Page 23 of River & Rue

Some part of my brain recognizes an additional threat as well—a redheaded one sitting five places down on the other side of the table. A thunderstorm in human form, Rue continually draws my focus and sets my teeth on edge.

At least I can minimize glimpses of her by leaning back in my seat. It’s a lot harder to avoid the other source of my consternation, as he’s sitting directly opposite me.

Fucking Kirk.

When I tracked him down earlier and pled my case, he nodded along like he cared, then slapped me on the back and said, “No can do, bud,” and told me to review my contract. Ten seconds later, I was coughing on dust as his golf cart sped away.

I remember Gideon having me sign online forms. I also remember not reading them because he assured me everything was aboveboard.

Halfway through drafting a text asking him to email me a copy of the contract—and maybe insinuating he shipped me to a cult—I abandoned the effort. Not only is Kirk too guileless to lie, his answer was rote. He’d clearly heard the request before.

Reading the contract won’t do anything but piss me off, particularly if there’s an actual clause restricting me to my assigned cabin like I’m a kid at a damned sleepaway camp.

Besides, it’s irrelevant.

Lack of permission has never deterred me before.

I’m still going to sleep in the studio. I’ll make do with blankets and pillows from my cabin. If I’m found out, I’ll say I’m working on a painting and can’t be away from it. Or I’ll simply tell them to fuck off—politely, if it’s Claudia, because I do have some manners.

She won’t kick me out, much less sue me for breach of contract. At the end of the day, she needs me more than I need her. We both know it.

I may not have read the fine print of the contract, but I sure as shit remember Gideon telling me about the promotional photoshoot I have to do at some point—probably because he waited to deliver the news until I was on a plane over the Atlantic. I remember why, too.

Claudia and her board of directors want to expand PAC’s residency program into other cities, but they haven’t been able to generate the necessary interest and publicity.

I’m their golden goose.

Claudia has moved on from the titillating topic of the annual two-night camping trip to PAC’s mission of activating holistic creativity through embracing radical community.

Whatever that means.

At least with everyone’s focus on the head of the table, I’m able to freely observe my fellow artists.

To PAC’s credit, the group is highly diverse. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re all between the ages of twenty-five and forty, but there’s a range of races, nationalities, and personal styles. Some even look like they have interesting stories to tell.

A few years ago, I would have wanted to hear them.

I used to live for these types of gatherings. Thrive surrounded by fellow creatives. I was the life of any party, always in the middle of the action. But things changed—I changed. Now I’m nearly as allergic to socializing as my brother.

Until a few months ago, I’d naively thought the change in my priorities meant I’d evolved past the point of needing external validation. I believed it was a good thing. A sign of maturity and stability my partner would appreciate.

She didn’t.

“We used to have a life, River. One outside these walls. What do we do now? Nothing.”

The words are knives thrown with expert skill. They land all over my chest and sink deep.

I stare at the candlelit table. Her favorite flowers in her favorite vase. The meal I made that she barely touched.

“Hello? Did you hear me?”

I drag my gaze upward, stopping at her red lips. I’m not ready to face what lives in her eyes. Or what doesn’t.

“I heard you, Elise. You think spending our free time together is the same as doing nothing.”

As soon as the bitter words emerge, I regret them. The flames of the candles on the table flicker as she shoves her chair back and stands.

“Why do you always twist what I say? I only meant I miss the way things used to be. Don’t you?”