AWEN RISING, E6: Chapter Ten - Eleven

Chapter 10 - 11, Jocko's Pizza and Palm Springs

Olivia/O. J. Barré🪄🌎

Jun 23, 2025

Hi there, I’m glad you’re here! You have landed on Episode 6 of Awen Rising. If you are just beginning the story, or looking for a different episode, follow the links. Otherwise, you’re in the right place. Read on!

Episode One (Chapters 1 - 3)

Episode Two (Chapters 4 - 5)

Episode Three (Chapters 6 - 7)

Episode Six (Chapters 10 - 11)

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Chapter 10, Jocko’s Pizza

Jocko’s Pizza was an institution. Years before, Emily had seen it featured on a food network and added it to her list of restaurants to be sampled. On the flight from L.A., she had opened a magazine, and there was Jocko’s, listed as one of the top five pizza restaurants in the country.

What the article failed to mention was that Jocko’s manager was smoking hot and as yummy as the pizza. He approached the table, eyes on Emily, but he spoke to Mitchell first.

“Good evening, Mitch. Glad you stopped by.” Then, to Emily he said, “Welcome to Jocko’s Pizza. Is this your first time here?”

She nodded, tongue-tied. He was just her type, dark and sultry, with wavy black hair that was a bit shaggy. He shoved it out of his eyes and extended his hand.

“My name is Lughnasadh MacBrayer, Lugh for short. And yours, mi’lady?” His big black eyes lingered on Emily’s lips.

“E-Emily,” she stuttered. “Emily Mayhall. Nice to meet you, Lugh.” She ignored the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. “I’m looking forward to trying your famous pie. Mitchell tells me it’s the best pizza ever.”

The pirate-y manager beamed. “So, we’re told. I’m glad he brought you to Jocko’s.” The waitress approached, a steaming pizza held aloft in one hand. “Genevieve will take good care of you. But if you need anything, I’ll be around. Enjoy your pizza.” Lugh’s dark eyes remained on Emily as he backed away.

Genevieve settled the pie on the tall holder and dished out slices before retreating.

“Mmmm.” Emily’s first bite was heavenly. She rocked in her seat, savoring the flavors exploding in her mouth. “Mmm, mm, mm, mm, MMM!” she moaned, then took another bite.

The pizza was living up to Emily’s expectations and then some. By the third slice, she was beyond full and stopped to wash it down with Coca-Cola.

Meanwhile, the attorney fleshed out details between bites of pizza and swigs of beer. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy Emily. Still, all he would say is that his instructions were to deliver her to her new-found father’s home. There, all Emily’s questions would be answered.

“Will I stay at the house or a hotel?” she pressed, thinking of her meager funds.

Wainwright smirked. “That I have been authorized to tell you. Your father’s estate includes a carriage house that will be at your disposal. So, no, a hotel will not be necessary. You know. Southern hospitality and all.”

Emily couldn’t help grinning. He had cheek. She would give him that.

Mitchell steepled his fingers under his chin and watched her next bite with fascination. “So, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“About what?” she mumbled, mouth full.

“The pizza. It’s the best you’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh. Well. At least second best.”

The offhand remark earned her a searing scowl from Wainwright and a concerned glance from the sexy manager who was behind the bar serving drinks.

She blinked coyly. “Possibly first. But at least second.”

His square jaw dropped. “Not first? Really? You mean to tell me that California has something to beat this? Name it.”

Emily grinned. It turned out the attorney was sensitive and didn’t like to be wrong. She filed that away for future reference. But he did know good pie.

“I was a kid and don’t remember. I do remember it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Mama thought so, too. I remember how she raved.”

Emily dabbed a pizza bone in parmesan cheese and stuffed it in her mouth. “This is kinda like that.” She jumped when Mitchell slapped his hands on the lacquered tabletop.

“Because it’s the same pizza. Think about it, Emily. Your mother lived only a few blocks from here. Doesn’t it make sense that she would bring you to Jocko’s? You were four when she ran off with you. Old enough to remember pizza.”

Though his words rankled, awareness dawned. Emily thumped her forehead with the butt of her palm. “Shit. You might be right. Or… nah,” she waffled.

When she tried to push the idea from her mind, it anchored and took hold, stirring something ancient inside her. A lock opened, and a velvety richness spread through her body. She looked around the pizza parlor, seeing it anew.

“Why not?” Mitchell watched her through narrowed lids. “Jocko’s was around back then. They opened in nineteen-seventy, long before you were born. That slice of pie you’re referring to, little lady, was eaten right here in this very dining room, maybe even at this table. Which means I am right.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “Jocko’s pizza is the best you ever put in your mouth. Admit it.”

“Dude! I’ve got chill bumps on my chill bumps!” Emily crowed. “Do you know what this means? I remember something. I remember being here. Maybe this whole fairy-tale malarkey you’ve been feeding me is true. I wanted it to be, but I’ve had serious doubts despite that birth certificate and the pictures and whatnot. Those can be faked,” she added when the attorney puffed up, all righteous. “I’ve seen it enough. But the pizza is concrete confirmation. Omigod, how exciting!”

Mitchell thrust an index finger at Emily. “Hold that thought.” Then he whipped his cell phone to his ear, smugness riding his triumphant lips. “Mitchell Wainwright.”

The light quickly faded from his intense eyes, and the cornflower blue hardened to steel. Mitchell glanced at Emily and then stared at a spot just above her head. The bold features, open and expressive before, stiffened to stone.

