Long Time No See

...and that whole chestnut.

Sorry about my being M.I.A., guys. New job has me pooped M-F and weekends have been reserved for outside activities, meaning I haven't been on the computer in, like, weeks. Yikes! Anyway, I've been getting emails the past few weeks...okay, okay MONTHS, asking me what in the hell happened to so and so, and what about those chapters you promised to post?

Well, good things come to those who wait. I've FINALLY got my shizz together enough to post the first chapter of my new story, which I've re-titled "Caged Bird" for reasons you guys will probably pick up on throughout the story.

A bit of info before we begin: "Caged Bird" is intended to be one story, but I thought perhaps because of the length of it, I should break it down for easier reading and whatnot. I'll probably post it to Literotica in one go eventually, but I wouldn't hold your breath. Another tidbit of info: one of the protagonists is named CAYDE. Her name is pronounced "CAY-dee", not "CADE". Just an FYI. Finally, the story is not fully edited, so if there are inconsistencies, feel free to make a comment below the post and let me know. If you do this, please refer to the EXACT LINE if you can, because counting paragraphs etc., is a tedious chore for someone with as little patience as me. =)

As always, this is a work of fiction, similar characters, places or situations are completely coincidental.
Copyrighted by LilithArchivist.

Caged Bird

Nothing could compare to this.

Abram Wescott had been dreaming of this day since he had been five years old; wide-eyed and frozen with a Walkman in one hand and Led Zeppelin blasting through the headphones, his dream of being a “doggie doctor” permanently shattered as the life of a rock star took its place.

And now here was the fruit of his labor set out before him – a sold out crowd of 10,000 for We the Shepherd’s first headlining show. For a solid thirty minutes after gates had opened, fans had been chanting SHEPHERDS! SHEPHERDS! repetitiously; broken only by unintelligible screams as the road crew put together the finishing touches of the first band’s set. The air around him felt electrified – pulsing even. It was beautiful, and it was all for them.

Twenty very long years finally led up to something, Abram thought to himself as he put out a cigarette in an Invader Zim ash tray. Peering out the window of the band’s touring RV, he could only see small RV’s, colorful advertising tents, and the back of the stadium where the touring bands were meant to perform…and Perry, the longtime off/on girlfriend of Cain Force, the Shepherds’ keyboardist, stalking towards them on four-inch heels.

“She looks pissed at something,” said a voice over his head.

Abram didn’t have to look to see who it was – Orion’s deep baritone was really one of a kind. Orion took a seat across the booth from him, his dark brown eyes briefly casting a thoughtful glance to the empty shot glass, skull-shaped vodka bottle, and the half-empty pack of cigs scattered on the table in front of him.

“Are you pissed at something?” Orion asked, looking up at Abram in slight concern.

Abram dropped his friend’s gaze as the RV doors were thrown open. The sound of heels smacking almost painfully up the stairs and past the driver’s seat spoke volumes of how pissed Perry was. Abram watched as long legs encased in black leather stopped to a halt beside their table. He immediately braced himself.

“I have never been more fucking irritated with that scumbag in my entire life!” she shouted down at them, uncaring of the fact that she was literally a foot away from the both of them.

“Tell us how you really feel, Perry,” Abram muttered around a new cigarette as he fumbled with the Zippo.

Perry snatched the cig from his lips and crushed it in her palm.

Orion and Abram exchanged glances.

Did she really just...?

Orion nodded his head slightly.

Yea, man, she sure did.

Abram stood up and bodily nudged Perry back from the booth so he could stand. Perry’s inky black eyes blinked up at him as he rose to his full six foot six, the rage written all over her sharp, tanned face instantly fading as real concern took its place.

“I’m sorry about Sonya,” Perry whispered softly.

Abram fought from glaring over at Orion. “So everybody knows, huh?” he asked flatly, not needing to elaborate.

Perry shrugged a shoulder apologetically and took another step back. “Do you want to talk…?”

“So why all the rage, Perry?” Orion asked loudly, talking over her.

Abram pocketed his cigs and lighter, not missing the pointed “don’t fucking think about it” glare that Orion pinned on the former Egyptian model.

It was funny how his friends always thought that his peripheral vision was impaired – it worked three days ago, when his relationship had been fucking rocking two years straight and it worked just as well now when his relationship was nondescript.

“Cain pissed off the local band,” Perry finally grit out through perfect white teeth, clearly irritated that Orion was blocking. “They split.”

Abram looked out the RV window to see the tall, blue-haired extremely fucking dead man in question. His pale face was stormy and his hands were bunched into fists.

“Well that’s just fucking great,” Orion griped. “Surely they can pull someone else?”

“Yea, but it’s fifteen minutes until first show and they haven’t even shown up yet,” Perry bitched. “This is totally going to push everyone for time.”

