Follow the River (River of Rain Book 1)

by CE Ricci

  I hate that fucking man for what he did to him. To a kid he was supposed to protect.

  I know that’s what the nightmares are about, not that he has told me explicitly. But how can they not be? That kind of trauma...there’s no way it doesn’t stay with a person throughout their life.

  Kissing him softly on the forehead, I slip out of the fort and make my way to my bedroom down the hall. I rummage through my duffle, in search of the small baggie of weed I brought with me.

  I’m not much of a smoker, I hate it, in fact. The smell is God-fucking-awful and inhaling anything other than oxygen into my lungs isn’t exactly something I like doing. But sometimes, when my anxiety is at an all time high and I can’t seem to stop stressing, I take a hit or two from a blunt, if only to help myself relax.

  And it works.

  So maybe, just maybe, it could help Rain too.

  Finding what I’m looking for in one of the pockets, I grab it and turn to head back out to Rain, only to find him standing in the doorway. The sight of him causes me to jump, dropping the baggie I was holding that contains the couple blunts.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, rubbing his eyes before blinking at me. “It’s like seven in the morning, why are you awake already?”

  I shrug, grabbing the blunts from the ground. “I’m an early riser.”

  “Yeah, I know, but we barely slept last night.” His voice is still gravelly and husky, sending shivers down my spine. Sleepy Rain is the sexiest version of him, in my opinion.

  I smirk at him. “And whose fault is that?”

  He smiles back and takes a step closer to me. “Yours, mostly.” As he reaches out to take my hand, his eyes land on what is in my hand and he blinks rapidly before looking back up at me. “Is that weed?”

  “Yeah, I might have a little something for us,” I tell him with a grin.

  He steps back, shaking his head with confusion written on his face. “I didn’t think you smoked pot. Golden boy and all.”

  I do my best not to roll my eyes at the golden boy comment. “Only when I’m stressed or whatever. Usually never enough to need more than one of these in an entire year.” I close the space between us and peck him on the cheek. “I thought it might get your mind in a better place. And if not that, help you sleep, maybe.”

  Rain lets out a sigh and rubs a palm over his face before walking over to the bed to take a seat. His fingers mess with his hair as he bites the inside of his cheek, watching me.

  I see the gears turning in his mind, trying to work out what to say without...what, upsetting me?

  It’s just weed. Perfectly legal in the state of Colorado.

  “I can’t have that,” he tells me after a minute, nodding to the weed.

  My brows furrow as I take a seat beside him, bringing one knee up to rest on the bed. “Okay, that’s fine. I wasn’t trying to pressure you—”

  “No, Riv,” he sighs, taking the bag from my hand containing the blunts. He turns them over in his palms, staring at them like they’re a live grenade in his hands. His eyes snap up to mine and he gives me a sad smile, holding out the bag for me. “I appreciate you trying to do this for me. But I’ve already gone down this road before in an effort to numb the pain.”

  Taking the blunts, I give him a confused look. “I don’t understand. Baby, it’s only weed. It’s not a big deal, it’s legal.”

  He bites his lip and shakes his head again. “Look, when…shit got bad, I turned to weed and booze to help me cope.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “I know it’s not what you’re telling me to do, Abhainn. Just let me talk, okay?” His eyes beg me to shut up for once in my life, so I nod for him to continue.

  “My senior year of high school, I dove headfirst into weed and alcohol. It helped numb some of my pain, kept the demons away for a little while. At least while I was awake, that is. But of course they never helped at night. Soon enough, they weren’t even enough when I was conscious.” He licks his lips and laughs uncomfortably. “That’s when I turned to coke. E. Whatever I could get my hands on that would make me forget.”

  His eyes grab mine, ensnaring me like they always do, and I get lost in the sadness I find in them.

  Baby, let me take your pain away.

  But I stay quiet, urging him silently to continue. To tell me more.

