Punk Rock Resurrection Read online

  Punk Rock Resurrection

  Radical Rock Stars: Book Three

  Jenna Galicki

  Beau to Beau Publishing

  www.beautobeau.com

  This book is also available in print.

  Copyright 2015 Jenna Galicki

  ISBN: 978-1-6184-5335-8

  All Rights Reserved

  Synopsis:

  My world was dark and filled with pain.

  Loneliness gnawed at my soul.

  I found solace in a bottle.

  Music was my only refuge . . . until I met her.

  She was a dark Gothic goddess in thigh-high leather boots.

  She brought light into my life and showed me what it was like to be loved.

  But could she handle the demons that haunted me . . . and the vices that kept them at bay?

  This is the one everyone’s been waiting for. This is Damien and Alyssa’s story.

  Delve into the mind of Immortal Angel’s brooding, hardcore bassist with a troubled past.

  Warning: This book is for mature audiences only.

  Introduction:

  Life wasn’t always good to Damien Diamond. An alcoholic, abusive mother left him to fend for himself and with little self-esteem. He turned to drugs and alcohol to mask his inner pain. If it weren’t for Angel Garcia, he would have perished on the streets of New York City, but it was a dark gothic goddess who gave Damien a reason to live. She wouldn’t put up with his self-destructive behavior, and he needed to turn his life around in order to win back the only woman he ever loved.

  Alyssa never took an ounce of crap from anyone. The last thing she needed was a tattooed punk rocker with a boatload of baggage¸ but once Damien Diamond walked into her life, she couldn’t stop thinking about the sweet and sensitive guy that hid behind the tough-as-nails exterior.

  Follow Damien Diamond as he prepares for the third leg of his successful World Tour with Immortal Angel, and as he reflects on his bitter past and the road that led him to be part of one of the most popular and radical punk rock bands in the nation.

  Copyright and Disclaimer:

  This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains material which may be considered offensive by some readers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or yet to be born, is purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Prologue:

  It was after midnight and yelling woke Damien from a sound sleep. His mother was drunk again – probably high too. He could tell she wasn’t sober because of the way she was ranting and the slur in her voice. At 14, he wasn’t afraid of his mother’s unstable outbursts anymore, but he didn’t dare venture out of his room. When he was younger, six or seven, he used to throw the covers over his head and tremble. His heart would beat so hard against his chest that he had been sure she could hear it all the way down the stairs. He had hugged his knees to his chest and prayed that she wouldn’t come into his room – but she always did.

  He knew she was coming, but he didn’t know why, and he braced himself for the impending confrontation by lying perfectly still in his bed. To anyone watching, he would have appeared relaxed and unfazed by the screaming and banging coming from downstairs. It was an amazing act of self-control. On the inside, nothing calmed Damien’s agitated heart. It beat furiously in his chest and pounded in his ears.

  He watched the doorknob and waited for it to turn. There had been a lock on it once, a long time ago, but she promptly removed it the first time he used it to keep her out of his room. The light from the moon reflected back at him from the gold-tone doorknob and held his frozen stare. He crumpled the edge of the sheet in his fists and brought it closer to his chin each time his mother’s voice grew louder and more irate. The door to his room flew open and the light filtered in like a spotlight on his bed. He held his breath, and his heart stopped for an instant, then resumed its thunderous beat. He met his mother’s rabid gaze with courage. Her lips were clamped shut, and one side of her face was shadowed, but her anger was clearly visible from across the room. She flipped the switch on the wall and the room filled with light. The brightness temporarily blinded him, and he brought his forearm to his brow.

  “Where did you get this?” She shoved his beautiful bass guitar out in front of her.

  He bolted upright in bed. Shoot! He usually never took it out of his room, but he had been home alone all day and had carried it into the living room to play along with the stereo. The little radio in his bedroom was too weak to produce a clear sound. He must have forgotten to return his bass to its hiding spot under his bed.

  “Don’t just sit there like an idiot! Answer me! Did you steal it? Now you’re a thief? I knew you’d end up in jail!”

  He jumped off the bed and ran up to her, ready to claim his bass before she took it away. “I bought it at the thrift store. I didn’t steal it.”

  “Don’t talk back to me!” Her hand came down across his left cheek. She wore a ring on her middle finger, and the band connected with his cheekbone. His skin flared under the harsh slap, and he felt a knot forming under his eye, but he never flinched. The sting on his face burned his spirit more than it did his cheek. He had become used to physical pain. Sometimes he welcomed it, since it was the only time she gave him any attention. It was the emotional pain that he was defenseless against.

  He reached out to take his bass from her, but she pulled it away before he could touch it. Standing this close to her, he could smell the liquor on her breath and see the tiny lines around her upper lip and in the corners of her eyes. She had been beautiful once. He had idolized her when he was a young boy. Years of alcohol abuse weren’t kind to her. She looked much older than her age. The drugs also had their fair share in adding to the dark circles under her eyes and in her sunken features.

