7. River
river
. . .
contagious chaos
Two and a half years ago, I was in San Diego for twenty-four hours, an intentional layover to see my sisters before I flew back to London. The twins weren’t on speaking terms at the time, so I spent the first half of the day with Olive and the second half with Ivy and, by extension, Rue.
Most of the day is a blur, but I remember meeting them for drinks at a bar before we walked a few blocks to their condo. I offered to order us dinner, but Ivy insisted on cooking, then kicked me out of the kitchen when I tried to help.
I ended up hanging out with Rue. In her bedroom. Alone.
I’d had a single cocktail several hours before—I wasn’t drunk.
But I felt drunk, almost euphoric, from being invited into her private space.
From sitting on the edge of her bed, the soft, fresh scent of her all around me.
From the manuscript pages she’d dropped into my lap after a conversation I don’t remember.
And from the way she paced back and forth, rosy-cheeked and nibbling on her thumbnail as she pretended not to watch me devour line after line.
Reading the first three chapters of her novel was an awakening. Her words turned a key in my head, unlocked a door I hadn’t known existed, and gave me a glimpse into her inner world. What I saw rocked me—a landscape I’d never visited but inherently recognized and never wanted to leave.
She gave me her art. Her vulnerability. Her pain. And I was immersed. Spellbound. Hopelessly aroused.
When I finished the last page and looked up at her, I knew she felt it too. The weightlessness. The recognition and longing. The need we’d both ignored for so long.
Or I thought she did.
Forgetting the fact I was catching a flight in six hours, she was my sister’s best friend, and we’d been at odds for years, I tried to kiss her. She dodged me, bolted from the room, and slammed the door behind her. We ignored each other the rest of the night, and I left without saying goodbye.
Thankfully, with time and distance, I came to my senses.
There was a logical explanation for my momentary insanity—I’d confused a connection to her art with a connection to her.
It was a common enough occurrence in my profession, one I hadn’t recognized in the moment because I’d never been on the other side of the equation.
Humbled but ultimately relieved, I put the experience behind me. A few months later, I met Elise and fell in love. I forgot all about that night, about Rue and my short-lived delusion.
I’m only hard right now because I haven’t had sex in months and there’s a naked, attractive woman showering less than ten feet away, the sound of the water so loud there might as well not be a wall separating us.
I’m an artist. A visual thinker. Of course I’m going to imagine it. Imagine her.
Wet. Soapy and slick.
As the pressure in my groin edges toward discomfort, I press my fists to my closed eyes, hard and then harder, until a sparkling void replaces the carnal images in my head.
My attraction to Rue is circumstantial at best. At worst, it’s a twisted psychological side effect, my hindbrain rewriting nearly a decade of verbal sparring as the world’s longest foreplay…
and now I’m wondering how much foreplay she needs.
Is she the kind of woman who requires mental seduction before physical?
A slow thaw before she catches fire? Scratch that—of course she is. Her baseline personality is glacial.
Has a lover ever truly thawed her?
Can I?
Fuck. Stop it.
Rue St. James has an Olympic gold in dancing on my last nerve. All I need to do is think about one of the dozens of times she’s royally pissed me off. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t. What comes instead is a memory from three years ago, the last time I was in Seattle for the holidays.
Rue has been present at every major family event since I was twenty-five, and that Christmas was no exception.
I never bought her a gift, just signed my name to whatever my parents got her, but every year she gave me something ridiculous.
The year prior, it had been a candle with no wick.
The year before that, a single argyle sock.
My last gift from her had been a tiny, grow-in-water penis that promised life-sized results, along with a card that said she hoped it hurt my feelings to see what I’d never have.
My very much not-micro erection throbs as I recall cornering her in a hallway a few hours later and offering to show her how mistaken she was. She turned red and sputtered unintelligibly. Before she could recover and hurl the usual insults, my dad leaving the kitchen interrupted us.
Now I’m imagining a different ending to the memory, one where she heard someone coming and dragged me into the nearby closet. Pushed me against a wall. Told me not to move. Dropped to her knees and stared up at me with those big blue eyes as she—
Godfuckingdammit.