“Then consider it pushed,” Abram told them. “We’ll just have to deal.” He turned his back to their gaping faces and met Cain at the door of the RV. “Let’s walk.”

Cain’s nostrils flared and his hands bunched and relaxed in repetition, but he followed Abram all the same. For ten minutes they made their rounds through the RV’s and campers, waving to anyone who called out their name, but never stopping.

When they circled back to the RV, Cain gestured to it wordlessly.

“We walked in the fucking heat for fifteen minutes? And for nothing?” Cain spat irritably. Abram lit up a cigarette and watched as his friend raked long fingers over and over through his hair, revealing a desperate need to touch up his dark roots.

Abram blew out his first inhale with a relieved sigh. “You wasted fifteen minutes,” he said slowly. “But you wasted the first band’s entire afternoon.” He looked over Cain coldly. “How the fuck do you think they feel?”

Abram walked away from Cain and his irritating, ever-growing negativity to find a bit of fucking peace so he could get his head straight.

He ended up sitting on top of the venue fence looking out over the Nevada desert watching the sun slowly set. His mind drifted to the past, to years of personal pain and failure but always it came back to the present and to the people at his back. This US tour had only been possible because of CD sales, sales that had been in the millions. Sales that had convinced the label to look past WTS’ controversial image, their history, their music, and release them out into the world. The Anarchy Rise tour had been sold out for weeks, with WTS headlining. If someone had told him that their small band from Pennsylvania would be listed among names like Trent Reznor’s Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, and Rob-fucking-Zombie, raking in money like the shitty economy was just a rumor; he’d punched them in the face for being assholes.

But now it was his reality – and nothing could compare to this.

The chain-link fence suddenly shook and a tanned body clad completely in black swung up beside him, nearly knocking Abram off the fence. Abram looked down into the smiling face of the lead guitarist, Jace, or better known by the fans as J, to see the little man was smiling.

“Time to show SLC what we’re made of bro,” Jace said with an even wider smile, clapping Abram on the shoulder.

Abram put out his final cigarette and exhaled slowly. The sun became a sliver of orange light and the stadium lights around them clicked and whirred to life.

“Let’s go,” he told the tiny Hispanic, jumping off the fence.

Abram smiled to himself as his new life waited for him, encompassed in a halo of lights and entrenched in a pit of bodies, sweat, and cheap beer.

*^*^*^*

Abram pressed her screaming face into the pillow needing that one split second of silence. The brunette wiggled her face to the side and moaned low before suddenly careening out a single high-pitched cry. Abram didn’t mind a girl who made a bit of noise…but this was a bit fucking much.

And it’s as distracting as hell, he thought as another thrust made her scream like she had been pained.

“Ooooh FUCK! JUSTLIKETHAT! IEEEEEEE! OHMYFUCKIN‒ohmygodohmygod‒Oh. My. GAWD!!!!”

Abram had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.

Digging his palm into her upper back, Abram began to ride her hard. Closing his eyes, he tipped back his head and caught on to the thread of notes he had made up during his wait backstage before show and began to flesh the tune out. Each time the bass drum in his head hit the upbeat, he was thrusting into what’s-her-face, on each snick of the snare, he was flicking her clit with a scarred thumb. Halfway through the imaginary drum session going on in his head, she stopped blabbering and replaced it with high-pitched wheezing. Abram couldn’t decide which sound was worse.

Suddenly her breath caught and she shot up against his hand, nearly throwing him off balance. Abram felt her body inhale loudly and she was gripping his cock like a vice, locking him in place.

“YEEEEESSSSS!!!” The scream made his eardrums ring and his eyes dart to the hotel phone, but fuck it – despite her being a screamer, she had been the best pussy on tour yet.

When she stopped squeezing him hard enough to rip his dick off, Abram pressed his chest to her back and rode through her tremors. Her big wet lips sought out his but Abram buried his face in her neck, biting down hard on the flesh he found there. She yelped, unsurprisingly, but cooed afterwards before bucking her ass up higher to meet each of his thrusts.

That was what did him in.

Releasing her neck, Abram felt the heat behind his navel explode. His breath caught in his throat as he unloaded inside her, pulsing hot streams into the condom over and over again until he knew that for tonight, he had had his fix.

Abram pulled back before the brunette could get her freakishly long fake nails into him. He knotted the condom and tossed it in the nearest trashcan, not even giving her a second glance.

She stretched like a cat across the hotel bed sheets, flashing perfect white teeth over at him as he approached. One hand fiddled with a tight pink nipple, but Abram wasn’t interested. He slipped the cigarettes and his lighter from the bedside table before reaching across her to pick up his tossed boxers.

“Don’t,” he grunted as her hands pulled on him. A look of irritation crossed her pretty dark eyes, but the man who had lured her into his hotel room was no longer there. In truth, he didn’t fucking exist.

