Chapter Twelve #3
It was a moment so incongruous it brought Jem up short. “Since when do you eat without being tied down?”
Lara lobbed a french fry at him. “Don’t make me rescind my friendship, Jem.”
“That was a figure of speech!”
River ignored their asides and chomped into a deep-fried chicken breast. “It’s a show night. I have a routine.”
“He passed out once between sets,” Ward offered, “and then we found out he hadn’t eaten since the night before.”
Jem looked at River, for some reason feeling unbearably fond. “The common sense God gave little green frogs,” he repeated.
River blushed and shoved a drumstick in his face.
Not long afterward, Nat returned to escort Jem and the rest of the VIPs to their booth, which was on the second floor, almost directly overlooking the stage.
Eric’s wife, Becca, nudged Jem to the best seat, closest to the corner.
“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” she said.
Then, with a pointed look at the child half-dozing in her arms, she added, “Besides, we’re safer in the back row for a bit if Daddy wants this one to make her stage debut tonight. ”
“You’re really going to let him wake her up for that?” Too late, Jem realized that sounded really judgy, especially coming from a non parent. He immediately backtracked. “Not that—I mean—”
“Don’t throw yourself off the balcony about it,” Becca interrupted, eyes dancing with amusement.
“There’s only so many chances left, you know?
It wouldn’t be right that the older kids got their time on stage with Daddy and this one didn’t.
” She kissed the little girl’s head. “Besides, she’s Eric’s problem tonight. ”
Jem wondered how that worked—wouldn’t he be tired after the show?—but he didn’t have a chance to ask before the lights dimmed and the crowd started screaming.
The session musicians filed out first. Jem recognized Lara taking a spot at the keyboards; a short guy with straight dark hair strapped on a guitar. Eric came next, tossing his drumsticks in the air and catching them as the spotlights turned the stage fog green and then teal.
When the teal bled to purple and then red, River stepped out of the wings, guitar slung over his back.
Jem expected some kind of strut, or a cool toss of his hair, or arms flung wide to embrace the cheers.
Which was probably foolish, in retrospect, because River was a lot of things, a ham being near the top of the list, but he was also an enormous dork.
He greeted the audience with a low bow, complete with hand flourishes, before plugging in his patch cord.
The crowd laughed and catcalled. Next to him, Becca dissolved into giggles. “That’s a new one.”
Jem glanced at her. “Oh?”
“I did see him trip on a pedal once,” she said with a grin. “But usually he’s pretty aloof. It’s nice to see his goofball side.”
Ward emerged last, to whistles and screams and catcalls. He twirled the patch cord like a lasso for a moment and then plugged in his bass and leaned down to the mic. “How you doing, Los Angeles?”
The wall of sound that rose up from the audience reverberated through Jem’s entire body. This was a small show compared to what the Flat Tires usually played—he couldn’t imagine how much louder a larger venue might be.
There was no further chitchat. River strummed a loud, distorted opening chord Jem recognized as something from one of the band’s earlier albums, the crowd howled and shot to their feet, and the whole thing set off such a huge adrenaline spike that Jem realized immediately that Eric would not be tired when he got home.
Eric would not be tired for like the next three days.
Jem might not be tired for the next three days.
He’d only started listening to the Flat Tires since he met River. Sure, he’d heard a few songs on the radio, but left to his own devices, he gravitated toward chill Spotify playlists that would keep him from strangling kindergarteners. And he’d never had the money to attend a lot of concerts.
He might’ve made it more of a priority if he’d known it could be like this.
On the stage, River and Ward stood back to back, leaning against each other and into the waves of adulation coming off the crowd.
“Is it always like this?” Jem had to shout so Becca could hear him.
She dimpled. “Nah. Smaller shows are the best.”
Jem supposed that must be true. You had to be a pretty big fan to get tickets to a small show before it sold out, especially in a city like LA. Which probably explained why the entire audience seemed to be singing along to every single word. It felt sacred. It felt like communion.
Jem wished he knew all the words too. It must feel like going to a concert with four thousand friends he hadn’t met yet.
The band soaked it in. Everything the audience gave them, they amplified and returned, grinning like kids. They looked like they were having the time of their lives.
No wonder River didn’t want to give this up.
