by J. L. Brooks
Falling Stars–The B Side
Copyright © JL Brooks 2016
Published by JL Brooks
Cover art © by Letitia Hasser—RBA Designs
Formatted by Integrity Formatting
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, Mr. Shifter, and Twilight Sleep have been used with the respective proprietor’s permissions. No copyrights have been violated.
All Rights Reserved
Foreword by Carlos ‘DJ Odi’ Castillo
Prologue
The Great Escape – Chapter 1
On the Table – Chapter 2
Against the Tide – Chapter 3
New Eyes – Chapter 4
The Fall – Chapter 5
Awakening – Chapter 6
Hear No Evil – Chapter 7
Electric – Chapter 8
Coming Down – Chapter 9
Need – Chapter 10
No Place Like Home – Chapter 11
Punch Love – Chapter 12
Empty Bed – Chapter 13
Into the Furnace – Chapter 14
Counting Sheep – Chapter 15
Passage – Chapter 16
Rapid Change – Chapter 17
Summer Love – Chapter 18
Dusty Shoes – Chapter 19
Wrong Side of the Bed – Chapter 20
Desert Blues – Chapter 21
Stolen Dance – Chapter 22
What Happens in Vegas – Chapter 23
Rising from the Ashes – Chapter 24
The Great Unknown – Chapter 25
And the Dust Settles – Chapter 26
Sanctum – Chapter 27
Dirty Tricks – Chapter 28
Cracked – Chapter 29
Canary – Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Arial Assault is not a fictional character.
Since the early ’90s, young men and women around the world have discovered love on the dance floor. As a DJ, an event promoter, and most importantly as a fan of this culture, I am experiencing it right now.
Lila is a fan. The kind of fan that every DJ wants. I should know because I am that DJ. For twenty-three years I have run the same circuits, played some of the very same venues and songs that JL Brooks describes in Falling Stars. From Chicago to New York, Los Angeles to Louisville, Dallas to DC, and everywhere in between, the EDM culture has become part of the fabric of our world. In recent years the children of the Summer of Love have been having children of their own, and stories like the one you hold in your hands have been making the rounds. Except that these aren’t just stories. It is real life.
Since I was seventeen years old, I have worked to make my way in the music business as a DJ, record store manager and music producer. All with the idea that someday, I would find someone who understood and loved my music as much as they loved me. The way Lila loves Hunter. After years of orbiting each other, JL and I found that love when she asked me to read the first edition of Falling Stars and give her my feedback about the music and written scenes regarding EDM culture. Reading her words transported me to the perfect community that I remember—where race, religion, sexuality melted away in the release of dance. JL Brooks comes from that world. I do, too. That is what brought us together—the understanding that music can transcend us and break down the barriers separating souls. It is because of this connection that I asked JL to be my wife.
Like Lila, many of us left the scene when real life got in the way. Over that time, the recession, harder and darker drugs, and a couple world wars led to a new type of raver looking for stronger kicks. The mood of the world changed and with it the music and the events did as well. By the turn of the century, drug culture had become such a focal point of the world’s view of the scene that we had to reinvent ourselves. After 9/11, “Rave” was once again a dirty word. EDM became the title of the moment, and it gave way to major festivals with rock concert promoters adding their spin on the culture. Everything changed and EDM became a billion-dollar industry focused no longer on the outcast but on the “cool kids” we were trying to separate ourselves from in the first place. The music went pop and the culture did, too.
Now its 20 years later and the first generations of ravers are rediscovering the music and scene they loved. Remembering how things were with countless old school parties, reunion events and digging up the old tapes, CDs and records to make room for baby clothes in the attic. We remember the way things were and the hope that a warehouse, a sound system, and some friends could bring to an otherwise miserable week at work or school. Thanks to social media, the ORs (original ravers) can reconnect, reminiscing digitally about the best times of our lives, finding our lost brothers and sisters in Groove. Many of us still believe in the best of times that we shared with our “real family.” Lila is one of those people. She loves the music and the memories of “her” scene and that very special time—a time that we cannot explain to those who were not there.
Love and music are the same at heart. An intangible way that one vibration in the universe can influence another vibration to create something more powerful than the single. Love grows in waves the way bass grows in waves, and just like bass, sometimes you have to step back from the speaker to really feel it. Lila had to step away from Hunter to understand what was really there—what he really meant to her—and most of all, to really feel the love he will always hold for her.
Sometimes that can hurt before it helps. Sometimes you find your way down a road you THINK is the right one, only to learn that the choice you made was flawed from the start. Sometimes you get the chance to fix that choice because true love never lets you go. It happens every day to every one of us that loves with our whole heart, like Lila and Hunter. When the universe is ready to show you the truth, it will in the most mysterious of ways.