He pulled on his boxers and walked towards the glass doors leading out onto the small balcony.

“Do you want me to go?” she called out, her voice snide.

Abram slid open one door and slipped outside. He shut it without a backwards glance and lit up a cigarette.

Sure, he could acknowledge that he was being an ass. His recent breakup didn’t justify what he was doing, but he just didn’t fucking care. As much as he was loathed to admit it, the brunette had been too close of a copy to Sonya, and for a reason.

“I loved her,” Abram told the night air. A cold wind blew over him, drying off his damp skin and blowing away the sickly sweet scent of whatever perfume that girl had bathed herself in.

Sonya loved sweet perfume too, his conscious reminded him. And she would’ve killed for that girl’s shoes.

Shaking that thought away, Abram closed his eyes. He pressed his thumb to the skin between his eyes and made circles on the skin, temporarily alleviating the budding headache growing there.

The glass door slid open again. “I’m leaving.” She sounded just as pissed off as she had three minutes ago, Abram noticed.

Abram flicked out the ashes of his cigarette and barely turned his head in her direction. “Lock the door behind you,” was all he said.

The girl muttered something like “asshole” under her breath, but Abram ignored it. It wasn’t the first time he had been called that in his lifetime and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The door shut with a snick and was followed by the slam of the hotel door a few seconds later.

Finally, he thought. Some peace and quiet.

Suddenly the door to the balcony beside him slid open. Abram watched Jace fumble out onto the balcony carrying Skull Head vodka in one hand and two shot glasses in another. He smiled with bleary eyes over at Abram and held up the vodka in greeting. A body walked out behind him, tall and muscled and as black as the night around him. His face looked familiar, like professional football player familiar, but Abram couldn’t place his name. When he saw Abram standing there, he lifted a pink palm in greeting. Abram returned with a salute.

“So,” Jace said as he set the glasses down on the balcony ledge. “Who was the screamer?”

Abram grimaced and flicked the tip of his cigarette again. “Can’t remember,” he admitted grumpily.

The football player laughed as he sat down gracefully on one of the modern white patio chairs. Jace darted away from the big man’s quick grab with a bright smile, giggling openly. Abram watched the exchange with a heavy heart.

It was so obvious that Jace liked this one – he was still eying him like he was dessert. The big man may have thought Jace was an easy one to handle in the sack, but Abram had known the guy too long to believe any of that. That Hispanic had a kink streak that bordered on torturous and a libido that even made Abram a little jealous at times. If that smile meant anything, the football player hadn’t even had the appetizer yet.

“Drink?” Jace asked, dragging the word out into multiple syllables. Abram took both shot glasses and downed them before his conscious could kick in. Jace blinked in surprise when he handed them back, but the football player just threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, sorry,” Jace said with a blush, as though he had just realized the situation. “Marcus, this is Abram,” Jace told the big man. “Abram, this is Marcus.”

Abram jerked his chin at the guy in greeting. “Sup?” he asked.

Marcus shrugged but his glance at Jace was less than subtle.

“Maaaarcusss,” Jace whined, batting away the man’s hands again. Abram smirked at Jace’s obvious slip into twink mode. Jace normally swore like a sailor and swaggered like a boss, but clearly he hadn’t earned Marcus’ attentions acting that way. If the big guy wanted a twink, Jace would be the twink. If Marcus had wanted another manly man to get chummy with, Jace would be the manliest man Marcus had ever fucked. It was one remarkable aspect of Jace’s personality that Abram couldn’t decide if it was a fault or a gift. Whichever, he wasn’t going to sit around and watch Jace flaunt it.

“Thanks for the drinks, man,” Abram told him as he pushed off the balcony, his cigarette disappearing with a flick of his fingers. Marcus’ eyes widened a little as Abram straightened up and for a brief second, he looked him over. Jace pouted at the obvious perusal, not liking it one bit.

“He’s all yours, promise,” Abram said with his hands up in surrender. He retreated back into the safety of his room just as Jace pounced on the big man with moist lips and tiny jerking hips. Even with the door shut, Abram could hear the big man’s moans. Perverted as it might be, Abram couldn’t help but to egg little Jace on.

After stripping the bed sheets and turning the A/C to as cold as he could stand, Abram fell back onto the bed and waited for sleep to come.

*^*^*^*

I watched her put on mascara for seriously the tenth time. Roxie was always a bit of a freak when it came to makeup and after the two of us had made plans to head to downtown Dallas it had just amplified that freakiness tenfold.

“Are you ready now?” I asked her from my spot on the toilet seat.

Roxie didn’t even look away from the mirror as she huffed, “Uh, no!”

Slapping my hands on my knees, I stood up and adjusted my dress. “It amazes me how you need three hours to get dressed. Normal people don’t spend that much time on themselves.”