The first song transitioned smoothly into the second—no downtime, no pause for applause—so that the whole thing built to an impossible crescendo that reverberated through the building and left Jem’s bones rattling.
He got swept up in the joy of it, found himself cheering along, though he tried to keep it to a dull roar out of respect for the kids with them.
Surely one more cheering fan wouldn’t tip the scales either way.
Finally River stepped up to his microphone. “LA, thanks for coming out. It’s a beautiful night.” He picked out a quick little riff, winked at the audience, and then glanced up at the balcony and somehow found Jem’s eyes. “This is a love song.”
Becca cackled next to Jem and elbowed him in the ribs, even as Jem’s cheeks and ears burned. The lights went low again and a blacklight strobe kicked on, which was when Jem realized—
“Oh my God, River,” he groaned out loud. He doubted Becca heard him, but she could see it as plain as he could—under these specific lighting conditions, the odd shiny patches on Jem’s shirt glowed in the dark, spelling out Property of River Wild.
“All Dressed Up” was not a love song, although Jem would concede that it could be a song about someone you loved.
“All Dressed Up” was a song about how good a lover looked in expensive jewelry.
Or possibly the jewelry was a metaphor for something dirtier.
Either way, clothing was definitely not mentioned, and Ward ceded the microphone to River for the second verse, which didn’t help.
Jesus, it was hot in here. “I think I need to sit down,” Jem said to Becca.
She grinned. “Better do it while you still can?”
He put his face in his hands, but he couldn’t stop watching River between his fingers.
By the time the show ended—after an encore that had everyone on their feet, screaming at the tops of their lungs, except for maybe the baby strapped to Eric’s chest, jouncing happily with her oversize headphones keeping her hearing safe—Jem was crawling out of his skin.
He had multiple texts from Tori, who was with a similarly hearing-protected Ivy in the second row, losing her absolute mind about how good the show was and asking where they should meet Jem and River after.
As if Jem wanted anyone to see him right now.
If River didn’t fuck him in the next twenty minutes, he’d die.
Hold that thought, he texted her, and almost wept with relief when Nat showed up at the box looking for Jem.
He was mostly too wired and turned-on to be mortified, but he did find himself saying, finally, halfway down a long hallway somewhere in the annals of the building, “Sorry it’s your job to do this.” She had to know what she was leading him into.
Nat gave him an amused look. “It’s all good. He tips well.” She rapped at the door. “Hey, special delivery!”
And then, with a knowing smirk, she was gone.
Before Jem could feel awkward about it, the door swung open. River stood on the other side, hair a sweaty disaster, cheeks flushed, eyes completely wild.
They didn’t even get the door closed before they were kissing, clinging to each other like their lives depended on it.
Eventually River flailed around one-handed and Jem heard the satisfying click of the door closing.
Then River was dragging him backwards by his belt loops.
Their erections brushed, obvious, electric.
River ground against him, swallowing the gasp Jem released against his mouth.
They were both half stuck to their jeans with sweat.
Jem thought his own were bad, but for a handful of seconds it looked like they were going to need scissors to free River.
But then River gave him a firm shove backward and said, “Just—get your own,” and maybe it wasn’t romantic, but it got the job done.
Even if it left Jem standing in River’s dressing room in a T-shirt and socks, feeling ridiculous.
He forgot about it the second River kicked off his jeans and reeled Jem in with a hand on his T-shirt.
Which reminded him—“Feeling possessive today?”
River flashed a grin that was mostly teeth on his way to putting his mouth on Jem’s neck. “Why, you like it?”
“Depends, do you have lube in here? Because if not, I quit.”
Jem’s bare ass hit the dressing table. A clatter followed as River swept a cornucopia of products onto the floor. One, though, he held up in triumph—a tube with a familiar brand label. Fantastic.
River made a noise like a stalling sink disposal when Jem turned around, braced himself on the table, and said, “Hurry up. We have like twenty minutes before Tori gets arrested trying to find me.”
Another sound, this one higher pitched. “You want me to fuck you here?”
Jem huffed. “I wanted you to fuck me in the Subaru,” he pointed out. “This can’t be that different.”
“Fair,” River said faintly as he flicked the cap open.
Thank God he wasn’t precious about it. He took Jem at his word and opened with two slick fingers, gentle but firm. “I knew I should’ve put a butt plug in your pocket.”