  She was glaring at him, hunched over him, waiting for him to retaliate, but he never raised his voice to her. Although he was growing taller each week and soon would stand eye to eye with her, he would never physically defend himself even though she always provoked him.

  “Can I have my bass back?” His voice was low, and he dared to make eye contact.

  “Not until you tell me where you got the money for it. Did you steal it from my purse?”

  “No. I told you. I got it at the thrift store. It wasn’t much. Only a few dollars. I saved it up from my job at the grocery store.”

  Her eyes widened with anger. “That money is supposed to pay for your room and board. And for the food I keep stocked in the refrigerator. Everything costs money. Withholding money from me is the same as stealing!”

  He loved that bass. It’s the only thing that made his life bearable. “I gave you the same amount. I worked extra hours to save the money.”

  “You’re pathetic.” She shook the bass at him. “Do you think you’re going to become a rock star? You’ll never amount to anything!”

  Her words stung worse than any of the blows she inflicted upon him. She always knew how to deflate his spirit and shatter his self-esteem. He lowered his eyes to the floor, and his cheeks flushed red hot.

  “This guitar belongs to me now.”


  He snapped his head up, and his eyes widened. “No!”

  “Don’t give me any back talk!” She raised the bass guitar and swung it at him.

  Even though he raised his arm to shield his face, it grazed the top half of his ear and slammed into his temple. He was momentarily dazed, and he stumbled while spots blurred his vision. He didn’t care if he had a concussion or if he blacked out. His only concern was whether or not his bass was injured. He steadied himself on his feet and leaned against the door frame for support. He was vaguely aware of his mother’s footsteps leading away from his room and down the stairs. When his head cleared, his beloved instrument was gone. She had taken it with her.

  He shut his bedroom door and kicked the waste basket. His bass was everything to him. He had been secretly playing it for the last six months. His mother knew he was lying when he said he paid a couple of dollars for it at a thrift store. It was too beautiful to be secondhand. He couldn’t tell her the truth, because she wouldn’t let him visit the music store anymore. It was the one place he felt that he belonged.

  Damien had spent every free moment in the music store since he was twelve years old. His mother worked all day and then bartended at night, so she was never home. She never knew where he was, nor did she care, as long as his household chores were done by the time she came home.

  The manager at the music store let him work there for free in exchange for the bass. It was the least expensive model in the store, but it was the sweetest piece of ear candy Damien ever laid eyes on. Now he was working off enough hours to afford an amp. He had lied about his age. The store manager thought he was 16, not 14, and since this was a private transaction, no one needed to bother filling out any paperwork.

  He needed to get his bass guitar back from his mother. He waited in his room and listened at the door. The clink of glasses meant she was having another drink. Soon she would be unconscious and nothing would wake her. That’s when he could search for his bass.

  An hour later, he cracked open his bedroom door and peeked out. The TV was audible in the distance, but it was otherwise quiet. He tiptoed down the stairs like a thief. Careful not to make a sound, he ventured into the living room. His mother was sprawled across the couch with her mouth open. An ashtray full of cigarette butts was on the end table next to an open bottle of scotch. The glass next to it contained her unfinished drink. He lifted it off the coaster and stared down at the amber liquid. He swirled it in the glass for a bit then brought it to his lips and gulped down a mouthful. It burned his throat, and he almost choked. With his lips pulled back and his tongue sticking out, he shook his head in order to rid his mouth of the heat.

  A medicine bottle on the couch next to his mother’s hand caught his eye. He picked it up and read the label: OxyContin. The childproof cap came off with a twist, and he shook the round yellow pills in the bottle and watched them jump in the container. It was a full bottle. He fished one out with his index finger and stuck it in the pocket of his pajama pants.

  On the other side of the couch sat his bass guitar. He examined it for any damage. There was a tiny scratch, but it was otherwise unharmed. He placed the strap over his head and immediately felt a rush of energy. There was a connection that drew the two of them together. He ran his hand over the sleek black lacquer paint with affection. She was beautiful.

  They returned to his bedroom together. His mother would have to kill him to take his precious bass away from him again. He sat on his bed and cradled it in his lap. Her smooth neck fit perfectly in the palm of his left hand and her strings called to his fingertips. He picked her up with both hands, brought her to his lips and placed a tender kiss across her ebony paint. She brought him solace and serenity. He loved her, and she rewarded him with a low, deep purr. It was the first time his love was reciprocated.

  He plucked at the G string. It was the most beautiful sound in the world, even if the lack of an amp reduced the thundering growl to a muffled hum. He played I Wanna Be Sedated from the Ramones and London Calling from the Clash. They were his favorite bands, and he fell in love with the punk rock culture. He played some of the heavier music he heard at the music store – Enter Sandman, from Metallica and Iron Man from Black Sabbath – and developed a liking for the genre.

