3. River
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.
Still, I can’t blame Gideon or his wife, Deirdre, for wanting to get rid of me.
Since fleeing London two months ago for their home outside Paris, I’d barely left their spare bedroom.
When I did, it was to swipe expensive liquor they kept for guests and pass out in their garden.
If they’d been half as sick of me as I am of myself, I’d have kicked me out too.
Tilting my face toward the warm sun, I close my eyes again and consider a new tactic to get rid of Dan. The truth. Or something adjacent to it.
“I can’t stop thinking about death. Not physical death—more the abstract, cerebral kind. Sudden, violent transformations that destroy everything we thought was true. Know what I mean?”
There are five telling seconds of silence, then an uncomfortable cough. “That’s grim.”
I shrug. “You asked.”
Before I learn whether or not I’ve succeeded in repelling him, the cheery voice of PAC’s founder, Claudia Belkin, floats to us from the other side of a nearby hedge. To my irritation, instead of fading with distance, her voice grows louder and clearer.
“…and down here is our heated saltwater pool. Bathing suits are optional, but we ask that all intimate activities stay in the cabins. Same rules apply for the sauna and enclosed hot springs.”
Another voice responds. A woman’s, I think, but the words are too soft to hear over a squeal of wood as Dan jerks upright.
I open one eye to see him running quick fingers through his dark-blond hair and beard. He grins at me, husky-blue eyes brimming with excitement.
“It’s the final member of our crew. I hope they’re cool.”
I scowl. “Why does that matter?”
Dan rolls his eyes and gives my bare shoulder a playful shove. “I know you’re excited to find out who will be living in the cabin next to yours. You’re just hangry, aren’t you? I hear that stomach growling.”
I stare blankly at him, grappling with the fact my plan backfired in the worst possible way. He thinks my maudlin confession, meant to send him running, was me opening up to him.
Fuck.
“Why, hello, gentlemen! I’d hoped we’d find someone down here enjoying the beautiful weather. Come meet this summer’s final resident artist, will you?”
The chipper, too-loud summons comes from behind my lounger, where one of the property’s main paths meets the pool deck.
While I find Claudia’s mother-hen enthusiasm irritating, I do respect her for the impact she’s had over the last several decades.
She could have done anything with her family’s oil money, but she chose to devote her life to supporting the arts.
And without her discovery and subsequent backing of Gideon almost twenty years ago, I might have never stumbled drunk into a Paris gallery at twenty-four, seen his art, and decided to trade spray paint for pencils and paintbrushes.
As Dan jumps to his feet like an oversized puppy, I briefly consider the consequences of ignoring Claudia’s request. I doubt there’d be any, but I find myself not wanting to risk it.
There’s something about the coastal air—or maybe it’s all the potent oxygen from the surrounding woods—but this morning I woke up feeling… not awful. In fact, for a few minutes, I felt almost content.
Swallowing a sigh, I sit up slowly. Not slow enough. The resulting head rush fills my ears with white noise, and I miss the first part of Claudia’s introduction.
“…extraordinary metalwork. I’m sure he’d love to show you what he’s working on.”
“Absolutely,” gushes Dan. “You’re welcome in the workshop anytime. I keep the fridge fully stocked with snacks and drinks, too, in case you run out and don’t want to head all the way to the Lodge.”
Jesus, Dan. Ever heard of subtlety?
Forcing my face into a pleasant expression—or at least not a sour one—I stand and face the trio. My head does another slow spin in punishment for skipping lunch, and I squint as the afternoon sun transforms Claudia’s snowy curls into a blinding halo.
“And this, my dear, is modern art’s reigning prince, River Ashburn.”
My eyelids twitch at the moniker, but I maintain a facade of welcome as I move my gaze to the newcomer—and recognition rocks me so hard I have to grab the back of the lounger to steady myself.
Long wild hair caught in a color-identity conflict between strawberry blond, copper, and chestnut brown.
Bubblegum-pink lips, currently thinned in a familiar expression of distaste.
Hideous, neon-orange sneakers. Cut-off jean shorts. A green T-shirt with a giant wet spot at the hem, a coffee stain at the neckline, and Oxford Comma Club across the chest.
Legs that could kill a man, curves that could save him, and the coldest blue eyes in existence.
Rue St. James.
My little sister’s best friend.
“River.”
She spits my name like it’s poison. I drink her animosity like I’m parched for it, then I do something I haven’t in weeks.
I laugh.
Her glare intensifies.
“You guys know each other?” Dan’s excited tone confirms he’s incapable of reading a room, but Claudia’s good cheer wanes.
“We do indeed,” I confirm.
As I stroll toward Rue, she stiffens, wariness cracking the ice in her eyes. She’s a tall woman, but I don’t stop until she’s forced to look up to maintain eye contact.
My smile widens.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little Ruin.”