Roxie pulled the wand away and smiled experimentally at her reflection. “I’m just an amazing person, Cayde.” She shot me a mocking glare. “And if you’re what’s ‘normal’, I’m glad to be a black sheep.”

“Oooh, burn,” I gasped in mock-hurt, putting my hands on my hips.

Roxie blew a kiss at Mirror Me before adding another coat to her lashes.

Fifteen minutes later, we were actually in route to our destination.

Peak was the latest and greatest in the ultimate high-end clubs sprinkled throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth area. I had seen the crystal white modern edifice for the past seven months on the way to work every morning, each sharp piece of the stalagmite-like towers taking the construction crews a day to put into place. Despite the quick construction, a full year had passed before the club had officially opened for business ‒ and on its opening night it seemed to have attracted everyone within a fifty mile radius, including myself.

Surrounded by the Dallas elite and beautiful – or at the very least Roxie and company – it hadn't taken me long to get to the front of the line. Short as I was, I could easily hide within the mass of tanned, thin bodies clad with designer labels. It was so easy that the many security guards hadn't even spotted me – at least they hadn’t until the tall, dark and handsome guard had let Roxie and Co. through. As soon as his eyes landed on all five feet of bony, freckled and towheaded me, his hand jerked the heavy black velvet rope across the entrance and his cool blue eyes narrowed as he quickly raked over my features.

“I'm sorry, but I can't let you in.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, Oprah bob-and-finger move included. I can’t say I hadn’t expected this, but it still hurt all the same. “I'm with them,” I reiterated, pointing to the three equally well-dressed girls behind him.

“Even so, I can't let you into the club,” he said slowly, as though I wasn’t only ugly, but stupid too. The verbal slight was like a slap to my face and dignity all in one blow. As realization crept in, I fought to keep from losing my cool.

“You mean because I'm not 5'8" wearing four-inch designer heels or could have my face on a Maybelline ad, I'm not allowed in,” I said flatly.

The guard didn't even blink. “Yes. Peak caters to a specific clientele, and‒”

I held up my hand to shut him up. “And my face will sicken them. Got it,” I spoke over him.

The three girls - and the guys we were meeting up with – hadn’t moved from their spots in the club doorway, clearly torn between staying in the newest, most high end club in the city, or their duty to me as friends to leave the club that had so easily kept me out.

“Stay,” I told Roxie when she started to walk towards me. With her perfectly coiffed dark hair and flawless makeup it was easy to see why security had let her pass – and the two other girls behind her, Chelsea and Lana, were almost her exact clones. “I'll just go to the bar down the street,” I announced loudly, hoping to piss off the guard. It didn’t work and Roxie only inclined her head as she backed away, her big overly made up blue eyes apologetic, but eager.

I turned away from the guard and my “friends” without another glance and gathered up my bruised self-esteem with each purposeful, painful step. I found myself on Main Street a few minutes later and I just kept walking until I heard something that sounded good to me. I finally ended up in front of a warehouse-styled music venue with a black painted front and a wall of tinted windows so dark that I couldn't even see inside.

“The Offering,” I read off of the marquis sign. The line was decent but I didn't mind waiting. If I couldn't get into this club then something was seriously wrong with this cruel, cruel world.

I walked into line behind a tall, androgynous couple wearing matching black leather jumpsuits and looked briefly around the darkly lit street. A couple of people were crossing from the opposite sidewalk to get to The Offering, all of them dressed in a similar Gothic fashion as everyone ahead of me in line. All of them were talking about the band on the marquis, We the Shepherds, in giggly hushed tones that I thought was only reserved for sparkly vampire movies and Justin Bieber, not people who dressed like one of the living dead.

“Hey.”

I jumped when I felt a warm, heavy hand touch my shoulder. Quickly I looked up and frowned as a familiar, freckled face loomed over mine. Instantly, this she-man’s name clicked.

“Becky?” I asked in surprise, eying the six-four behemoth in all black. That look was certainly…new.

Becky grinned, revealing the gap between her two front teeth and scooped me into thick arms of muscle. “CAYDE!” she boomed, laughing loud enough to make my ears ring. I cringed as my dress hiked up my legs and I struggled to tug the hem down with my pinned-to-the-side arms. Didn’t work out.

She put me down rather roughly and tousled my hair like being five feet two meant I was two. “Are you here to see the show?” Flat brown eyes quickly looked over my dress before meeting mine again. “You aren’t really dressed for it.”

“Oh?” I asked, like I hadn’t noticed the hundred-odd dipped in black teenagers mulling around me. Another thought hit me though. “Is there like a dresscode here or something?”

Becky’s friends laughed brightly and a tall blond with pink streaks in her short bob gestured to her purple mini. “Girl, you look fine,” she laughed.

