When the shower was steamy enough for his taste, he looked back at us both, then yelled, “Fuck outta here!” before slamming the door to our howling laugher.
After we finished wiping away our tears of laughter, Kanoa and I turned the radio on to a repeat broadcast of Uprising Radio, hoping to hear Vector Prime’s voice.
It took a minute – static, poor reception, a radio that had seen better days – but we finally got the broadcast to come on, albeit a bit jammed.
“Uprising…” came a voice crackling through the radio, “Vector Prime to the Uprising. The Emperor’s Ball…” – more static – “keep your soldiers on the ground in the old Bowery. Battalions…” – more static – “Essex and the corner of East Houston. Vector Prime, signing off. Long live the Uprising! Long live New York City!”
There’s something familiar about that voice, I thought to myself as I switched off the radio.
My face, to Kanoa, must have asked my question. “What’s up, J-Ry?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.
My answer came out in a dream. “Vector Prime,” I said. “I know her.”
Chapter Five
Evanora
My mother was smiling, genuinely, from the depths of her soul. It was the first time in a long time that I’d seen it, and that, perhaps, was the best part of the evening.
I had no intention of enjoying the rest of the evening, that’s for sure.
The Emperor’s Ball is something that takes place every year – usually to celebrate different politicians, Cabal members who worked extra hard at cracking skulls, and of course, my step-father, who could never get enough in the way of accolades – but this year would be my official “coming out party,” where I would be accepted as the “people’s princess.”
This year’s Emperor’s Ball was reminiscent of the time when I was the “First Faust Baby” and the latest, greatest attraction in the Faustian three-ring circus. But this time, instead of being someone who was too young to have agency over what was happening to her, I would be someone who would be “paired off” to the worthiest courtier – admired in my gilded cage, but forever under the scrutiny of a microscope that I didn’t necessarily want to be under, and forced to lead a life I didn’t necessarily want – so, therefore, having less agency now than I did back then.
Come one, come all, in more ways than one. What, really, were my other options?
“Sit still!” Mom commanded while standing over me, comb in hand, and parting my hair directly down the middle. She pulled the left part of my hair back into a rough twist, which she haphazardly held in place with a black hair tie, then focused all her attention on the right part of my hair, which she began stitching into a perfect, French-style braid. “Your hair is so wild, Evanora, I have no idea how it’s going to hold for the night without me spraying it within an inch of its life.”
I struggled, slightly, as my mother tugged on my hair one more time for good measure. “Well, clearly, Mom, I got it from you.”
Her eyes flickered briefly, with recognition, before she continued. “Well. I don’t have this hair anymore. Chemically straightened, you see” – she pointed to the top of her head, absently, and dropped her eyes – “so this sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore.” She inhaled, sharply. “But don’t worry, baby. You look beautiful. We’re gonna make sure you look beautiful. But you’re beautiful anyway, baby, you know that…”
I looked up and saw my mother’s eyes fill with tears. “Rosie,” I whispered, reaching up to touch her face. “Mom. Mama. It’s okay, Mama.”
She exhaled, shuddering as she struggled to fight back her tears. “Your daddy – your real daddy – would be so proud of you right now,” she said, her voice quivering. “I don’t talk about him much, you know that. But I see you here – ready, now, for your first official ball, and your first official presentation – and God, my God, you look so much like him…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked in the mirror, staring intently at our reflection. She touched the tip of my nose, softly, and smiled one of her fake smiles – the smile she put on for the world to assure everyone that, even though she was falling apart inside, everything was just fine, perfectly fine, thank you very much. “Make me proud of you tonight, baby,” she said. “Choose your courtier wisely. Remember, it’s not just above love. Love is nice, but it can’t save you. It never could. I know that all too well, baby. All too well.”
I sighed and fidgeted slightly with my hair. “Did you love him, Mama?”
“Who?”
I hate it when she tries to play stupid. She can never pull it off.
I looked directly at her, hoping her eyes would meet mine. They never did.
“My daddy. My father. Jordan Barker,” I said matter-of-factly.