“We’re on the way,” he said in a tone meant for the caller. A quick gesture brought Lugh MacBrayer scurrying.

Butterflies bloomed in Emily’s gut as the manager approached. His black eyes were fixed on her again, and a smile warmed his quixotic face. For an instant, she forgot both Mitchell and the fear alarms clanging in her head. Then the attorney cleared his throat, recalling her attention.

“What’s wrong?” she hissed. “Why are we leaving?”

Wainwright ignored her and shoved a fifty-dollar bill at Lugh, who asked solicitously, “Is everything okay?”

Mitchell’s brusque, “Not now, Lugh. We have to go. Keep the change,” shut down any further discourse.

Skimming her coat and purse from the back of the chair, Emily nodded in apology to the handsome man. She hurried to the door and galloped for the car.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“Your father is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.” Mitchell disarmed the car alarm. “For everyone’s sake, you’d better hope he pulls through.”

Horrified, Emily fell into the passenger seat and fumbled for the safety belt as Wainwright slid into the driver’s seat. “My birth father is dying?”

“We’ll know soon. The hospital is less than a mile away.”

But it was five after five and almost dark. Traffic was at a standstill. Wainwright tried first one street and then another, but each avenue was clogged. The attorney finally settled in the line of unmoving cars, mumbling, “Come on, come on, come on,” under his breath.

A haunting tune drifted from the stereo, familiar but not. An electric guitar whined, an organ toned, and a plaintive voice warned a rabbit to run. Emily recognized the song but not the artist.

“What is this?” she asked the saturnine man who was thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Without bothering to glance her way, Mitchell Wainwright mumbled, “Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon,” and shoved them a few car lengths closer to the light.

He almost made the yellow before slamming his brakes at the red. Emily’s seat belt locked and held fast.

“Hey!” she shrilled, rubbing her shoulder. “You almost put me through the windshield.”

There was no response from the stony profile.

Glaring out her side window, Emily wondered, not for the first time, what kind of mess she was getting into. A fountain caught her eye, shimmering silver in a grove of white trees. Then the light changed, and the attorney punched the accelerator. She craned her neck as they cleared the intersection, but the fountain and the grove had vanished.

The sports car cornered a tight turn. Emily swayed, holding the overhead strap, but in her mind’s eye, she was in that fountain on a summer’s day, giggling and chasing an older, freckled boy with strawberry hair and dancing eyes.

Chills crept up Emily’s spine and along her scalp. She had been in that fountain as a little girl. Was the boy Emily’s brother? Was that him in the photograph in Mitchell’s office?

Chapter 11, Palm Springs

After a bumpy start, the first day of Shalane’s Evangelical Tour went off without a hitch. Every seat was filled. Overflow crowds crammed into two nearby buildings to witness a larger-than-life Shalane on closed-circuit TV. The rest huddled beneath huge tents dotting the Palm Springs landscape, watching on strategically placed screens.

For the most part, Shalane had managed to relegate her fears to the nether regions of her brain. However, the headache persisted, intensifying with each passing hour. White willow bark had dulled it enough to finish the previous day, but this morning, her eye throbbed like a muther.

Inspecting wider-than-usual pupils, Shalane wondered if she might have a brain tumor. Fear blossomed raw, sharpening the agony. Desperate, she dug for the pain pills she had hidden in the bottom of her luggage. Just in case.

Seeing her grimace in the mirror, Shalane sighed and shook her head. Why must she always be her worst critic? Breaking the seal on the prescription bottle, she removed a tiny yellow Tapentadol and chased it with a sip of spring water.

Her manager would be furious. He had once said he never knew if one pill would lead to two or two would lead to four. Or how many it would take before Shalane was off, running toward addiction, needing more, more, more.

This one was necessary, she justified. She couldn’t hear God through a raging headache. Plus, what her manager didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or at least he couldn’t use it as a tool against her.

Thinking about her bossy but sexy manager, Shalane’s twat twitched. She leered at herself in the mirror, then closed her eyes to “see” him better and tweaked her nipples until they were hard. She would like to use his tool all right.

But it was time to go on stage and give the people what they paid for—day two of a three-day audience with God. Channeling the newly erupted sexual energy through her root chakra, Shalane forced it up her sushumna all the way to her crown before blowing it skyward through her stargate chakra.

Breathing deeply, she allowed the iridescent particles of descending energy to settle and suffuse her with golden trails of shimmering light. Fully charged, Shalane strode from the dressing room, down the hall, and onto the stage without missing a beat.

She faced the howling crowd, body vibrating to the roar of adulation—clapping hands, stomping feet, and voices calling her name as if Shalane were the God they’d come to worship. Riveted by sixty-thousand hungry eyes, Shalane laughed. It was a deep, throaty yodel, triumphant, with a braying, and some would say donkey-like echo.

When the band rose to play the opening chords of Hallelujah, and she commenced singing, a hush settled over the stadium. In rare form, Shalane rendered a poignant version of her pièce de résistance, teasing the crowd like she would a lover, softly and sweetly, then finishing with a fiery frenzy.

The crowd went wild, wolf whistles and all. After another two minutes of tumultuous applause, the auditorium quieted, and Shalane spoke into the mic she’d attached to her collar.

“Welcome to the beginning of another glorious day with God.”

The applause and catcalls resumed. Arms thrown wide, Shalane Carpenter pushed back at the pain behind her eye to bask in the adoration.

~ To be continued in Chapter 12, The Hester Family.

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