Becky then smacked her forehead hard enough to make me cringe. “Sorry guys, I had too many shots at Peak,” she laughed. “Everyone, this is Cayde. Cayde, this is…”

WHAT?!?!?!?!

I gritted my teeth throughout introductions, barely able to smile let alone refrain from punching someone.

Butch Becky got into Peak…but not ME???

I eyed the slowly approaching bar door and mentally swore to myself in that moment to get as intoxicated as my body could handle. That was the only way to rectify this seriously fucked up situation.

“So you go to school with Becky?” Purple Mini-Dress girl asked me. I think her name was Christy, but I did not give a fuck.

“We take photography classes together,” Becky answered for me. Her arm was slung around a perfect rock princess who seemed content to glare me out of her life, but that could be wrong – she had so much eye makeup on that I couldn’t even see her eyes let alone judge her expression. Addendum: What the hell is up with that raccoon style anyway?

“Oh,” said maybe-Christy. “So you’re a photography major too?”

“Photojournalism,” I grit out.

Becky then nudged me in the shoulder and talked about this time we did something to some professor and something really funny happened. I smiled when she laughed at the end, but I couldn’t hear her. All I could picture was this big butch lesbian sauntering into Peak, guffawing as she passed by the men in Armani on the way to the bar.

“Tickets and ID’s out, everyone!” I cringed as the man yelled it again over my head, repeating it with an even louder roar as some stupid heckler asked an extremely stupid question.

Then another question popped into my head. “Uh, so you guys have tickets?” I asked Christy. Christy nodded eagerly and pulled her ID and a folded up paper ticket out of her lime green clutch. For a moment I was reminded of Barney the purple dinosaur and my childhood. It was not a pleasant flashback.

“Yea, I knew this show would get sold out in a heartbeat,” she said, gesturing me to walk on. I gulped and turned my head to see that we were right at the door.

Fuckity fucking fuck.

“Uh…hi,” I told the big-bellied guard in front of me. He smelled like sweat, cigarette smoke and weirdly, bacon. It wasn’t a flattering combination, believe you me.

“Ticket and ID,” he droned, holding his hand right under my chin, his expression bored. Clearly social skills aren’t a requirement for security guards – it should be.

“Um, so…my ticket is…” I trailed off as a guy wearing a hoodie, skinny jeans (like seriously?) and boots moved away from the marquis sign by the door, revealing the words SOLD OUT underneath the band’s time of show.

Shit.

“Do you have your tickets on you or what?” demanded another guard. He was just as round as the guard in front of me, but he was also eight inches shorter. He looked just as irritated as the other guy, though.

 “I can get you in,” said an amused husky voice behind me. “Granted, it’ll cost you.”

Without even looking, I put my arm around the waist that came to my side and beamed a smile at the guards. “He’s my ticket,” I told them.

“Holy shit!” I heard Christy gasp. “Are you…?” There was a soft smack as flesh hit flesh and I bit the inside of my cheek as I waited for the guard to end his internal debate.

Surprisingly, the guard in front of me immediately stepped aside, a respectful smile on his face. “Enjoy the show,” he told me with a wink. I turned to face my white knight only to have a gloved hand grip my shoulder tightly and nudge me forward. Taking the hint, I walked past the blockade with wiggling fingers, toodles implied.

The hand on my shoulder didn't let up even after we had both crossed the threshold of The Offering, so I had little choice but to take in my surroundings instead. My eardrums almost immediately screamed in protest at the loud decibel of the bass drum coming from the hardcore band up on stage. In combination with the thunderous roar of the lead singer, I was pretty sure my ears were on the verge of bleeding. Sweat glistened off of the singer’s bald, tattooed head and reflected off of everyone else in the club. The smell of sweat and beer overpowered the scents of cologne and perfume and hair gel, but only by a small margin. Colorful graffiti, club posters, and almost-naked girls swinging around blood red poles jumped out at me everywhere I looked. Everyone around me looked like they had just crawled out of bed and fell face first into colored hair dye and black makeup, but none of their clothes seemed thrown together. Fishnets, corsets, leather, short skirts, and heels were abundant on both females and males. Boots, chains, and inappropriate amounts of tattoos were thrown into the mix, but all with purposeful care. I suddenly felt like prim-fucking-Carrie led to the slaughter in my virginal white clothing.

I couldn’t help but smile at that. It was a pretty apt description of me in of itself.

“Go towards the stage,” said that husky voice again. The smell of Drakar filled my nose at his nearness, as did the scent of leather. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the curves of his fingers encased in black, but that was it.

I swallowed a little nervously at the crowd. Mostly all of them were staring at the two of us now, and one pimply teen with a mouthful of metal lifted up his pale skinny arm. Other arms followed and all of them had the same thing in common: hands equipped with smartphones.

Suddenly an arm looped around my body, pinning my arms to my sides.

