The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series

by Bernadette Giacomazzo

  I sighed. “Yeah. I figured as much. If he were alive, I’d find out about his whereabouts sooner or later, especially after I defected from the Cabal.” I rubbed the stubble on my face, suddenly saddened by the confirmation that my old friend was, in fact, dead. “So, what’s the good news?”

  Steele laughed, lowly, and flashed a mischievous smile. “The good news is, that fucker Willie Lynn is alive.”

  I was stunned. “Willie Lynn? He’s alive?” I dropped my fist and bowed my head in between my knees, trying to accept the reality of what I just heard. “Willie Lynn is alive? Well for fuck’s sake, Steele, where is he then?”

  EPILOGUE

  Evanora

  I pushed the earbuds in my ears and closed my eyes, where I lost myself in a time machine that took me back to a piss-stained stage that I’ve never seen but can somehow see -- and smell (and how could I not smell it) – in the forefront of my mind.

  On this stage, I see them. Four men.

  Leather clad men. Skinny men.

  They’re sweating, singing, playing.

  The women at their feet – so many women – are writhing in orgasmic ecstasy.

  It’s a ritual – a ritual of birth, of life, of death – a Bacchanalia, a praise dance, a voodoo circle.

  One woman stands out – a petite blonde girl, a little younger than me, with a slightly prognathous nose and a tiny face in the shape of a heart, with her chin pointed perfectly and delicately. She is standing at the foot of the stage, directly beneath Ivan Sapphire as the world knows him – and Jamie Ryan as she does – close enough to reach up and touch him, directly, but this is something she never seems to do.

  She doesn’t have to. She’s already touched his heart.

  There’s a space between her and the rest of the crowd – nothing remarkable, but enough to know it’s there – a berth the audience has given to Her, the Chosen One, Ivan/Jamie’s consort of record and the inspiration behind some of his most heartfelt lyrics.

  I’ve never been to Heaven/No, I’ve never touched the sky/But if angels look a thing like you/I’m not afraid to die/You get one love in a lifetime, and that’s all I can hope to find/You bring my desert to the water, and turn my water into wine…

  Ivan/Jamie looks down upon her, and smiles.

  He touches her face, lightly, with the tips of his fingers.

  Are you there, Angelique? I’m here, Angelique.

  I can hear him saying it in his mind, though the words never leave his lips. But he feels them. And I hear them.

  You’re my inebriation, my salvation, my very soul rejuvenated…

  I look over to the right of the stage.

  My father is there.

  He is playing with fervent intensity.

  He’s hunched over, and his long strawberry blonde hair obscures his face.

  He’s skinny – so skinny – that he looks like he’s going to shatter if someone just touches him.

  But his frail frame is in direct contrast to his fervent intensity. The world around him seems to go away, and all that is there is my father, clad in black leather, the slight stubble of his light brown beard peeking out beneath the ringlets of hair that are slowly becoming drenched with sweat.

  My mother is there, and she touches his fingers softly as he slides his hand frantically down the neck of the bass. She wants to make sure he’s there, too.

  Are you there, Jordan? I’m here, Jordan.

  I can hear her saying these words in her mind, too, though like with Ivan/Jamie, those words never leave her lips, either. But she feels them. And I hear them.

  And this time, my father looked up.

  He threw his head back, slightly, and shook his long strawberry blonde locks out of his face. The sweat shook off from his slowly-frizzing curls and created a mist behind him that glowed, slightly, in the flickering blue-green light.

  He opened his eyes. He faced me.

  They were blue tourmalines – bright, clear, nearly translucent. His pupils contracted and dilated as he tried to bring me into focus.

  For the first time, I saw him. His face – the face of Jordan Barker, only son of the Honorable Hieronymus J. and Nora (nee Franklin-Briggs) Barker, Ivy League graduate, psycho bassist from Mars, the rhythm and blues of the bad boys of New York City rock’n’roll, Jamie Ryan’s brother-in-arms, Rosie Diaz’s love-of-her-life, the man whose death set off the chain of events that led to the rise of Emperor and the counter-response of The Uprising…and my father.

  I stepped forward. “Daddy,” I whispered.

  Another flicker of his eyes – their almond shape. A slight sniff -- his pixie nose.

  His. Mine. One in the same.

  “Evanora,” he whispered.

  I woke up suddenly with a loud gasp and sat up so fast that I got dizzy.

  Jamie looked over at me, a pot of coffee in hand. “What, Evie-Joy?” he asked, gently. “What happened?”

  “I saw him,” I said. “My father. Jordan. Jamie, I saw him.” My eyes were filling with tears.

  Jamie put the coffee pot down on the concrete counter and rushed over to me.

  He took the earbuds from my hand and put them in his ears.

