Follow the River (River of Rain Book 1) Read online

  Follow The River Copyright © 2020 by CE Ricci

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing and Proofreading: Amy Briggs

  Interior Formatting: AJ Wolf Graphics

  Cover Design: Taylor Farrell with Illuminated Canvas

  For anyone who is struggling to find the person they are meant to be:

  Keep searching, you’ll find them.

  “And into the forest I go,

  to lose my mind and find my soul.”

  ― John Muir

  Theme Song:

  “Power Over Me” - Dermot Kennedy

  Playlist:

  “Afterall” - Beartooth

  “The Enemy” - I Prevail

  “Crazy” - From Ashes to New

  “See Through” - The Band CAMINO

  “Rescue Me” - A Day To Remember, Marshmello

  “Why Am I Like This?” - The Word Alive

  “Tapping Out” - Issues

  “You Found Me” - The Fray

  “Hard Feelings” - Palisades

  “Heavier” - Slaves

  “Talking Body” - Five Hundredth Year

  “Loverboy” - You Me At Six

  “in the dark” - Bring Me The Horizon

  “Broken Heart” - Escape the Fate

  “Contagious Chemistry” - You Me At Six

  “Part Of Me” - American Wolves

  “Popular Monster” - Falling In Reverse

  “Like a Nightmare” - Deadset Society

  “If Our Love Is Wrong” - Calum Scott

  “Pavement” - SayWeCanFly

  “Hated” - Beartooth

  “Right Here” - Ashes Remain

  “Iris” - Goo Goo Dolls

  Listen to the playlist on Spotify

  I’d like to start by thanking you from the bottom of my heart for picking this book up in the first place and being willing to give it a shot. It means the world to me that readers are interested in the world I’ve created and the words I’ve written.

  However, the first thing I have to state is this book will not be for everyone.

  This book is a work of fiction, but that does not mean that there aren’t very realistic incidents that could be triggering to some readers. Now, I hate trigger warnings. I believe that they can absolutely ruin a book and as such, I will not be listing the specific triggers within this book.

  This is a blanket trigger warning.

  This book is meant to go in blind. I’ve purposely written the blurb to reveal absolutely nothing about the overall plot of this book. Do not read spoilers, if only for you to receive the full impact of the book in both a plot and emotional aspect.

  Just trust me, okay?

  For many readers, you will experience a variety of emotional reactions and that is a good thing. This book is meant to make you feel. I have no desire to lessen that for you by telling you all the things that happen within these pages that might make someone uncomfortable.

  This being said, if you have any triggers, any at all, I would suggest reaching out to me to ask if you will be okay reading this book or maybe giving this book a pass all together.

  What I don’t suggest? Ignoring this all together and then going and ruining the book for others in any way, shape, or form. Because, let’s be real, I tried to warn you.

  Don’t be a Karen, y’all.

  ***Follow the River contains content intended for mature adults 18+ years of age. Some of the content will be triggering for readers. Please do not read or post spoilers, if only for your own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others as this book is meant to be read blind.***

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Ciaráin

  Chapter Two: River

  Chapter Three: Ciaráin

  Chapter Four: River

  Chapter Five: Ciaráin

  Chapter Six: River

  Chapter Seven: Ciaráin

  Chapter Eight: Ciaráin

  Chapter Nine: Ciaráin

  Chapter Ten: River

  Chapter Eleven: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twelve: Ciaráin

  Chapter Thirteen: River

  Chapter Fourteen: Ciaráin

  Chapter Fifteen: River

  Chapter Sixteen: River

  Chapter Seventeen: Ciaráin

  Chapter Eighteen: River

  Chapter Nineteen: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twenty: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twenty-One: River

  Chapter Twenty-Two: River

  Chapter Twenty-Three: River

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twenty-Five: River

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: River

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ciaráin

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: River

  Chapter Thirty: River

  Chapter Thirty-One: Ciaráin

  Chapter Thirty-Two: River

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Ciaráin

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Ciaráin

  Chapter Thirty-Five: River

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  His breaths come out in fast pants as he tosses a duffle bag on the bed. Throwing open the closet doors and yanking the drawers out of his dresser, he fills the duffle in record time. He doesn’t stop in the bathroom for the rest of his stuff, knowing he can buy what he needs when he gets where he’s going.

  Panic tries to flood his veins but he tamps it down. This isn’t the time for hysteria.

  Slamming his apartment door behind him, he rushes down the stairwell, car keys in hand. Before long, he’s situated behind the steering wheel, ready to disappear into the night.

  Hopefully, without a trace.

  He’s counting on no one noticing he’s gone, but deep down he knows his prayers will go unanswered.

  His God, if he even exists, doesn’t answer the prayers of sinners.

  And a sinner, he is.

  Driving through the silence of the night, he heads to the airport. His foot presses onto the gas with more force than it should, the car accelerating to dangerous speeds.

