Riven (Riven 1)

As I followed Caleb through the crowd, I got a few second glances, of the don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere variety, but mostly people ignored me. A door opened backstage at Caleb’s knock, and the bassist stuck his head out.

“Hey, brother, you made it,” he said, grinning when he saw Caleb. “Thought I saw a coupla white boys in the house.” They embraced, patting each other hard on the back.

“This is my friend, Theo. Dixon Plain,” he said to me. Dixon held out a hand to me and when we shook I could feel the familiar calluses on his fingertips.

“You guys were fantastic,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Really amazing.”

I got a warm smile and a humble tip of the head. “Thank you for that, man. I appreciate you saying so.” Then he shot a mischievous look at Caleb and quirked an eyebrow. “Y’all wanna come in for a bit?” Dixon opened the door and Caleb saluted the band members, who were in various stages of sitting, standing, and removing articles of clothing. A chorus of enthusiastic “Heys” met his appearance.

The lead singer ambled up to the door and shook Caleb’s hand warmly, then clapped him on the back. They talked for a minute, then the singer saw me standing behind him. I started to tell him how much I’d loved the show when his expression changed.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice not entirely friendly. “Keeping company.”

Caleb ran a hand through his hair.

“Walt, this is my friend Theo. Theo, Walter Wendell.” I reached out to shake his hand and he held mine one beat longer than was comfortable, looking me up and down. Then he looked away without saying anything and turned to say something to the drummer. I felt hurt bubble up in my throat but I swallowed it down.

Dixon came back over to us and made meaningful eye contact with Caleb.

“Listen, bro, it’s great to see you, but, uh…” He shot a look back at the rest of the band. “I don’t think you’re gonna want to stick around, feel me?”

Caleb stiffened and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks, Dix. I’ll catch you around, then. Night, y’all,” he called to the room, and turned to leave. I closed the door behind me, not sure if I was embarrassed or angry. Caleb took a quick turn and then we were outside in the alley behind the club.

“So you liked it, huh?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“They were amazing,” I said. “Hated me, though, I guess?”

“Nah, that’s just Walt. He’s old-school, you know, thinks anyone who’s been around less than two decades is a flash in the pan. He was just surprised to see me with you is all. You’re not my usual company.”

“Well, what was that shit just now, then? They took one look at me and told us to get gone?” I knocked my fist against the brick, realizing that what I felt was more humiliation than anger. These were professional, talented musicians, who’d looked at me and seen trash. Sellout trash they had no interest in talking to.

“Naw, man, that wasn’t about you.” He started walking and I followed, tripping as I made to catch up.

“What then?”

“Uh, that was Dix telling me they were about to do some shit that I wouldn’t want to be around. Clean now, ya know?”

I skidded to a stop as Caleb turned the corner.

“Oh. Oh, shit.”

He made a gesture of dismissal and unlocked the passenger side door of his truck for me. I stuck my knee out before he could close it.

“Sorry. I, uh, I kinda pulled a rock star moment and assumed it was about me, huh?”

“Yeah, ya did.” He grinned at me, then knocked my hat off into my lap and ruffled my hair. “Guess I’ll have to fuck the rock star right outta you.”

* * *

—

The ride to my apartment was excruciating.

Caleb would put a hand on my thigh, then slide his palm up to cup my dick, then he’d take his hand away, and start talking about whatshisname’s technique on the upright bass. He’d rub over my stomach and brush fingers against the tight buds of my nipples as he leaned to point something out to me through my window. When he put his hand on the back of my neck and started playing with my hair, I moaned. He wouldn’t let me touch him, deflecting every attempt with a playful swat and the insistence that it was unsafe. After a few rebuffs I started doing it on purpose because his swats started to feel like caresses.

About six blocks from my apartment, he laid his hand lightly over my erection, tracing the hard line with teasing fingers until I could feel myself swell inside the fabric. He found my tip and rubbed circles over it until I was leaking into my jeans and moaning, my hips thrusting up against the seatbelt.