Page 5 of River & Rue

His eyes flare briefly before his lips curl with a smirk.

“Good one.”

Leaving the halves of his shirt unbuttoned, he tucks his hands into his pockets and takes leisurely steps toward me. I stand my ground despite a visceral urge to run.

He stops two feet away. Close enough for me to see the striations of amber and citrine in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“None of your business.”

The smirk transforms into a full-blown smile, boyishly lopsided, with a single dimple on his right cheek. His canines are pronounced and distinctly sharp, a detail I would find irresistibly attractive if not for my burgeoning dislike.

“I can just ask Olive.”

I snarl. “Ivy.”

A small, rough noise leaves his throat. Something between a laugh and a grunt. His eyes flicker down my body, zapping like tiny tasers everywhere they touch.

“You’re wound tight, aren’t you? If you ask nicely, I’ll gladly take care of all this… tension.”

Whatever perverse fascination kept me immobile the last few minutes instantly vanishes.

“Pass.”

I cram as much disgust as possible into the single syllable, then march past him, intent on leaving this entire interaction and all memory of it behind.

“Nice meeting you, Olive’s friend!”

I don’t look back.

“Eat a dick, River!”

His laughter—deep and startled and alarmingly lovely—follows me into the trees.

3

river

​. . .​

poisoned cup

PRESENT DAY

The pool lounger beside mine creaks as someone settles onto it. I don’t bother opening my eyes, knowing exactly who it is from the smell of metal and oil, and the fact that since I arrived four days ago, I can’t get away from this guy no matter how rude I am to him.

“You okay, man? You seemed upset at breakfast and I didn’t see you at lunch. Wanna talk about it?”

Turning my head, I open my eyes a sliver. Just enough to glare at the shirtless sadist sprawled on padded teak. Dan Reynolds, a twenty-nine-year-old metal artist from Boston, blinks at me with all the faux concern of a serial killer. Though I’m probably being unfair. He could just as easily be sincere, which means he either has the emotional IQ of a gnat or he wants my dick in his mouth.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to make friends, naked or otherwise.

Despite the expectations of this elitist summer camp for creatives, I’m not even here to make art. All I want is to be left alone to process the recent implosion of my entire fucking life.

A few weeks ago, when my longtime mentor, Gideon, suggested a summer among the California redwoods as a reset, I agreed to let him set it up. He’s never steered me wrong, but I also didn’t care where I wallowed. In hindsight, I wish I’d cared enough to do some research before agreeing.

If I’d known how seriously the Pacific Arts Collective took the collective portion of their name, I would have gone just about anywhere else.