“Hey!” I wriggled against the arms, but they were as immovable as a fucking rock. “What the hell?!” I demanded as he started to haul me backwards. “Let me go!”

When he spun me around and grabbed my hand, I instantly tried to jerk it back.

“Uh, what are you‒?”

“Do you always complain so much?” he interrupted, tugging me after him.

“Are you always so pushy?” I shot back, tugging on his grip again.

When he didn’t say another word and didn’t let go of my hand, I just let it go and glowered at the back of his head. Like mostly everyone else in The Offering he wore black and leather but had the added benefit of a cloth hood over his head, hiding his profile completely from my view.

Wait. Cloth hood? Black skinny leather pants? Boots?

I fought from kicking the back of his knees. Here was the stupid heifer who had blocked out the most important part of the marquis at the bar entrance. Lady Luck was sure fucking with me this evening…

Before I could say a word, he walked us right up to two beefy security guys standing in front of a door marked ‘VIP ONLY’. We didn't even have to stop; my rescuer - or my future punching bag, I was kind of debating his role in my life at this point - gave a slight jerk of his head (from what I could see) and the guards shifted their bulky weight to just barely allow us by.

Ooookay, I thought to myself as we passed the upside down cross hanging above the doorway. Clearly this guy has VIP access. Maybe he was a band manager or friend of the band?

I didn’t have time to ask though, thanks to the band on stage suddenly roaring back to life during their brief lull between songs. With the music overpowering my every fucking thought, speech was basically impossible. Part of me wanted to start raising hell, but let’s be honest – a chance to go backstage at any concert is a chance a person shouldn’t pass up. So, driven by curiosity, I let this guy lead me down the slightly-slanting hallway into a maze of more hallways, listening to the music fade into the distance with every step. We met another set of security guards in front of a pair of black doors and with another head-jerk, we were through.

The room we entered was absolutely massive and almost as big as the main floor of the bar itself. It was split into two stories connected directly by a metal spiraling staircase in the center. The room was open, allowing those from the two floors to easily communicate with one another just by leaning over the spider web-thin railing and shouting down (or up, whichever). The top floor had a wall made of complete glass ‒ by the looks of it a one-way mirror.

The ornate decoration of the rooms were completely opposite of the cold, slightly mechanical feel of the venue. Intricately designed rugs were thrown willy-nilly across the black marble floor and the couches were heavy dark pieces covered with colorful plush cushions. If it had been daytime, light would've poured in from the stain glass windows covering the entire left wall of the room, but for now light came in the forms of a ye olde castle chandelier and gilded wall lights. The rooms were gaudy and a mixture of olde, mechanical, and new, but it totally worked. God knows how much the designer of this place spent on making it this way, and the “we have so much cash and expensive tastes” vibe was hard to miss.

But for all the expensive furnishings and crazy interior design, my eyes were inevitably drawn to a sight I had seen only in really risqué movies that gave your computer viruses. A pile of sweaty bare limbs had somehow made their home on the plush red velvet carpet between the iron-and-glass coffee table and three black divans. It was hard to see where one body ended and the other began (I think I may have counted four people, but I wasn't certain), and it was even harder to watch without grimacing at the thought of rug burn.

I eyed the guy still holding my hand in his gloved one but he turned his head before I could see his face. Thankfully, he tugged me away from the orgy towards a side door paneled like that of an old church. THE PULPIT was written above the door in Old English lettering and marked the entrance into a new sort of interior design.

The small room was lit by black candles in large gauntlets and along the wall by the door was a whole series of melting black candles, their wax pooling down the mantle. I tried not to think of the considerable fire hazard that posed and my rescuer only made it easier when he dropped my hand and slowly took down his hood as he turned to me.

Like I always do, I took in the sum of the parts before the whole. The sides of his head were buzzed, the hair at his crown pulled back into a thick ponytail. The remaining strands had been rolled into dreadlocks that fell almost to his waist and dyed red and white among the black. His black shirt and leather pants over knee-high black boots adorned with buckles seemed as hot as hell, in the temperature sense.

But it was the light grey eyes that got me. Highlighted against smoky eye makeup and a pale, almost colorless face, they stood out big time, like two round moons or some shit. Those kinds of eyes could get a person places, that’s how poetically beautiful they were.

“She asked you if you wanted something to drink,” he said quietly, a smile playing at the corner of his colorless lips.

“Huh?” I asked intelligently. He gestured towards the door and I jerkily turned my head to see a pretty blonde girl wearing an awestruck expression and the colors and logo of The Offering pointedly tried not to stare at the towering Goth giant in front of me – and failing miserably.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked me, apparently for more than the first time.

"Do you have whisky? Like top-shelf whisky?" I asked.