  I need his truths, all of them. Every single thing he is willing to share, I’ll eat it up and still beg for more. No matter how dark and fucked up it might be.

  The darkest parts of his soul, his past, are what make him, him.

  “It got really bad, to the point where I’d show up wasted to school and take bumps in the middle of practice. Pop a tab of molly before a game. Whatever it might have been. I was an addict, basically. I couldn’t stop myself, even if I wanted to try.”

  His cheeks heat, a flush of crimson taking over the skin from his neck up, even the tips of his ears.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I tell him, tossing the weed to the side to snatch his hand and hold in both of mine. “I don’t judge you for the way you handle your pain. Hell, I had a Xanax prescription and therapy twice a week for years after my dad left us. Yeah, that might not be nearly the same thing, but it helped.” Shaking my head, I let out an exhale. “The point is, no one has the right to tell you how to fix yourself.”

  He nods and I squeeze my hands around his, wishing I could do something, anything to help him.

  “Can I ask what made you stop?”

  I watch as his teeth roll over his bottom lip, gnawing at it. “A friend of mine…he died. Overdose. And it gave me the wakeup call I needed, I guess.”

  Shit.

  “Fuck, Rain. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t be, it’s not on you. I got clean, started going to therapy and figured out some other forms of coping that weren’t going to kill me. But with that said, I won’t even touch weed. I still drink, rarely, but I don’t think it was ever the problem.”

  I smile, rubbing my thumb over the back of his hand. “Well, I’m glad. Was that the last time you used?”

  Rain winces and my heart stops.

  “When?”

  “The night in Portland,” he says, his voice hoarse. “At the club I went to, I took two lines of coke. They said it was laced with E for a cloud high, but I don’t even know. I was hallucinating, I ended up throwing up…” he shakes his head and the look on his face, it’s agonizing. The guilt he feels, it’s written all over his handsome face. “I fucking wish I didn’t. I threw away my sobriety that night.”

  I feel my forehead crease. “Then why did you do it?”

  His eyes dance between mine, reading what he sees there before licking his lips and casting his gaze away from me.

  And I know.

  “It was because of me, wasn’t it?” I whisper, my throat catching on the words. “It was me. I was pushing you in the hotel room, egging you on. And then you left and…”

  Oh, God.

  My mind is spinning, and I think I might be sick. I slip my hands from his and turn away from him, my head in my hands.

  I did this.

  He threw it away…because I was being an asshole that night.

  “No,” he says adamantly, grabbing my chin in his hands to force me to look at him. “You remember what you told me that night on the field when I decked you? That I can’t put my fuck ups on you?”

  I nod, barely, but he feels it because he continues.

  “Good. Because I won’t let you beat yourself up for them either. They are on me, like you said.” His eyes search mine and I see unshed tears in them. “I was the one who made the decision to get high, not you. I am to blame.”

  I wince at his words, swallowing harshly. “I feel so guilty. If I could—”

  He shakes his head vehemently, cutting me off. “It doesn’t do to dwell in the past, Abhainn. You’ll forget to live.”

  I let out a choked laugh. “Did you just inaccurately quote Harry Potter to me?”

&nb
sp; He grins, his thumb running across my cheek. “I’m not sure. It’s something like that, I think.” His smile sobers, but his thumb keeps sweeping over my cheek. “There is so much shit I’ve done wrong in my life. So many things I wish I could take back. But I can’t, so all I can do is learn from it and try not to make the same mistake twice.”

  He’s right. We all screw up in some way, but we just have to use it to better ourselves.

  And that’s what he’s trying to do. I see that now more than ever.

  “I’m still so sorry,” I tell him, my hand coming up to grab his wrist. “I’m sorry for everything I did and said before…” I trail off, clenching my jaw. “I’m sorry.”

  His soft smile warms my heart and it stops entirely when he places the gentlest kiss on my lips. “I’m sorry too. I would say for everything but…” he trails off, busting out laughing. “I don’t know if I’m sorry for hitting you. It was nice to see the golden boy can be tarnished.”