  But he doesn’t care.

  Time is of the essence, and if he doesn’t leave now, it might be too late.

  The world as he knows it is on the line.

  He has to leave.

  In less time than should be possible, he throws his car into park on the tarmac. It’s the only way anyone will be able to track him, but at this point, he doesn’t have any other options.

  His pilot, one he keeps on standby, is already in the cockpit when he comes rushing up the stairs.

  “Are we ready to take off?”

  “Yes, sir. Just waiting for the okay from air traffic controls. Please take a seat. If luck is on our side, we’ll be in the air in less than five minutes.”

  Luck.

  Sending up a silent plea, he begs for luck to be on his side tonight.

  For tomorrow, or however long he needs it.

  Because he knows the harsh reality of this situation—and it’s life or death.

  “In other breaking news, Pennsylvania Senator Theodore Anders has been brought into police custody for interrogati
on involving an alleged rape and molestation of a minor,” the news caster drones from the television in the waiting room.

  “Two weeks ago, voice recordings surfaced of a minor disclosing information on the senator, accounting for the incidents in which Ted Anders forced the child into sexual acts against his or her will. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is looking into these recordings and is in search of the child in question. The identity of said minor is remaining confidential until more information is gathered to support these claims.”

  My shaking leg halts as my eyes snap up at the monitor, seeing a photo of the man they’re speaking about.

  A fucking senator, for Christ’s sake. Someone in charge of making decisions for the welfare of our country.

  A fucking rapist and child molestor.

  I turn my attention back to my phone, doing my best to drown out the sounds of the news and all the bullshit they spew. One way or another, news stations are always biased, which is why I can’t stand watching.

  Our country is constantly in a state of turmoil. School shootings. Sex trafficking scandals. Terrorism, either domestic or foreign. Police brutality. People with power, abusing children. Sexually or otherwise.

  I don’t need the fucking news to tell me the world we live in has gone to shit. It’s present on every form of social media, where people will post whatever they feel like without bothering with things like research or fact checking. But why would they bother attempting to educate themselves when they can simply post whatever they want, hidden behind a phone or computer screen without fear of any backlash unless it comes from a comment thread?

  “Ciaráin, are you ready?” the receptionist calls my name, pulling me from my thoughts.

  As ready as I’ll fucking ever be.

  Pocketing my phone, I follow her through a door and down a hall to an office, where she stops. She motions me to enter with a smile before retreating back the way she came.

  Twisting the knob, I push open the door, spotting a woman who appears to be in her early forties sitting in a lounge chair, notepad and file folder in hand, scribbling away. I take a moment to observe her before she notices me. Dressed in a pencil skirt, blue blouse, and pumps, she fits the cliche of a female therapist, just looking to help. A Birkin bag sits on her desk across the room and when she uncrosses and resituates her long tan legs, I notice the familiar red soles of her shoes.

  Rich bitch.

  Her blonde hair, hanging loose around her shoulders, sways as her head pops up at the sound of the door closing behind me. Her eyes, bluer than any I’ve ever seen, lock onto mine and she smiles.

  It does nothing to permeate my scowl.

  “You must be Ciaráin. I’m Doctor Erica Fulton,” she says before standing, reaching out to shake my hand.

  Ignoring her, I stride over to the couch opposite her chair and take a seat.

  Let the games begin.

  To her credit, she doesn’t seem perturbed about my brush off, just sits back down in her seat. She’s probably dealt with worse, being a therapist and all.

  Fucking therapy.

  “Well, Ciaráin, are you ready to get started?” she asks, flipping her notepad to a clean sheet. She glances up when I don’t respond. Taking my silence as permission to speak, she continues. “All right, then. Usually I start my first session going over some basic information with you. The topics you would normally talk about with your previous therapist, that kind of thing. Get a little more comfortable talking with each other before we dive into the heavier issues.”

  I remain silent, staring at her, a mask of indifference on my face.

  Actually, scratch that. That’s just my fucking face.

  “Let’s start with the big, ominous question. What brings you in today?”

  I have to force my eyes not to roll as I lean back in the seat with my fingers resting against my temple.

  I was fucking forced by my cunt of a mother. She decided, out of the blue, she wanted to be a decent human being. For fuck’s sake, I had to take it upon myself to ask Nana to schedule a therapy appointment when I was a kid since Mom was too busy self-medicating to notice I was drowning. But now she has an interest in my mental health? My fucking happiness?

  Blink.

  “According to your file and the notes from your previous therapist, you’ve been in therapy for about nine years, starting at the age of twelve. You were diagnosed with depression and PTSD and have been on and off a wide range of antidepressants for seven of those years, correct?”

  Yes, yes, and fucking yes. Except you missed the anxiety. Fear of abandonment. The fact that I never took a single one of those pills because I don’t need some chemical trying to turn me into someone I’m not.