She smiled brightly now and nodded, the movement jerking her high ponytail so it danced playfully around her head. “Of course. Do you want anything in particular?”

“Do you have Highland Park or do I need to stick with Johnny Walker?”

“We have Highland Park,” she laughed.

“I’ll take that then.”

Her blue eyes hesitantly moved from my face to his. “Anything for you?” she asked in a voice not quite as firm.

“Crystal Head.”

The girl nodded and left in a hurry, leaving me to wonder what in the hell was going on.

“I’m Abram,” he told me, holding out a many-ringed and tattooed hand.

“Cayde.” I shook his gloved hand with my manicured one and saw the corner of his mouth finally go up. “Thanks for saving my ass at the door,” I told him when I let go. “I didn’t realize the show was sold out.”

“I said it was going to cost you,” Abram reminded me with a soft laugh. “Sit, please,” he told me when he saw I was still standing. I gracefully lowered myself onto the couch beside him, not missing his quick perusal over my legs. I automatically tensed out of habit – I’m not so much of a prude that a guy can’t look his fill, but Abram’s gaze looked more contemplative than predatory, if that made any sense, and that admittedly threw me.

Abram’s brows crumpled for just a second as he took in my stiff posture before his skin became as smooth as glass once again. “Not to be offensive…” he began.

I couldn't help but laugh. “Usually when people start off saying ‘not to be offensive’ the words that come after that is normally offensive,” I pointed out.

Abram half-smiled as he dipped his head in non-verbal agreement. “You aren't the usual in a place like this,” he said pointedly.

“Oh, right.” I eyed my cheap white dress and wedges. “You mean I have to have cyber dreads, multi-colored hair and facial piercings in order to listen to Bauhaus?”

Abram gave me the slightest of smiles. “No, but that’s not what I was implying, you know that.” He then tilted his head a little as he regarded me. “Do you actually listen to Bauhaus?” he asked curiously.

“No,” I admitted with a laugh. “It was just the first Gothicky band that popped into my head.” When he raised his eyebrows I knew I couldn’t get out of his sort-of question. “I wanted to try something different tonight,” I said honestly. “No Akon or Jay-Z or Katy Perry shit – just…whatever in the hell that guy was singing out there.”

“Death metal,” Abram supplied, trying not to laugh.

I made a face. “Death metal? What the shit…” Just then our personal waitress came back with our liquor in tow, interrupting Abram before he could explain.

“Put it on my tab," he told her when she took her tray away. She simply nodded and smiled, retreating after we confirmed we were okay for now.

“So,” I said after finishing off my whiskey with a grimace. “You're in a band?”

“Very intuitive,” he joked, his smile playing at the corners of his lips again. He finished off his vodka and picked up the skull bottle to pour himself another.

“I always do manage to state the obvious,” I agreed dryly. “Just answer the question.”

“Yes,” he said with a bit of a smile. “I am.”

“What instrument do you play?”

Abram twirled the contents of his glass and lifted it to his full colorless lips before knocking a gulp back. “Guitar, all kinds,” he said hoarsely, coughing out a laugh, though I didn’t quite get the joke. “Drums. Keyboard. Piano. Even the violin.”

He eyed me then. “Are those the questions you really want to know?”

I gave him a slight smile. “Abram, you’re the one who led me back here,” I reminded him. “I’m just trying to make conversation with a complete stranger.” I then batted my eyelashes playfully as I picked up my drink. “What kind of questions do you want me to ask?”

Abram watched as I took a drink, his eyes darkening. “The right ones,” he said after awhile, his voice a touch throatier than before.

I swallowed dry spit and reached for the whisky again. My hands shook a little as I poured the drink, but Abram was too focused on my face to notice. When I took another swallow, his hands bunched into fists on his knees, the fabric tightening loudly in his grip.

“You're wearing gloves?” I asked a bit loudly, as though to talk over the humdrum in my head.

“It's part of my routine,” Abram said, promptly pouring more whisky into my glass. I swallowed that to clear my head and chased it down with another. When I opened my eyes again, Abram was reclined back on the couch, drink in hand. His face was flushed from the drink, his moon eyes smoky and wicked and radiating ‘come hither’ as they danced over my face. His lips weren’t so blah now, and instead were a soft dusky rose. They looked kissable and he looked fuckable, more so than he had just five awkward minutes ago.

I pushed away the whisky instantly. Anymore thoughts like that and I would be in a world of trouble.

“Is the duster part of your routine too?” I asked the glass table in front of us.

Abram suddenly laughed and the noise sent an arrow of tingles straight to my thighs. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

I looked up into his face to find a bright smile on it. “You're Abram,” I said a little dazedly, thanks to the shots. “We just introduced ourselves five minutes ago, don't you remember?”