  I laugh, my mood lifting immediately as I push him away before rolling on top of him.

  “Only by you, baby. Only by you.”

  You know how everyone always has that classic bullshit “New Year, new me” mentality the first few weeks of January? They stick to their resolutions for a month, maybe two. But all of a sudden, its mid-March and they haven’t lost any weight, they’ve stopped working out, they started drinking soda or coffee or what-the-fuck-ever all over again.

  And so they say, Maybe I’ll try again next year.

  This isn’t one of those times.

  I didn’t have any intention of opening up to River the way I did a few days ago in that blanket fort. And then again the next morning in his room. But I fucking did, when those moments were over, I made a vow to myself to keep letting him in.

  It might only be the fourth day of the month—the year—but this is a promise I intend to keep in whatever way I can.

  Giving him small pieces of me, no matter how insignificant they might seem.

  Eventually, when it’s time, I can give him the darkest scraps of my soul, the fragments that never are able to see the light of day. The parts no one would love or understand, but I know he will find a way to see the good in them.

  That’s just who he is.

  Which is why I find myself holding River’s hand as I drag him to my bedroom door, where my makeshift art studio has taken over the space. I haven’t slept in here since the night I slipped into his bed that first time after finding him in the hallway, but I have found myself in here a few hours a day when we aren’t busy wrapped in each other.

  He gives me a warm smile, but there’s confusion in his eyes. He hasn’t set foot in this room once since the day we arrived at the cabin, so the furrow of his brow and way the fingers on his free hand tap absently against his leg screams not only of his discomfort, but also what the fuck is happening right now?

  I swallow the lump in my throat and turn the knob, still gripping his hand tightly with my other hand. “I want to show you something.”

  And I really do want to give him this piece of myself. More so than I already did by giving him that painting for Christmas. It’s the least I can do for him at this point.

  I still might not be confident admitting to the world, or even myself, who I am to my very core. I don’t have the courage to show the world the “real” Ciaráin Grady instead of the person they think I am.

  But I do know, when I’m with River, I’m who I’m supposed to be.

  I open the door all the way and let him step into what was my little slice of sanctuary from before, when we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. He slides past me, taking in the bright bedroom, artwork strewn about the entire space.

  He’s quiet for a minute, taking in the disaster of my workspace, complete with a canvas laid out on the floor I still need to cut down before I can start working on it. There are several finished acrylic pieces stacked together in one corner, piles of completed watercolors on the desk, bedside table, and even the floor. The crates I brought to put them in have long since overflowed in the past four weeks.

  And don’t even get me started on the paint. It’s literally everywhere. Watercolor brush pens, along with actual watercolors, are scattered across the desk and there are boxes of acrylic paints amassing on the floor. Anywhere and everywhere I could find the space to put them.

  To River, who’s room is neat and tidy, it probably looks like a tornado and a hurricane and then a bull ran through the place. But to me, it’s organized chaos.

  River looks at me, a huge grin on his face, and fuck me, I love being the reason it’s there. I’ll never tire of seeing him smile, those dimples popping in his cheeks.

  “Can I look at them?”

  “Sure,” I whisper, walking over to the bed to clear off some space so we have a place to sit. “They should all be dry. Just be careful of the canvas on the ground. That’s the last of what I have until we leave.”

  I stack the watercolors that were set out to dry in a pile, careful to keep my eyes and hands busy while I feel him looking around some more.

  God, this is harder than I thought it would be.

  Art is subjective, certain kinds don’t always appeal to everyone. Some of it is dark and tortured, while some are bright and fresh and new. Yet each piece and style has its own beauty and place in the world.

  But that doesn’t take away the fear of rejection, of not fitting in where you want to belong.

  I’ve come to learn, because of River, people are like that too.

