drank in the first place – another red flag. There were so many warning bells when it came to Damien, but she ignored every single one of them. Sometimes she was so defiant that she rebelled against her better judgment. She couldn’t help it. Despite Damien’s troubled inner workings, he was sweet and sensitive and caring. He was sexy and hotter than hellfire in the bedroom, and her heart was drawn to him.

  Damien took a big swig from his glass of Johnnie Walker, and Alyssa tried to remember if that was his first glass or his second. Guilt crept into her belly. They were enjoying a beautiful meal with close friends who were like family to Damien, and she was watching his alcohol intake. She switched gears and focused on the food on her plate. It was the best meal she had ever tasted. “This is delicious, Angel. Did you go to cooking school?”

  “No. My dad taught me. We’ve been working side-by-side since I was 16. I started as a line cook and worked my way up to sous chef just recently. It was a proud moment for me.”

  “Sous chef?”

  “It means second-in-command in the kitchen. My dad swears that he didn’t just hand me the title. He said that I earned it, but I’m half the chef he is.”

  It was obvious how important family was to Angel, and this little group at the table were included in that circle, except the guitar player was missing. “Where’s Karl? The guitarist. That’s his name, right?”

  “Yeah.” Jimmy wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of his beer. “Karl’s with his girl. He only sticks around for the shows or band practice, otherwise he heads up to Westchester.”

  Karl wasn’t dedicated to the band the way Damien, Angel and Jimmy were. If he showed as much determination as they did, it might propel the band further. “He’s your weak link.”

  Everyone stopped, forks and beverages in hand, and turned toward Alyssa. Shit. Her big mouth got her into trouble again. It was too late to take that card off the table, so she had no choice but to elaborate – and dig herself a deeper hole. “Like I told Damien the first night I saw you play, Karl’s good and plays from the heart, but each of you play from the soul. You can tell the music doesn’t mean the same thing to him.” She searched for the right words.” He looked like he was playing for fun. You all played, or sang, because you needed to. I don’t know how else to explain it.”