  Without the funds for formal lessons, Damien learned to play by ear. He was able to identify the rumble of the bass over the other instruments in a song. Finding the notes came easy, and he was able to replicate the sound with little effort. On the occasions when he brought his bass to the store, the manager let him plug into an amp, and the booming sound that filled Damien’s ears beat simultaneously with his heart.

  The store manager had once told him that in order to master an instrument, you needed to fall in love with it. Damien stroked the neck of the black beauty in his lap. The light from the ceiling fixture reflected off of her gleaming paint. She was exquisite, and she meant more to him than anything in the world.

  Chapter One

  Damien Diamond roared down I-87 on his new custom-built Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The growl of the twin cam engine drowned out the noise from the traffic around him. He pulled back on the throttle, testing the machine’s power, and the motor revved. Alyssa wrapped her arms around him a little tighter, clasped her fingers together around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. He patted his wife’s hands and turned his face up to the hot sun. Its rays burned the chill of the crisp open air off of his cheeks. He took his eyes off the road long enough to nod at two girls who were waving at him from a Corvette convertible. The girl in the passenger seat pulled up her shirt and flashed a pair of doubled D’s. Alyssa laughed and threw them a peace sign.

  Recognition was everywhere, even soaring down the New York State Thruway at 80 miles per hour. The helmet hid his signature blue mohawk, but the telltale gory tattoos that covered every inch of his exposed skin were a dead giveaway. There wasn’t much privacy left when you were the bassist for the country’s number one punk rock band. Damien celebrated the success of Immortal Angel’s second studio album with the purchase of the toy between his legs. Eyes straight ahead, wind at his back, the woman he loved with her chin on his shoulder – it didn’t get much better than this.

  Life wasn’t always good to Damien Diamond. She was a heartless bitch for more years than he cared to remember. There was a dismal period when he didn’t care if he lived or died, and probably no one else did either. He squinted his eyes in the sun’s glare and tried to repress the bitter memories that still haunted him, but they rolled in his head like a bad movie.

  Damien was 17 when he first met Angel Garcia. He had no idea the skinny gay kid would end up becoming a lifelong friend and save him from his own self-destruction. Soon after they had met, they discovered their mutual love for punk rock music and formed Immortal Angel. Back then, when the band was in its infancy, gigs hadn’t paid much money and there hadn’t been many employers willing to hire someone with a rebellious mohawk. Damien had found work at a local tattoo shop and got paid in tips from the artists and free ink.

  The hum of his new bike and the sharp wind in his face reminded Damien how much his life had changed. As the road glided past him, his mind flashed back to his troubled past and the days he moved into his first real apartment on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn.

  Seven Years Prior

  Damien sat on the stained couch with its torn cushions, bass guitar on his knee, strumming one of Immoral Angel’s new tunes.

  Angel stood nearby perfectly still, afraid to move or touch anything, but too polite to voice his concerns about the shoddy apartment.

  The floorboards were weathered and gave way in some spots. The cracks in the plaster walls were patched over with compound but never repainted. Despite its lackluster and shabby appearance, the place was clean.

  “Are you sure you’re alright here?” Angel looked around with a grimace. “I could lend you some more money if you want to find something a little more modern.”

  “Not necessary. I shouldn’t h
ave taken the money from you in the first place. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I insisted. You needed to get out of the projects, Damien. It wasn’t safe. I don’t care how tough your outer shell is, it’s not going to stop a bullet.”

  “I know, but I survived four years bouncing around New York City public housing. It’s time for me to make it on my own.” Most teenagers got a cake and a party on their 18th birthday. Damien had been handed his suitcase and a speech about how his mother had put up with him for as long as she could. She had done her job. Now he was on his own, so when he fucked up and fell flat on his face, he had no one to blame but himself.

  With no money and nowhere to go, he had been forced to live on the streets at eighteen years old. He was a kid, but she robbed him of his childhood. He had slept between alleyways and in the park for almost a month before Angel found out. It was Angel who got him into public housing – and helped him get out.

  Now that Damien was living back in Brooklyn, and not too far from where he grew up, it opened an old wound. He feared that one day he would cross paths with his alcohol-soaked mother, and he never wanted to see her again. She made it clear that he was unwelcome in her house, and in her life, the day she threw him out.

  Even though she wasn’t part of his life anymore, her mental and verbal abuse still reached in and twisted his gut. Playing the bass helped him let go of the harsh memories of his childhood. He had other vices to help him forget, but music was a safe outlet. He didn’t know how long he’d been plucking the same notes until Angel clapped his hands to get his attention. “Sorry, what do you need?”

  “Do you have anything to drink?” Angel pawed at his throat. “Water? Soda?”

  Damien set his bass on its stand and hurried into the kitchen before Angel decided to help himself. He didn’t want Angel to see his empty refrigerator. There wasn’t much money in his budget for groceries, but he always bought bottled water. The pipes were so old that the tap probably contained enough lead to kill everyone in the building.