The glossy pages and pouty lips did little to satisfy Michael’s desperate desires to know one of many things that were denied to him. In addition to being born with an irreparable heart and weak immune system, he never had a girlfriend, much less a female friend outside of the hospital staff that kept the professional boundaries intact. Tears were shed on bad days, and smiles flourished on the good ones—the ones where he would be eligible for some innovative procedure that could extend his life and make everyone else feel somehow better for his plight, as if they were doing something meaningful. To Michael, unless his days were able to be spent outside of his sterile prison, each year became a sentence he no longer wanted to serve.
I was moved into Michael’s room at the hospital’s request. Being a quiet old man and not asking for much made me an ideal candidate for understaffed and overcrowded circumstance. New Year’s Eve always had an influx of patients for various reasons, and we both were only there for a short while. I paid an orderly a king’s ransom to get Michael some nudie magazines, and he returned smiling with a discreet paper bag under the medicine cart and my money tucked in alongside a note saying “I got you.” Michael’s eyes grew big at the gift, to which I raised a finger to pursed lips, indicating to be quiet, and gave a wink to them both before closing my eyes and resting a bit.
I could hear the pages being studied through the various beeping and chimes the monitors produced, pap
er sliding slowly across the top sheet and catching as he absorbed the features of each one. The female nurses would come in, see the magazine pile, and turn away with a flushed face before going on with their duties. No one would say a thing. After all, why deny a young man the only indulgence he possessed? After a few hours when night had fallen, the lights were dimmed, and we were left to sleep after a heavy dose of morphine. Before he could slip away completely, I asked a question.
“Michael, what is the one thing you want more than anything right now?”
He exhaled deeply and swallowed before responding.
“I want to see the sunrise on the ocean. Watch the sky turn pink and blue before that yellow ball comes up and starts the day. I watch movies, and it always seems like something everybody should do at least once if given the chance.”
Michael’s southern drawl gave an extra depth of sadness to the simple request. He went to sleep with paradise on his mind. Sliding off of the bed, I reached over and gently touched his forehead. Beads of sweat laced across the hairline. Even in the shadows I could see the thin blue lines tracing across his body like a map of some unknown land. I found it interesting the Creator chose to model the body after the Earth in so many ways, the connection lost on humanity for the most part. However, the nuances of existence were not nearly as fascinating as the perceptions of death. Michael welcomed it, and for that I could not blame him.
Briefly lost in thought, I barely noticed the light in the hallway.
“It’s time, are you ready?” she asked softly.
I looked up and smiled as we headed for the elevator and away from the hospital. Michael’s consciousness returned when the car doors opened. Nicole lifted his body out of the seat and passed him to Jeremiah, whose massive arms held the young man gently as he walked through the night, carrying him towards the crashing waves wrapped in a blanket to shield against the cool ocean air. Not a word was said in the group during those moments. A number of chairs were set around a small bonfire already ablaze, giving a warm glow in the darkness. The white edges of the waves were visible in the distance as they crashed on the shore while seagulls circled curiously above.
“Who are you?” Michael asked, staring at me first and then at the individuals seated around him. They did not speak, and I answered for them.
“Who we are is not as important as what is about to happen. Do you not see the sky? Is this not what you asked for?”
Michael tilted his head back and took in the vast expanse. Bright, twinkling stars danced just for him. Swirls of black and navy collided with vibrant purples and rapidly growing bursts of fuchsia and violet. His eyes darted to the horizon where the first peaks of golden light started to rise to the surface. He no longer was concerned but completely enraptured in the moment. He did not see us, nor feel any pain. All that was heard was the tempo of a heart beating stronger than it ever had before, drowning out every other noise.
The bright, white light shattered the horizon and lit the sky on fire. Michael knew this was no ordinary sunrise. This was his sunrise.
“Are you God?” he whispered.
The others finally broke the silence and laughed, causing him to look a bit confused.
“No, Michael, I am not He who Is. I am sometimes called Azrael, but you can call me Izzy if you wish. Most only know me by what I do, not who I am. But once again, that is not important. Do you know what has happened?”
Stretching out his arms, it hit him that his body was no longer as it was, sickly and frail. It held a new form, strong and secure. The pain was a memory and he could breathe. Overwhelmed, he went to stand and found there to be no more weakness. He could walk easily and felt the soft sand beneath his feet.
“Is this real?” Michael asked while walking slowly towards the shoreline.