  And for the first time in twenty years, his voice – his own crisp, melodic voice that opened a thousand portals of a thousand Heavens and Hells – played back to him.

  “A long, slow dream in color,” he sang, shakily, along with the music. “A long, slow dream in color. Oh yeah-eah!”

  He closed his eyes, removed the earbuds, and bowed his head. He then opened his eyes and turned to face me.

  “Evanora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “New York City – it lives in you.”

  SNEAK PEEK OF

  KINGS AND QUEENS

  Book TWO of The Uprising SERIES

  By:

  Bernadette Giacomazzo

  CHAPTER THREE

  Basile

  Jamie sighed and shook his head, incredulous at what had become of his erstwhile friend.

  I, for one, couldn’t believe it myself. This was the mighty William Lynn? This is what had become of the guitarist of the greatest rock band in captivity?

  I would have expected anything – maybe Willie had become some type of a businessman, or a lawyer like his father, or maybe he became a number-crunching accountant. Hell, maybe – as a child of privilege – he went off and became a semi-professional golfer, hopping from remote island to remote island with a bag full of nine-irons, teeing off as the sun set on the ruins of Machu Picchu or as a mist settled over the Mauna Kea volcano.

  But this?

  The mighty William Lynn being nothing more than a shell of his former self, propped up to live only because it was illegal to murder him, bamboozled by this smelly woman (who claimed to be of Indian origin, but who was so filthy that it was hard to verify) into becoming dependent on Bombay Sapphire vodka (which she seemed to have in ridiculous, and excessive, quantity, and which would prove to be darkly funny if, indeed, she was of Indian origin) and the purest China white heroin, forcing his whole existence into a void of altered states?

  This was hard to comprehend.

  Not the mighty William Lynn.

  Not like this.

  Well, I thought, she’d have to keep him in a drunk-and-high stupor. Of course. No man in his right mind would deal with a bitch-pig like this.

  Jamie kneeled on the floor next to Willie, looking like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’s feet, and my heart ached for him as he spoke softly and stroked Willie’s thinning, brittle hair. "Love and jealousy cannot and do not co-exist. Jealousy is not love. Possessiveness is not love. Insecurity is not love. These things are toxicity," he said.

  Willie stared off into space, his bright hazel eyes clouding over as the heroin began to take effect.

  Jamie stood up, turned his attention to Durga, and tried to hold back the puke that foamed up in the back of his mouth. He clearly couldn't believe the ugly, fat monster before him, and he was sickened by the notion that his intelligent
and street-wise friend could get sucked into the web of this 300-pound pustule of a human whose eyes were yellowed from bile and who reeked of rotten beef and curry.

  He squared up his shoulders and faced her. "If you must "forbid" your significant other from talking to people and only allow him to talk to people you approve of, that’s not love. That’s slavery. That’s entrapment. That’s toxicity. That’s abuse, you low-life piece of sewer shit." His voice was a low, menacing growl. “And whether you like it or not, that’s my friend. That’s my brother. I love him. And no matter what the fuck happens, or how we fight, or what we say to each other, it is exactly none of your fucking business, and I will be here long after your pig ass is gone. What the fuck do you want from Willie, you rancorous slob of a bitch?”

  Durga responded in a simpering, whiny drone. "Money. Fame. Nothing but that," she said. "Someone has to pay my bills. Someone must give me non-stop attention. Someone must make me feel important. I deserve it."

  That response enraged Jamie, and he lurched forward, missing the opportunity to break her neck by mere millimeters, and only because I was able to grab him and pull him back. "Watch it, brother," I whispered in his ear. "She isn’t worth it. Not this floating pile of hot garbage. No."

  Jamie struggled under my arms, but ultimately stopped lurching for Durga, and I finally let him go.

  He squared his shoulders again as he paced back and forth, snarling at Durga with a look of pure murder as she smirked, infuriatingly, with smug satisfaction. “What are you going to do, Ivan Sapphire?” she said, tauntingly. “Look at you. Mister Wannabe Rock Star. Leading a resistance movement that will surely be crushed by Emperor and his Cabal. Begging for your friend to leave me – me – and go back to being what he once was…as if you are worthy of this. Willie will never leave me. Ever.”

  "Do you see this, Willie?” screamed Jamie, turning back to look at the shell that purported to be his erstwhile friend. “Do you see this evil bitch and what she's all about? Are you fucking blind, man? I know that rotten pussy is total trash, she’s a worthless human being so it ain’t the personality, and fuck knows she has less brains than the good Lord gave a fucking goat. What the fuck is wrong with you, Willie Lynn? What the fuck?"

  Willie just stared into oblivion, dazed and confused. His eyes were completely glazed over. It was questionable whether he heard anything at all.