  River lifts a crate full of watercolors to look through and places it on the bed next to me before climbing over me like I’m some sort of jungle gym or something. As he settles in beside me, his grin only grows larger. He catches me looking at him and literally beams.

  “What?”

  “Are you actually this excited about looking at artwork?” I laugh nervously. “I mean, art isn’t really your thing.”

  Leaning over, he presses a light kiss to my lips, licking the steam with the tip of his tongue. “I know it’s fucking cheesy as hell to say this, but you’re my thing. It’s part of who you are. Of course, I want to look at them.”

  He slides his tongue into my mouth, and I groan as it makes contact with my own. My dick is already thickening in my pants and the last fucking thing I want to do in this bed right now is look at watercolors. But all too soon, he breaks away and rests his forehead against mine, panting slightly.

  “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

  “Thank you for caring,” I whisper over his lips.

  He pulls away after another quick peck on my lips and grabs his phone to put on his favorite “Mellow” playlist I’m really starting to love before he begins digging through the crate, pulling out each and every painting that’s inside. Over the next thirty minutes, he goes through damn near a hundred paintings of the surrounding landscapes, the cabin, the city of Vail. Some dark and moody, the style I prefer to paint, with an abundance of neutral tones, and others more vibrant and lively like the one I painted for him. It doesn’t escape my notice the more vivid works are also the more recent ones too.

  After taking in each one, he passes it to me to put back where it belongs, always meeting my eyes with a smile, and hell, I can’t help the thrum I feel in my chest. Because I can’t believe doing something like this would truly make him smile at me the way he is right now.

  Once the last painting is in place, I hop off the bed to take the crate back to where it belongs. I start straightening up the desk, grabbing the remaining pile of paintings to set on top of the others when I hear a loud smack against the hardwood.

  Glancing up, I catch River picking up a black book off the ground. My sketchbook from the looks of it. I go back to my task of picking up my desk when I tense.

  Wait.

  Shit.

  My. Fucking. Sketch. Book.

  I spin around as he flips the cover open to the first page and immediately stiffens.

  So do I. Because I know
what is on the first page.

  A sketch of his hands and wrists, the small cross tattoo over his pulse point sketched there as well.

  I know what is in the rest of the sketchbook too. I fucking drew them.

  Him.

  All the parts of his body I’ve memorized over the past weeks. Every line, curve, and muscle. Every piece of ink that adorns his skin.

  It’s all in there.

  Ohfuckohfuckohfuck, this is bad. Worse than Thanos getting all six Infinity Stones bad.

  Alarm slides its way into my very soul when he lifts those blue-green eyes to meet mine.

  I can’t read them.

  “Riv,” I say as gently as possible, almost as if I’m talking to a skittish animal rather than the man who has become the most important person to me in the world, even in this short amount of time.

  He doesn’t say anything, just takes a slow step towards the door, his eyes still locked on mine.

  And because I know him as well I know myself, I know he’s about to make a break for it.

  As I predicted, River jumps over the canvas on the ground and makes a dash for the door, flying through it at a neck breaking speed. "Riv, wait!" I shout. I’m right behind him, out the door in a flash, but the fucker is faster than I am. He makes a beeline for the bathroom and slams the door shut just as I reach it. I try for the handle but to no avail, he’s already locked himself inside with the artwork I treasure the most.

  Himself.

  I let out a breath of relief that I made it to the bathroom without Rain getting his hands on his sketchpad. Don’t get me wrong, I feel guilty as hell for locking myself in here with something he clearly doesn’t want me to see.

  But shit.

  He drew me?

  “Abhainn, it isn’t what it looks like,” Rain denies from the other side of the door, pounding it with his fists.

  Normally, I’d love the sound of his begging, but the sound from him right now makes my heart squeeze in my chest, utterly ripping me apart. Under any other circumstance, I would give in to his requests or demands. I’d submit, like he fucking loves.

  But submission isn’t in my nature.

  Only sometimes and only ever for him.