Follow the River

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 ru

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 control.

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.