Her eyes darted up and a look of panic came across her face. “Hush!” she whispered intently. “If Emperor finds out I’m speaking to you about…him…”
“Okay, fine. Let’s just call him, ‘him,’ then, Mama,” I shot back with the same intent whisper. “Did you? Did you love him?”
She pursed her lips tightly together until they formed a thin line that disappeared into her face. “More than life itself,” she replied. “And I’d like to think he loved me, too. In fact, I know he did. But…”
I stared at her, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, I prodded her a bit impatiently. “But…what, Mom?”
She sighed, then picked up the comb and continued braiding the right side of my head, taking care to tease out the knots as she did so. “He could only love the way he could. The way he knew how. And that’s true of all of us, Evanora – we love as we know how, the best way we know how. And sometimes, that’s enough, and just as many other times, it isn’t. I know that, now. I see that, now. But back then – when you were born, I wanted something from him that he just couldn’t give, no matter how hard he tried.”
I didn’t say anything. I just fidgeted with the lipstick on the counter, peering intently into the tube to find a stick in a shade of a rather deep red, and made a slight popping sound as I puckered my lips, trying to imagine how this port wine-colored pig fat would look smeared across my face. For my sake, I thought, I hope it looks better on my face than it does in this tube.
Having finished with the right side of my head, my mother now smoothed the left part of my hair and began pleating it into a matching French-style braid. “Your father was a man of many talents, Evanora. He was kind. He was funny. When he loved, he loved with his whole heart – me, his mother, his bandmates, especially Ivan Sapphire…”
“Jamie,” I corrected her. “Jamie Ryan.”
She smirked. “Right. Jamie Ryan. I haven’t heard that name in a lifetime. Ages. But Jordan loved me. I know he did. Yeah.” She nodded. “And oh, when you came along – he fell in love with you instantly. Couldn’t be bothered not to pass out in the delivery room” – and to this, we both giggled – “but when he came to, baby girl, he couldn’t get enough of you.”
Mom helped me into my dress. I couldn’t believe it was mine to wear: backless, from my neck to my lower back, and covered with a sheer ecru illusion studded in clear crystals. It was made of a shimmering, satiny fabric that was the color of mother-of-pearl, taken right to the floor, with a heart-shaped keyhole in the front that exposed just enough of my cleavage to be sexy, yet subtly so.
I decided to take advantage of this rare moment of mother-daughter bonding that was unencumbered by pressing demands and fakery. Maybe she would tell me…
“Mom,” I said. “Mama? Tell me about the first time you met my father. My real father.”
I felt the room get cold as my mother lowered her eyes. She took a deep breath.
“It was so long ago,” she said. “I’m not sure I remember everything.”
I can tell when you’re lying, Mom, I thought.
And she must have heard me – or, at least, I thought she did – because she shook her head, then looked up at me. “Alright,” she said. “But listen well and re
member what I’m telling you. I’m only going to tell you this story once, because…”
I rolled my eyes. “Right, Mom. I get it. Roger,” I spat.
“Hey,” she said, suddenly on guard. “Remember something. He loves you too. In the way, he knows how to love.”
“Right, ‘in the way he knows how,’ Mom,” I parroted back, almost mockingly. “Are you going to tell me, or not?”
Jaime let out a primal scream from the stage before grabbing the microphone stand and flinging it over his shoulder.
“What the fuck is UP, CBGB?!” He stood before the throng of screaming girls, holding his hands up in a reverent pose – Jesus Christ, Rock Star – and the higher he raised his hands, the louder the screams got.
He held all the power in the room – and he intended to put it to good use.
Bow to the Rock’n’Roll Messiah, read his face.
“Thank you for coming out tonight!” he screamed. “On the drums, we have the Reverend Dr. Tom Newman!” He pointed to the drums behind him, and Tom Newman frantically churned out a beat that got louder and louder with each scream.
“And on the guitar, we have none other than William Motherfuckin’ Lynn!” He pointed to the lanky figure on his right, and the guitar took on a life of its own as it squealed to the rhythm of Tom’s drums.