Strolling with him, I replied. “What is real and what is not is subjective. The human mind accepts what it believes to be real. But in your understanding, no, this is not real like you think. This is a projection of the soul, a reality we have created to help you transition over. It can be a bit frightening, so we try and make it smoother when we can. Very few truly know what happens over here, and we do not want to encourage early arrival. There are still rules.”
Michael smiled as he went to dip his toes into the water as I continued to guide him along.
“Everything here will feel and appear as it does to those still living, but better. It is how it should be for you. You know in your mind what you think it should feel like; we have just combined it with the collective experience of humanity, the best parts of it. Go ahead, it’s okay.”
A small wave creeped up the shore and grazed our feet which sank slightly into the sand, leaving foot prints that were quickly washed away. Small shells dotted the ground, which Michael picked up and smiled at each time. The grin never seemed to leave his face. For extra show, a dolphin jumped in the distance and made a splash.
“Okay you guys totally did that!” He laughed.
Nicole and Jeremiah, who were walking behind us, smiled mischievously. A short distance off, the others were approaching us. Michael stopped and looked at me, but I just nudged him onward. As the faces became clearer, it hit him what was happening. In an instant, he was encased in love by all of those who had passed before him, who had waited until they could be together again. I turned away slowly and started my walk back to the perceived fire. Michael broke free for a moment and shouted.
“Izzy wait.”
I turned and raised a brow. “Yes, Michael, what is it?”
“I have a few questions,” he said.
Tilting my head, I smiled to myself. I loved this part. They always had a few questions.
“The magazines. Why did you get them for me?”
I could see the longing swirl in his spirit; some things took longer to fade in transition. Knowing this would happen, I saved this part for last.
“When I asked what you wanted, you said a sunrise. But I know all you have really wanted was to know the touch of a woman who loved you. I am going to show you something that may be hard for you to accept, but I think you should see it. It will help you move on.”
Reaching out my hand, I touched his forehead once again, and we were back in the hospital, merely quiet observers in the emergency room. He could see a woman being rushed in, burns all over her body as she screamed in agony.
“Where are we, what’s happening?” he shouted in distress, but no one could hear him.
He rushed around the doctors as they worked furiously to stabilize her.
“Quick, the boy from 128—has his skin been treated? Is it viable for use?”
One of the doctors pulled down his mask as he rushed to the door and smiled. Michael saw that he was Jeremiah, who not an hour earlier had carried him to the beach.
Another doctor shouted to a nurse as he irrigated the wounds. “Call down to the lab. If it is, get it here STAT! We need as much as possible to prevent infection.” Although the doctor began to speak under his breath, Michael heard him clearly saying a prayer.
“It will be a miracle if we can save this girl. Please God let that skin be ready . . . let that boy’s life have meaning.”
As if time moved in fast forward, we watched medical teams rush in with foam coolers and special equipment. Thin layers of treated tissue were wrapped over the exposed wounds, giving precious protection to her body. The healing took place as her body accepted the skin as her own. Months passed in a flash, and we watched as she was preparing to leave the hospital. As she packed her suitcase, we saw Nicole standing there, wearing scrubs like the other nurses, and then she handed the woman a small gift. Unwrapping it lovingly, she clutched the picture to her chest after touching the surface with adoration. Feeling her skin and tracing the scars, tears poured down her face.
“Thank you, Nicole. Thank you so much for getting this for me. You have no idea how much it means.”
Nicole gave her a reassuring hug. “Actually I do, I know it would mean a lot to him knowin
g that you asked for it.”
Turning the picture over, Nicole glanced at Michael and smiled, knowing he was there but unable to acknowledge him. It was a photo of him. He remembered the day it was taken. He wasn’t sure why someone would want it, but they were insistent. It was Nicole. How he did not recognize her on the beach surprised him.
Stunned he turned towards me. “So my death saved her life?” he whispered.
I reached my hand out to touch his shoulder. “Yes Michael, you saved her. Although you will not know her in this life, she will spend the rest of hers knowing you. Every time she feels the breeze on her skin, the cold, warmth, or even a prickle of pain, and yes, pleasure, she will think of you and be grateful. So in a way, you got what you always wanted. To know the touch of a woman who loved you.”
He looked over at the girl and asked one last question.
“What is her name?”
I smiled and was happy to respond.
“It’s Hope.”
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 wet faces mirrored mine as I closed the reading. I was proud of this book in ways I could not explain. Each novel I had written was a special entity, but this one . . . this one shook me to my very core, and it translated through my fingers perfectly.
For seventeen 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 Monday when 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 made it that much more difficult to begin anew. When editors ripped my manuscripts apart, I would fight tooth and nail to ensure certain details 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.