Page 14 of River & Rue

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.