He laughed again, this time louder. The sound was rich, husky and smooth, like the whiskey I had just imbibed. When he didn’t say anything afterwards, I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

“So, you mentioned something about price?” I reminded him. I held up my gold clutch with a forced smile. “I can pay you for the ticket and my whisky.”

Abram picked up the skull bottle and poured himself another glass of vodka, but he didn’t take a drink. I watched his gloved pointer finger follow the rim of the glass in a slow circle. Only after he had completed one circuit did he speak. “I have another form of payment in mind,” he said quietly.

A laugh escaped my throat at the same time a nervous bubble built up in my stomach. “We’ve known each other for five minutes and you’re asking me to fuck you?” I asked bitterly. Abram’s brow furrowed slightly as he looked up at me. I guess the slightly maniacal edge in my voice hadn’t been my imagination. Just great.

Abram’s moon eyes flickered with something, an emotion maybe, and then it was gone. “I’m asking you to stay,” he said slowly, his eyes returning back to his drink. This time, he took a sip. “Whether you…fuck…me or not is entirely up to you.” He cringed as he said this, as though he had tasted something sour. That confused me even more.

“Stay?” I repeated slowly; warily. Abram nodded. “And do what?” I asked as I reached for my drink.

“Talk.”

I snorted out a laugh and met Abram’s gaze to see that he was absolutely serious. Oh. “Talk,” I repeated. “You want to talk to me?”

Abram half-smiled. “Yes, I do.”

I laughed again, this time in self-depreciation. “We don’t exactly have anything in common.”

Abram fiddled with his glass. “You don’t necessarily know that.”

I gave him a level gaze. “I think Tropic Thunder is the worst movie ever.”

“Every Ben Stiller movie sucks,” he agreed. “Although,” he held up a finger, “Meet the Parents was worth my money.”

I frowned. We were supposed to be disagreeing, dammit. “Jonah Hill is better than Seth Rogen.”

“No way. Seth Rogen is a comic mastermind.”

I smiled to myself. One-one.

“I wasn’t impressed with Metallica’s St. Anger.”

“Neither was I. Too much noise, too little production.”

I frowned. One-two.

“I’m addicted to Cake Boss.”

Abram suddenly laughed, low and husky. His bright white smile was fangless, but those teeth still looked sharp. Like, leave-impressionable-hickies-sharp. The thought made me shiver. “Me too,” Abram said with a smirk. “Mauro is my favorite guy on there, besides Buddy, of course.”

Well shit. One-three.

And so it went. Abram had watched The Honeymooners as a kid and thought I Love Lucy was the shizz, just like me. We both agreed Marvin the Martian and Invader Zim were equally awesome. We agreed the reboot of Thundercats was total crap and that if the next Futurama season wasn’t aired, we’d boycott the Comedy Central channel forever. When it came to music, we had to agree to disagree, though we did have a slight common ground when it came to Springsteen. Nobody can fuck with that guy. And food…well, let’s just say that Abram Wescott flipped shit over his food and his drink. And shit, that guy could drink.

We were halfway through arguing which House female character was hotter (Wilde or Morrison) when a loud throat clearing interrupted Abram’s stupid argument that sweet-spoken Morrison could even hold a candle to Thirteen.

“Abram,” said a new voice.

Standing in the doorway was a rail thin guy wearing black overalls and a white mesh tank. Manic Panic electric blue hair fell to his thin, heavily tattooed shoulders. His hair was also the same color of his heavily made up eyes, which I thought was kind of freaky. As he stood there looking nervous and shy, like a kid interrupting his parents during a conversation, he shifted a heavy rope and black cloth in his hands, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

“And the clock strikes midnight,” I sighed a bit in relief, standing up. Abram rose to his full height and took my hand in his gloved one. Instantly all hopes of escaping were officially dashed.

“Not quite,” he said with a smile. A head jerk made Little Boy Blue scram and Abram followed after, towing a rather reluctant me behind him. The green room was a state of calm now, if a rather recent calm and all the girls were dressed.  The smell of sex and sweat was heavy in the air, but I ignored it. Abram turned my attention to the four guys dressed in executioner outfits. I blinked as the guy with blue hair pulled up his black hood to cover his hair and tugged a black cloth up tightly over his chin and nose. Under the heavy black cowl, there was no possible way to see his face, or any of the other guys once they too had theirs in place. The heavy rope I had seen dangling from his hands earlier now acted as a belt to keep the black robes closed. Two men each wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard and walkie-talkie gestured for the group to get a move on.

“We have ten minutes until show,” said a guy with blonde dreads and sparkly blue eyes. He looked like he belonged on the California beaches with a surfboard in hand instead of babysitting a couple of Gothic mid-twenty something's, but when he spotted Abram I had a distinct feeling that the man would go to Antarctica if it meant the cyber goth was there.

“We’re ready,” Abram said quietly. Even not seeing his face I knew he was smiling.