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

  It’s electric. Especially when we’re like this.

  Volatile and angry.

  It’s a shock of adrenaline straight into my blood, like fucking heroin.

  I grip his wrist with my hand, eating up the way the skin feels beneath my palm, and tug enough to be able to speak. “You heard me.”

  Ciaráin sneers before spitting his words out. “You need to learn how to shut your fucking mouth before I break your damn jaw so it has to be wired shut.”

  “Now why would I do that when I know how much you hate it when I don’t listen?”

  His body crowds me, pressing tighter against my throat until I can barely make the tiniest gasp. I can barely make a conscious thought except he might actually kill me when it happens.

  I feel it.

  Him.

  Hard against my leg. Waiting for me to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth.

  My free hand moves of its own accord, coming between us to lightly trail a single finger down the length of his erection. The action causes him to freeze, loosening his grip around my throat to practically nonexistence.

  I gulp down oxygen, taking a moment to look at him and the fury in his eyes tells me he had no intention of stopping until I just made him.

  But still, the fucking asshole I am, I pop those dimples with a smile an add a second finger to my caress of his cock, hard as steel behind the cotton of his sweats.

  Hard for me.

  “Does my defiance turn you on, baby?”

  He cocks his head and glances between my eyes, his own narrowed and calculating as I continue to taunt him with my fingers.

  After a moment, he steps back, shaking his head. “Nah, my hand around your throat does. Knowing all I have to do is snap your damn neck to shut you up for good.” He adjusts himself quickly, turning his back on me to grab his bag on the table.

  Meanwhile I’m frozen in place, unsure what my next move should be in this chess game we’ve begun.

  He pulls open the door to the classroom and steps through the threshold, glancing over his shoulder at me. “If you were smart, you’d do well to fucking remember that.”

  Of course, of fucking course.

  As if losing tonight against Oregon in overtime wasn’t bad enough, Coach had to throw this cherry on top of a goddamn shit sundae.

  Since the game was late and away, we have to stay the night up in Portland before flying home in the morning. But Jesus Christ, the moment he called out my assigned roommate’s name for the night, I was ready to start fucking walking to Colorado.

  Yep, you guessed it.

  I’m spending the night alone in a hotel room with River motherfucking Lennox. Someone shoot me or lock me up in a jail cell, because there is no damn way both of us are lasting the night in a small space without murder being committed.

  I don’t know what it is about him, but it’s like he gets off on making me uncomfortable or flustered with his witty comebacks and smartass comments. Sure, I know I brought it on myself a bit when I started acting like a douchenozzle once I found out he was bisexual.

  But fucking really? The shit he pulls…it drives me insane.

  Snatching the key from Coach while we’re still in the lobby, I turn to find River.

  “Hey roomie,” he grins like the asshole he is.

  Yeah, he’s fucking enjoying this way too much.

  “Don’t call me that,” I growl, hauling my duffle over my shoulder and heading to the elevator with him in tow before smacking the call button.

  “Okay, Rain. Whatever you say.”

  I tense at the nickname only one other person has called me. Someone who meant the world to me, but like everything else, I fucked that up too. “Don’t fucking call me that either.”

  The elevator dings before opening, allowing us to slip inside. I hit the button to our floor when he asks, “What should I call you then?”

  Huffing out a breath, I turn a glare on him from across the miniscule elevator cab, begging for it to reach the tenth floor any faster. “Literally anything else.”

  River nods, glancing around the interior as he processes this. He still hasn’t said anything when we stop at our floor. The doors to the hall begin to open, and that’s when the fucker decides to finally speak again.

  “Okay, grump ass.”

  This sonofamotherfuckingbitch.

  I halt in the doorway with my back to him, perfectly aware the doors will try to close on me if I don’t move. Hell, I might wait for them to be shutting to step out of the way, sending him back to the lobby. I could do with a few more minutes of reprieve from his obnoxious tendencies.