With a groan, Jem widened his stance. “I would’ve come in these stupid fucking jeans, the way the bass is cranked in here. And then we never would’ve gotten them off.”
“Jesus. Never mind twenty minutes, we’re not going to make it to two if you don’t stop running your mouth.”
A third finger joined the first two before Jem was ready. He pushed into the stretch, groaning in encouragement. “You started it.”
He had no idea who started it. But he knew how it was going to end.
His eye caught on a shiny gold foil packet on the dresser top, and he picked it up and ripped it open just as River curled his fingers into Jem’s prostate. Jem bowed his head and pushed back into the intrusion, arching his spine. “Fucking—finish it,” he demanded.
“Sunshine.” River leaned his head against Jem’s shoulder for a bare second, but he took the condom from Jem’s trembling fingers. “Have some mercy. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not gonna—”
The words caught in Jem’s throat. All at once River had replaced his fingers with his cock and pushed in, too fast to be comfortable.
The burn sent goose bumps pimpling up Jem’s arms and spine, and he hissed in satisfaction.
A glob of pre oozed from the head of his cock and spattered onto the side of the dresser.
“Jem?”
Jem’s chest heaved. His body went bowstring taut. He curled his fingers tight around the tabletop, bracing himself. “Fuck me.”
Another animal sound, strangled and wounded. River pressed his face to the side of Jem’s neck, openmouthed. The heat of his breath and the dampness of his lips and the scrape of his teeth on Jem’s skin sent shivers through him.
He curled his fingers into the flesh on Jem’s hips and—
Jem was the one who couldn’t control his mouth now. Every thrust of River’s dick inside him hit perfectly, igniting sparks that careened through his body. Soft, pathetic noises fell from his mouth, echoed by River’s heavy breathing.
“Jesus,” River said hoarsely. He pulled back on Jem’s hips, forcing him to lean over further to keep his balance. The change let him rail into Jem harder, deeper. “Christ, your ass is a miracle.”
Jem would’ve laughed, but he didn’t have the breath. He could only bite his lip as his hard cock slapped against his stomach with the power of each push. “Fuck, can you—?”
“I got you, sunshine.” River wrapped a hand around his dick, giving him a tight space to fuck into. He thumbed across the head, smearing the fluid. “Good?”
Jem shuddered. “You should’ve—” Another stroke. River was right. Twenty minutes had been optimistic. “You should’ve done this in the bathroom at the party—”
River sank his teeth into the side of Jem’s neck, just this side of mean. “Wanted to. Was afraid I’d never get a second chance if I did.”
He pulled Jem back onto him again, nailing his prostate. The vanity rattled with every stroke. Tightness built in Jem’s stomach. “More likely—to not—let you stop, fuck, River—”
“Not stopping,” River promised breathlessly. His hand slid quicker on Jem’s dick, tighter, inescapable. The sound of slapping skin filled the room.
God. He was so close. He needed—just a little more—“River, I’m gonna—I’m gonna come, fuck, fuck, uh.”
He didn’t mean to look up when it happened. But he did, caught his own flushed gaze in the mirror, just like he had at the party, watched River wring every drop of come out of his cock, watched River watch him fall apart.
Only this time he got to watch River come too, pulling Jem flush against his chest and curling against him, eyes closed. This time he got to feel River twitching against him, hear the bitten-off sound he muffled against Jem’s shoulder.
It took a minute for the world to coalesce around him. The solid thud of his own heartbeat in his ears was all he could hear for a few seconds. He had a cramp in his right calf. The dresser and Jem’s shirt were both… compromised.
“Gnnh,” River said.
“Uh-huh,” Jem agreed when he could feel his lips again. “Okay, you gotta—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” River released his hip and his spent cock and slowly pulled back. The sudden rush of blood to the skin where River’s fingers had been let Jem know he’d be sporting fingertip bruises for the foreseeable future. “All good?”
Were his legs going to hold him? Seemed possible. “Fishing for compliments?”
River turned him around and pulled him into a languid kiss, all lip with just a tease of tongue. “Already got the best compliment, sunshine.”
Jem grinned against his mouth. “Flatterer.” But then his phone, which he’d left faceup on the vanity, lit up with a notification from Tori, and he noted the time.
And the condition of his shirt. “Hey. You got any Flat Tires merch back here?”