  Blink.

  “Your file also states you’ve had suicidal ideations, but have never made any attempts. Is that still correct?”

  Hearing those words, suicidal ideations, brings the night rushing back to me.

  The empty bottle of Jameson. The mirror, dirty with white powder residue left behind from the cocaine.

  The barrel of a gun pressed into my temple.

  My finger on the trigger.

  I bury the thoughts inside my mind, breathing deeply through my nose.

  Nope, Doc. Can’t say that’s correct.

  Blink.

  “Tell me about your childhood.”

  I snort involuntarily.

  Is this bitch serious? What fucking childhood? You have my file right in front of you. You know, while I might have come from money, my childhood was stripped away from me by the people who were supposed to be in charge of protecting my innocence.

  She lets out a subtle sigh, flipping her notepad closed. I’ll give her credit, she lasted longer than I figured she would. Most would’ve given up when I refused to shake their hand.

  “Look, Ciaráin, I’m here to help you. I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me. Yes, we can sit in silence if that’s what you need, but that isn’t the point of therapy.” She leans forward in her chair, her blue eyes softening around the edges. “I know you’re going through a lot right now—”

  “You don’t know shit,” I snap. “No one knows shit. And I’m so fucking sorry my last piece of shit, incompetent therapist somehow lead you to believe you have any fucking clue into who I am or what I’m dealing with.”

  Dr. Fulton leans back in her chair, absorbing my outburst. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insinuate. All I want is to do my job, to help you. Will you let me do that?” Her words, her question, it comes out like a command.

  I meet her eyes. She’s got balls of steel, this one.

  Briefly, I nod, allowing her to continue.

  “All right, let’s try another approach. Why don’t we talk about your relationship with your family? No siblings, just a mother and father?”

  “I have no father,” I grind. “He died when I was a kid. I have my mother, if you can call her that, and the man she calls a husband.” I meet her eyes with a hard stare, daring her to push me.

  She accepts the challenge.

  “Tell me about your stepfather.”

  “If you want to talk about him, you should set up a meeting with him. God knows the fucker needs a shrink way more than I do,” I smirk, leaning forward in my seat. “After all, adding another client to your list can help you afford a matching wallet for that purse.”

  “I’m sorry, Ciaráin, but I don’t believe that for one second. You might want me to believe it, but we both know there is so much more to you and your story with your parents than is in that tiny folder.” She raises a brow. “So why don’t you stop deflecting and start talking?”

  My jaw ticks. “I’m not talking about him. Nor my mother.”

  “Okay,” she concedes, shutting the folder. “Then what brings you to Colorado?”

  “College,” I reply, my annoyance easing.

  “How is that going? I read in your file that you played football at Clemson for the past two years. Will you be playing for the Buffaloes t
his season?”

  My brow furrows. “You really want to talk about football? No offense, but you don’t seem the type of woman to know a touchdown from a homerun.” I make a point to let my eyes travel the length of her body, starting at her fucking Louboutins and not meeting her eyes again until after I make it a point to stare at her rack.

  The way her nostrils flare tells me I’m right.

  Flipping open the file again, she glances around the sheet. “Then tell me about Roman.”

  My blood freezes in my veins. “Off-fucking-limits.”

  She inhales deeply through her nose. “Enlighten me. What are we allowed to talk about in our sessions? The weather?”

  I quirk a brow. Balls of steel and feisty too.

  I’d be willing to bet my left nut she’s a firecracker in bed. Not that I’m interested. I’m not a fan of being challenged.

  Rising from my seat, I stare down at her. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Dr. Fulton. I’d say I’m sorry for wasting your time, but we both know I don’t actually give a fuck.”

  I take my leave, heading back into the waiting room. My hand is already grabbing the door handle, ready to get the hell out of here when I hear Dr. Fulton behind me, calling my name.

  “Ciaráin,” I pause for a moment, my back to her. “You can’t just walk out when you don’t want to talk about the hard stuff.”

  “Fucking watch me,” I challenge, turning sideways to catch her gaze. “Besides, I have practice in an hour. I only came to this appointment to appease my poor excuse of a mother. But please, do us both a favor and forget I ever came here.” Nodding to the folder in her hand, I add, “Oh, and make sure you shred that damn file and set the pieces on fire the minute I’m gone.”

  Just as I’m turning back to the exit, my eye catches the television again, Senator Theordore Anders’ image is still taking up the primetime news spot.

  I slam the door behind me in haste as I exit.

  Fuckers like that man deserve to die.

  “Lennox, get your ass over here!” Coach Scott barks at me through his megaphone from the opposite end of the field, cutting off my conversation with my backup quarterback, a redshirt freshman from Idaho by the name of Garrett. I let him know I’ll be back shortly and start jogging over to Coach.