Jaime’s movements were part serpentine – slithering and sliding – and part leonine – level, steady, stalking his prey and ready for the kill. He stood to his left and put his arm around the lean, strawberry blond figure who plucked absently at the bass guitar, setting the rhythm of this neo-pagan place of worship.
Welcome to the Bacchanalia, Jaime thought. Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin.
“And now,” said Jaime, “now I give to you – this motherfuckin’ bass player” – his voice got progressively louder – “the motherfucker of the year, he’s all about that motherfuckin’ bass, my dude, my homie, my pal, my best fuckin’ friend in the whole Universe” – his voice choked a little when he said that last statement, which surprised him, but at the same time, he knew it was the truth – “Jordaaaaaannnnn Barker!”
With the sound of that name, Rosie Diaz looked up from her drink. She didn’t necessarily care about the contents of her cup – CBGB had a habit of handing out cheap cups of Pabst Blue Ribbon like it was bound to rot, and while the beer certainly tasted like beer, it did nothing to give a buzz to its drinker – so she set it down on the bar of very questionable cleanliness, only to turn around and find her best friend, Angelique Denham, standing before her, a mischievous grin on her face.
“Hey Rosie!” she said happily, hugging Rosie. “Did you see them? My God, Ro-Ro, did you see them?”
Rosie smiled back wryly. “I saw them. I saw them all. Especially Jordan Barker,” she said simply. “My God, look at him. He’s so hot. He’s so intense.” She stared, mouth slightly agape, at Jordan, who was currently glaring down at his bass and furiously plucking out a rhythm as the rest of Faust howled and writhed in orgasmic ecstasy, much to the delight of the crowd.
Jamie was spinning like a dervish on the stage and screaming out the lyrics of the band’s best-known song – their magnum opus – as the audience sang along. “It’s how you roll/it’s how you roll/it’s how you roll/it’s how you ro-oll, and rock our boat so beautiful.” He took a deep breath, then let out a primal scream. “A long, slow, dream in COLOR!”
Angelique peered at the stage, gave a smirk in the general direction of her dearly beloved, then looked back at Rosie and cocked a knowing eyebrow. “He’s also so troubled,” she said simply. “I mean, I’ll make the introduction if you like, because I love you and you’re my best friend, but don’t let it be said that I didn’t warn you about him.”
Rosie laughed. “Nothing I can’t handle, Ange,” she said as she pushed her way to the front of the stage, holding Angelique’s shoulder tightly. “Besides, it’s just a hello. What could possibly happen from there?”
“Will you look up at me, please, Evanora Joy?” My mother was holding the tube of lipstick in her hands, which now had a light shimmer to them thanks to all the makeup she was slathering across my face. But she’d hit me with the middle name, so I knew she was getting frustrated.
“Mom, is that lip color going to work?” I wondered quizzically. “It’s a little, erm, dark.”
She pursed her lips together. “It’s going to be fine, Evanora. It’s gonna look beautiful. You’ll see, baby.” She tilted my chin upwards, and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of her old face.
Or maybe that’s what I wanted to see.
“Mama,” I said, laughing slightly. “did you know, that night?”
She stippled the lipstick on my lower lip. “Know what, baby?”
I smacked my lips together and looked in the mirror. The port-wine colored lipstick spread across my lips, leaving a faint rouge tint. Mom was right – it was quite pretty. “That you were going to get together with my father? Have me?”
A faint smile crossed her face, and she touched my cheek lightly. “I don’t know, for sure. Maybe. Did I think you were going to come right away? No. But eventually? Yeah, I think so. I hoped so.”
She sighed, then continued. “I always hoped for you, baby. Always. You hear me? Never did a day go by that I didn’t want you. I just wish…I just wish he wasn’t so troubled. That I could save him from himself. But I just – I couldn’t. And there was no way I could have known, that day, that night, what was going to happen not long after. I don’t know if I’d have done everything the same exact way, had I known.”