  “Uh, you gonna get out there, grump ass? Or did you finally manage to find your manners standing in the doorway?”

  My teeth close on my tongue so hard the familiar metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.

  It’s one night. Eight hours. Do not kill him.

  Just. Fucking. Breathe.

  He takes my non-answer in stride, slipping past and heading down to room ten-oh-four, leaving me standing in the doorway of the elevator until it closes on my shoulder, alerting me to get out of the way.

  Coming up behind River, I watch him swipe the key card and step into the room, flipping on the lights as he goes. It’s nothing fancy seeing as we’re only here to sleep for the night, a regular double queen room with a television and attached bathroom.

  My gaze follows him as he waltzes over to the bed closest to the window, tossing his bag on the bed before unzipping it, digging through its contents.

  “You mind if I shower quick before we hit the sack?”

  Didn’t you just fucking shower at the stadium after the game?

  “Because you need my permission?” I grumble, throwing my bag onto my own bed, directly next to the bathroom, searching for a pair of sweatpants. One thing I can’t fucking stand about college football is having to wear a suit to and from the stadium for away games.

  I understand the concept, showing up looking our best for the reputation of the school. Hell, it’s what I’ll be expected to do if I ever get to play professionally. But I’ve spent the better part of my life in the damn things when I’d rather be in literally anything else than this monkey suit.

  Unfastening my tie and removing my suit jacket, I drape it over the chair near the bed before beginning to undress down to my boxer briefs. A quick peek in my peripheral shows me River is doing the same before he retreats to the bathroom, a pair of shorts in hand.

  The door to the bathroom clicks behind him, the sound of a shower spray coming from under it not a moment later. Slipping into my sweats, I hang my suit on one of the provided hangers and flop onto the bed to surf the channels for a movie to watch.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d attempt to fall asleep. I played a tough game today and my body is already feeling the effects of the beating it took. But staying in a room with one of the few people on this Earth I despise and actually falling asleep?

  Yeah, not happening. He’d probably shave my fucking head or stick my hand in warm water, hoping I’d piss myself. When it comes to River Lennox, I’m a firm believer in the whole sleep with one eye open mentality.

  Or in this case, not sleeping at all.

  It’s safer…for many reasons. The utmost being I don’t need him to have anything to use against me, and he’d most definitely gain a shit ton of ammunition if he knew what plagued my mind while I’m asleep.

  At least this hotel has Netflix, so I decide to settle in with Silence of the Lambs because who doesn’t love a good mindfuck to keep them up at night?

  Shit, maybe I’ll do a Hannibal Lector marathon. Keeping River up all night would be hilarious. You know, since the guy probably needs his beauty sleep.

  Loving the idea a little too much, I start scrolling for the first film in the franchise, Red Dragon, instead. Just as I’m about to click play on the remote, I hear a strange, low humming noise.

  Assuming it’s the TV or some sort of static in the air, I hit play.

>   But then a couple minutes in, I hear a grunt I’m almost positive came from the bathroom. Where River has been in the shower for at least ten minutes now.

  What the fuck is he doing?

  Rising to my knees, I press my ear into the wall separating the bathroom and rest of the suite, waiting to hear the sound again…

  But nothing comes.

  Weird. Must’ve come from the TV too.

  Settling back into my bed, I resume the movie…only to hear it again. And this time, I swear to fucking God, it’s from the bathroom. No way on Earth it isn’t.

  Hopping off the bed, I make my way over to the door to the bathroom. The small gap from the bottom of the door the steam is pouring out of should allow me to catch the noise once more.

  But I stand there for a good minute and nothing.

  Just as I raise my hand to knock on the door, ready to tell him to finish off whatever self-love session he’s got going on in there, I hear it again.

  Except this time, the grunt is followed by a low, throaty moan and holy fucking shit, he’s actually jacking off in there with me not five feet away from him on the opposite side of the wall.

  Anger licks at me like a flame, but I make no move to distance myself from the door dividing me from a wet, naked River.