  Jamie continued to snarl at Durga and, finally, pointed a finger in her fat, pimple-scarred face. "You, bitch," he growled. "Your days are numbered. Trust me."

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The act of writing a book is a solitary act, to be sure, but I am by no means without a system of support and love that leaves me humbled and grateful. This space, then, is dedicated to these people.

  First, and foremost, I need to thank the Universe – for lack of a better way of putting the energy that binds us all – and my two greatest teachers, the Rev. Dr. Lady Auset (and her husband, Lord Ra) and, as of late, Sorceress Cagliastro of the Iron Ring. It is because of these forces that I am strong – stronger, in fact, that I’d ever could believe – and for this, I am grateful.

  Next, I need to thank the five greatest human beings: my nephews Antonio, Julian, Nijah Bear, and my baby Kingie Boo, and my niece Jahni. TITZIE LOVES YOU!

  To the rest of my family: my mom Anna, my sister Marissa, my brother-in-law Cut, my aunt Lydia and my uncle Alfredo, and my cousins Paula (and Dave, Adrianna, and Leo) and Marina (and Jason and Aniyah), Joanne, Anthony Jr. and Philip, Roberta and Dario, Patrizia and Stefano, Sonny and Dom (and Bree and Fiona) and John, and all the members of my extended family scattered throughout the United States, Canada, Italy, and Sicily. Quite the motley crew we are…and I love you all for it.

  To my dog, Angela, for snoring at my feet as I wrote this book late into the night – and to Coco, Dutch, and Shoko, the three dogs I had who went over the Rainbow Bridge.

  To my friends in real life: Sire Leo Lamar-Becker (and Rapha Lamar-Becker), Suncera Johnson, Robyn Smith-Kaiser (and Larry Kaiser), Marabelle Blue (and Shane), Jenny “Devil Doll” Gonzalez (and Eric Blitz), Ray Monell, Cymande Russell (and her hubby, and baby Akira), Sesh Foluke-Henderson, Taalib “Ghetto Philosopher” Wheeler (and Goddess Queen Nefertari), Shaun Lally, Tamika Frye, Pablo Nieto (and Tammy, and their little girl), Rolando Cintron (and Liz), Annabella Avorio (and Sr. Avorio, and Aurora), Gerard “HipHopGamer” Williams, Jasmine O’Day, Oliver Godby, Vince and Chrissy and Grace, and Trish, and all the people whose names I’m forgetting right now (but whom I will gladly remember when the book comes out, and do a follow-up post on my website or something). I love you guys.

  To Anne Cater & Giselle Cormier, for setting up my first two blog tours. You are appreciated.

  To all the people I work and have worked with, whom I love and respect and appreciate forever, and whose continued support means the world: The Metropolitan Opera. Teen Vogue. Vogue Italia. VH1. XXL Magazine. The Source Magazine. LatinTRENDS Magazine. Go! NYC Magazine. Interactive One. Vibe. Blasting News. The Inquisitr. Contrast Magazine. Kool G Rap. G-Unit. Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson (so much love and respect for this man!). Lloyd Banks. Tony Yayo. Kidd Kidd. Mike Styles. The G-Unit Riders. Michael Maddaloni. Chris Lanston. Nassau Community College. Hofstra University. Dr. Kenneth Lampl. WLIR-FM. WBAB-FM. Malibu Sue. Rob Rush. Andre Ferro. Jon Daniels. Keith “Fingers” Steele. Joe Rock. Vinnie “The Chainsaw” Graziano. Amanda Elsheikh. Scott Church. Michael Donati. Sarah Squeaky. Alan Davis. Renee Graziano. Karen Gravano. Big Ang (God rest your beautiful soul). Good Times Magazine. Long Island Entertainment Magazine (RIP). The Inside Connection (RIP). Splash News. PR Photos. FlashCity (RIP). WENN. SIPA. Ariel Publicity. John Gilbert Young. Adam Sigal. Anita Gordy (RIP to the beautiful Ryan). Same Felipe. The list goes on, and I’m sure I’m forgetting people along the way, but again, you are loved and respected and appreciated.

  To the bands of the Long Island and New York City music scene, who created the soundtrack of my life, and whose soundtrack was playing on full blast as I wrote this book: SonicBlonde. Status Joe. The Equinox. Finespun. The Amazing Mustang Boy. Sundowner. Size Deep. Greyscale. Seven Daze. Johnny B. Hive. Iridesense. And of course, the mighty Fixer.

  And finally, I’d like to thank every one of you for reading this book. May you all have the guts to use your voice and speak truth to power. I appreciate you all.

  God bless us, everyone.

  Bernadette R. Giacomazzo

  Atlantic Beach, NY

  March 2018

  Table of Contents

  Credits

  Chapter one

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter Sixteen

  EPILOGUE