I clearly don’t have the mental fortitude to think myself out of this, not with my newly resurrected libido roaring as loud as the pipes.
Ignoring the tent in my shorts, I lurch to my feet, grab a pair of socks and my running shoes, and flee the bedroom.
The cabin’s main living space is just big enough for a couch, floor lamp, two-person table, and kitchenette.
The floors, windows, and appliances appear fairly new, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the faded curtains and sagging furniture are original fixtures.
Which, according to a framed collage and plaque in the Lodge, means they’ve been here since the early ’90s when some rich ex-hippie bought the property to build a spiritual retreat center.
As I sit on the couch to put on my socks, the frame squeaks in protest and a musty, faintly chemical scent wafts upward. I couldn’t care less about the age of the furniture, but the more I think about it, the more it bugs me.
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit.
On my tour, Claudia told me all about the renovations that took place when she purchased the property eleven years ago. The topic was interesting enough that I actually paid attention.
A fancy firm from San Francisco handled the project to the tune of millions, transforming the grounds into a quintessential California resort: eco-friendly, full of rustic elegance and understated luxury.
The giant Lodge was stripped to its studs and restored, but every other central building was demolished and rebuilt.
The saltwater pool was added, the natural hot springs enclosed, all the paths laid, native gardens planted, and solar lighting installed everywhere.
There’s now a fully equipped gym with a sauna and cold-plunge pool.
A small medical center staffed twenty-four seven.
A spa open five days a week with two masseuses, an esthetician, and an on-call acupuncturist. There’s also a sprawling, U-shaped community center that I’ve vowed to avoid, as it’s the location of daily activities like Sunset Ecstatic Dance and Group Astral Projection.
No, thank you.
The supplies in my studio alone were at least 10k, and I’m one of six painters here. I’ve seen Dan’s workshop too; the barn-like building might look like a strong wind will collapse it, but according to him, the forge, machinery, and various tools are all top of the line.
Every day, I’ve seen people maintaining the landscaping and various buildings.
The kitchen in the Lodge is run by a Michelin-star chef and a team of cooks and servers.
Our self-serve pantry is a miniature high-end grocery store with everything from toiletries and over-the-counter medications to fresh produce, baked goods, and quality alcohol. All complimentary and restocked daily.
The overhead each summer has to be astronomical, but Claudia is stupid rich.
I’m talking generational wealth in the ten figures; the kind of money that multiplies faster than it can be spent.
There’s no way she doesn’t have the funds for more renovations, so why the actual fuck are the artists—the supposed focus of this yearly and highly successful program—living and working in shitholes?
I’d bet my left nutsack that Claudia, Kirk, and the other full-time staff live in the cluster of modern, two-story cabins behind the Lodge. Cabins that definitely don’t have paper mache interior walls, dripping faucets, or cracked linoleum countertops.
The only conclusion I can come up with is that the quality of the artist spaces is intentional. Maybe PAC is a social experiment, and we’re clueless participants in a study tracking the effects of various environments on artists and thereby art itself.
Scoffing at my thoughts, I reach for my shoes. Even if I’m right, what does it matter? I’m not making art. The only way any of it affects me is the reason I started thinking about it in the first place: the shower is still running, Rue is still naked, and I’m still fucking hard.
As I tie my shoelaces, I force myself to visualize Kirk’s feet in all their hairy glory. Every cracked, talon-like toenail. Every bulging bunion.
Works like a charm.
Thirty seconds later, I’m jogging down the porch steps. After a quick run, I’ll find Kirk and charm him into getting me what I need to sleep elsewhere. I can’t imagine he’ll say no. It’s not like I’m asking for major concessions or five-star accommodations.
Staying away from Rue is the right choice for both of us. She needs to finish her book without distractions. I need to not lose my mind more than I already have—or, god forbid, start thinking that because I still want to fuck her, I actually like her.
I don’t like her.
Absolutely not.
She’s chaos.