  A wet, naked River, who is stroking his cock. Full of soap while his one hand is plastered to the shower wall to keep himself up. Water is pouring over his muscular back and shoulders, rivulets tracking down his body and—Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with me?

  I do my best to shake the mental image from my head, but it’s ingrained there, seared into my mind on a loop. Like a never-ending, fucked-up fantasy featuring the bane of my existence. The soundtrack? Every groan and pant slipping through the panel of wood separating us.

  My hand is plastered to the drywall of the wall between us, eyes clenched shut as my mind wars with itself to shut down the cinematic rolling through my brain.

  I’m not gay. I’m straight as a fucking arrow.

  But the way my mind is running wild with these thoughts? Fuck, it’s anything but straight.

  The battle waged inside my head comes slamming to a ceasefire when the door is suddenly yanked open, revealing a dripping, flushed River…in only a pair of athletic shorts riding low on his hips.

  Sans underwear.

  And of course my stupid, stupid eyes travel further south to see the outline of his dick, clearly still half-cocked from fucking his fist. I swallow.

  Fuck me.

  River halts before practically slamming into me, seeing as my body is directly in his path out of the bathroom. “Whoa, if you needed to get into the bathroom, you could have pounded on the door instead of standing outside it like a fucking creep.”

  My eyes snap up from the eight pack, the perfect definition on each individual muscle, to meet his questioning gaze. I pull back from the door, crossing my arms over my chest. “Would you actually have hurried up if I had? Or purposely taken twice as long?”

  He shrugs, leaning against the door jamb. “Did you actually need to get in there or is this some hypothetical we’re playing out?”

  My brow raises. “Does it fucking matter?”

  “Absolutely,” he insists. “If this was a hypothetical, then of course I’d hurry up for you. But if it was real life…” he trails off, swiping this thumb over his bottom lip while wearing a wicked grin as his eyes trail my body.

  Cocksucker.

  I’m damn near ready to tear him a new asshole—figuratively—when I notice his eyes firmly fasten themselves to my groin.

  “Need some help with that?” The devilish smirk on his face while motioning to my crotch with his chin makes me want to knock him the fuck out. Until I look down to notice the tent in my grey sweats and suddenly I’d much rather punch myself in the face.

  All the air leaves my lungs in a rush.

  Shiiiiiiit.

  Internally scolding my dick for being a worse traitor than goddamn Benedict Arnold, I shoot River a glare. “Fuck off, I don’t screw around with dudes.”

  He just laughs and shakes his head. I have to hand it to the guy, he doesn’t seem to be phased by the assholery I aim at him, which in itself is a fucking feat. Most people cower when I toss taunts and barbs their way, but somehow they only make River stand taller.

  Unfortunately.

  My desire to bend him until he snaps in two has become somewhat of a sick obsession ever since the party on Sorority Row, growing stronger and more vicious after each and every encounter ends with vile insults being hurled between us.

  River slips past me and flops down on his bed, leaving me still standing at the door of the bathroom with a raging boner like a motherfucking idiot.

  “I’m being serious,” he insists, throwing his hands behind his head as he cocks a brow at me.

  Trying desperately not to stare more at his bare chest or the way his basketball shorts hang on his V, even lying down, rolling my eyes and letting out a huff, I reply, “So was I, jackass.”

  “Really, Rain. If you want someone to take care of it for you, I have no issue doing so.” His shoulders hunch in a shrug and his aqua eyes hold my gaze hostage. “A mouth is a mouth, doesn’t matter if it belongs to a girl or a guy. Doesn’t make you gay for letting someone of the same gender suck you off.”

  My shoulders tighten at his offer. Not because of him offering to suck my cock. No, it’s the way he picked up on my fucking insecurity, reading me like a fucking children’s book.

  Letting a dude blow me most definitely is high on the gayometer. And I’m not fucking gay.

  “Again,” I grind, my jaw tight, “I’m not into fucking around with dudes. If I need to get off that bad, I’ll hit up a bar around the corner or go take care of it myself in the shower like you just did.”