CBGB was empty now…nothing but a few random drunks, opening band members and their various hangers-on, and groupies looking to score some dick, drugs, or both. The under-paid, over-worked employees – burn-outs from other rock scenes long gone by, desperate to hold on to the dwindling vestiges of their youth – were sweeping the floor of the rubble of the night – lighters, cigarettes, empty cups, broken bottles, syringes, condoms, and even errant sets of underwear (both male and female) – into a pile in the middle of the floor before scooping the debris into a large black garbage can. The smell of human effluvia – vomit, blood, piss, shit, and cum – was stagnant in the air.
In short – it was another successful, blistering night of music at the mecca of rock’n’roll in New York Fucking City…and Faust were the High Priests of the music of the night.
Willie and Tom celebrated this victory the way they normally did – by snorting ridiculously thick lines of cocaine up their nose.
“Newman!” bellowed Willie as he emerged from the table, sniffing violently and rubbing his nose furiously. “Newman, how the fuck does it smell like this in here?”
Tom had done so much cocaine that his jaw was locking and grinding. Still, he snorted another line, then looked up at Willie, bleary-eyed and semi-coherent. “Fuck if I know, Willie.” Sniff, sniff. Grunt. Ow! Sniff, sniff. “Bunch of fucking savages that love us, apparently.” Sniff. Rub rub. “Somebody fuckin’ must love us. Why not these whores?” He bent over the table to do another line as Willie wandered off to follow his cock around like a divining rod, desperately seeking Susan – or whatever Daddy’s girl would call him Daddy for the night – amidst the groupie rubble.
None of this tomfoolery seemed to matter to Jaime and Angelique, who were at the lip of the stage, lost in their own reverie. Angelique was sitting on Jaime’s lap, running her fingers through his hair – dark black, wild curls, dripping with sweat – and kissing various parts of his face and neck.
Jaime smiled. “I take it you liked the performance, baby?” he asked, wrapping his hands around her tiny waist.
Angelique stopped kissing him, briefly, then paused while pretending to think. “Hmmm,” she said teasingly, “nah. It was terrible.” She giggled, then began kissing him again.
Jaime decided to play along. He’d seen this movie several times before, but he knew that if nothing else, the movie had a happy ending, nudge nudge wink wink. “I agree,” he said
mischievously. “The worst we’d ever done.” His hands began to wander south, then settled somewhere below the base of her heart-shaped butt, which he then pinched playfully.
Angelique squealed in mock-surprise. “Awful,” she laughed. “And that lead singer, boy, let me tell you – he’s the naughtiest boy in the Universe. I think he needs a spanking.”
Jaime roared at Angelique playfully, then sucked lightly on her bottom lip before pulling away. “I know he does,” he said before winking at her. “But before he gets his punishment, he’s absolutely starving, so he definitely would like to go home and get something good to eat.”
Angelique paused, then took on a serious tone. “Oh, honey,” she said, “There’s nothing to eat at our house.”
Jaime’s mischievous smile spread broadly across his face. “I think I can find something,” he said, pinching her butt again.
Angelique paused for a second, then her eyes widened in surprise and recognition before squealing and smacking Jaime playfully. “You!” she said, laughing, then sighed contemplatively. “Oh, you. Jaime. Jaime Ryan.” She took his face in her hands, then looked in his eyes intently. “Everything else aside, Jaime Ryan, you did absolutely amazing. And I love you. I absolutely” – she kissed his forehead – “positively” – she kissed his nose – “unequivocally” – she kissed each of his cheeks – “love you, with all of my heart and with all of my soul, with every fiber of my being.” She shifted her hips onto his, so he could feel her warmth and she, his hardness, and she sighed deeply, her breath quivering, and all but hoping he would take her, right here, right now, on this piss-stained stage of questionable structural integrity and with the smell of various human effluvia in the air.
Because, why not, it’s rock’n’roll.
Jaime sighed, then closed his eyes and moved his lips towards hers. “Angelique,” he whispered, his breathing becoming increasingly labored. “Angelique…”
The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Page 5