  Oh shit.

  Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

  River’s eyebrows jump to his hairline before his dimples pop in his cheeks on a grin. “So that’s what got you so worked up, huh, Grady? The sound of me fucking my fist gets you hot and bothered?”

  “Hardly,” I growl, my knuckles cracking from being squeezed so tight.

  “From the looks of it, it’s actually very hard,” he retorts, letting his eyes fall back to my groin where my cock is still a steel pipe in my pants.

  Fucking tretcherous appendage.

  Just as I'm about to snap at him with my own witty comeback, my phone vibrates in my pocket. And like the coward I am when it comes to confrontations with River, I thank my lucky stars for being saved by the bell.

  Shooting a glare at River, I pull my phone from my pocket and check the screen.

  And you remember what I said about luck and being saved?

  Yeah, scratch that shit and erase it from your memory because it was a fucking lie. Because I wouldn’t call it luck when fate decided to be a royal cunt today by fucking me with a chainsaw. Sans lube.

  My teeth are this close to cracking under the pressure of my jaw when I read the message on the screen from none other than my stepfather.

  Him: We need to have a discussion when you get home from college for Thanksgiving break.

  Yeah, the fuck we are, asshole. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I sit across a table from you to share a meal.

  My fingers fly over the screen quickly, attempting to deal with this shit before River decides to get nosy and peek over at the screen.

  Me: We have nothing to discuss because I won’t be there. Téigh trasna ort féin.

  Okay, so telling him to go fuck himself wasn’t totally needed, but…okay, who am I kidding? He deserves that and worse with the kind of bullshit father figure he’s been since my mother married him when I was eight.

  Telling him off in my father’s native tongue just brings me extra pleasure since I know the dickhead doesn’t have it in him to not break down and Google Translate the insult.

  Which he does. Every fucking time, I’m sure of it. Being the sociopath he is, he needs the knowledge, the contro
l.

  Him: Go fuck myself? Original, Ciaráin. Be an adult and show the fuck up or I promise, you’ll regret it.

  This cocksucker. As if I would be able to come home to Philly from fucking Colorado for less than forty-eight hours.

  Then again, there are two problems with that scenario. One being he has no fucking idea I’m in Colorado. Asshole still thinks I’m at Clemson. In South Carolina. Which he would know better if he gave a shit about anything other than himself and whatever will further his own agenda.

  But isn’t that exactly what I was banking on when I up and decided to make this switch?

  And honestly, even if I was still at Clemson, I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving, or any holiday since I left for college at eighteen.

  So to go back there for a holiday only consisting of catering and schmoozing with some rich fucking assholes and politicians when it is meant to be a family holiday? I mean, yeah, I haven’t really had a family since I was a kid, but still.

  I know enough to decide I’d rather shave my balls with rusty kitchen scissors. Blindfolded.

  My eyes snap up to River finding him staring at me with his brows raised in amusement, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the bathroom door.

  “Fuck this shit,” I mumble under my breath, tossing my phone onto my bed and yanking open my duffle in search for jeans and a shirt.

  Doing my best to ignore River’s eyes following my every movement, I slip out of my shorts and into the jeans as quick as I can. I’m still painfully hard despite the bucket of ice water those texts from my stepfather dumped on me. A fact that both River and I are well aware of, if the strained clearing of his throat while I adjust my erection in my jeans is any indication.

  Throwing my shirt over my head, I slip into a pair of Nikes before I grab my phone, wallet, and key card to the hotel room.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, pushing off from his position and following me to the door.

  The slightest waiver in his voice has me looking up to meet his gaze. His thick brows are furrowed in harsh slashes above ocean eyes, a slight vulnerability to them.

  Like he doesn’t want me to walk out of here. Even though that makes absolutely no fucking sense. And as much as I fucking hate it, if I look at him any longer while that glimmer of innocence resides in them, I might stay.