She’s standing in here with me.
I look down at my hand; there’s lots of blood.
“Hansel? Are you okay?” The horror on her face pierces the cloudy haze around me.
I had a panic attack, and now I’m in a shitty gas station bathroom. I look from my hand, to her. She’s watching me. Humiliation makes me rash. I shove my unhurt arm toward her and stagger forward. “Get out!”
I miss her body by a foot, then whirl around to swipe at her again.
She folds her arms. Her eyes are wide. “What happened? I’m worried about—”
I grab her, toss the door open, plant her on the walk outside the bathroom. Then I shut the door and stand against it as she pounds against it.
I blink dizzily. Something fucking hurts. I look down at my hand, and…blood. Okay. I flex the fingers. Fuck, that hurts.
I run the sink and let my hand hang under the cool water. I don’t do shit like this very often, but it works. I get some nice deep breaths as the hand starts to throb like a son of a bitch. Something’s broken. I frown at the crimson water running into the drain.
I can breathe.
I can breathe…
I flop down on the tile floor and take a huge, unsteady breath. I scoot over to put my back against the wall. My teeth are clenched. I tug at my hair and Christ! MY FUCKING HAND! Ohh, shit. I shudder and lean my head down on my updrawn knee.
I shut my eyes as shivers wrack my body. I try to think of Leah stroking my arm like I usually do, but it doesn’t work. Because it isn’t real. Nothing that I crave can happen in real life. The longing for her is enough to drive the breath out of my lungs again. I sit there holding my elbow while my pulse pounds in my battered hand.
“Triplets? Really?”
I nod. “Three blonde bitches.”
I curl over my knees and clutch my face. And then she’s there: between my fingers. The door slams shut behind her and she’s crouching down in front of me. Her hair is so pale. So straight. Her eyes so big. She’s holding a small, plastic shopping bag in one hand.
Her other hand touches my shoulder, and her face comes closer.
“Edgar? Can you get up? Come out to the car?”
Her eyes rest on my hand. I pull it to my chest.
Her eyes bore into mine, and I can’t fucking take her so damn close. I wrench myself up and rush out the door. I stand there for a second, staring at my car. Blood is dripping. I get into the car, and blood is dripping on the seat and on the console.
There she is again. The fog behind my panic attack must be lifting, because I feel my dick twitch at the sight of her, opening the passenger’s side door and getting into the car. She’s buckling up now, and it’s kind of blurry. My eyes are processing a few seconds behind. I watch her reach into the bag. She holds out a small, green towel.
“It’s for cars, so it’s not sterile, but it’s all they had. Except baby wipes. But they were scented, and I thought that would be bad, like give you an infection, so I didn’t get it. Here.” She holds it over my hand, but she is frowning. Cautious. Unsure if she should touch me.
I take the towel and tuck it around the underside of my hand. She leans over it and tilts her head every which way, examining me. “Your middle knuckle… Edgar, is that the bone? I’m worried you need stitches.”
I snort.
I don’t fucking think so. Not today. Not any day.
“Nah.”
I start to put the car in “reverse,” but she throws her hand up, distracting me. “Hang on.”
She peeks into the plastic shopping bag again and comes out with a roll of white medical tape. She holds up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“You need to use the Neosporin—”
I snatch the tape out of her hand and start to tape the towel around my hand so we can fucking go.
She touches the elbow of my hurt arm and I throw her off me.
I struggle with the tape and the towel as shame creeps over me again. The sooner I can get her ass to the airport, the better. I can’t do this shit with her. At one time, I used to want to look her up. I thought that… I don’t know what. I was fucking stupid.
“You clearly need some help.” Her voice rings over the low hum of the air conditioning. “Why don’t you let me help you?”
I ignore her, struggling to tape the fucking towel to my hand. When it’s halfway on and it’s catching most of the blood, I throw the car into “reverse” and whip out of the parking lot.
Whoa. Okay. Kind of fucking dizzy. I can drive. The airport’s not that far.
“Would you like me to drive?” she murmurs as I head down the service road, toward the interstate ramp.
“No.”
“Um, Edgar?”
I let my breath out without moving my eyes from the road.
She takes this as an opportunity to talk some more. “I’m sorry I’m just now remembering this…but I can’t go to the airport. My suitcase is at your place.”
I change lanes, moving over into the right one, so I’m well-positioned to take the airport exit. “I can have it overnighted.”
“Yeah…but, I don’t even have my ID. Or like…shoes. Remember?”
My gaze flickers over at her, and shit. I guess she’s right.
I start to take the airport exit. “Back to the club, then. Someone else can bring you back.”
I’m getting tired now. I don’t really care. I make a U-turn at the airport exit, and get back onto the interstate toward downtown Vegas.
Fuck. My hand hurts fucking bad, but it’s keeping me grounded. I train my eyes on the lanes sprawled out in front of me and try to pretend I’m driving by myself.
“Are you really going to Mother’s house? Tonight?” her soft voice asks.
I glance at her and grit my teeth. “It’s not your business.”
The last thing I need is to have her feeling sorry for me. Worrying about me. God for fucking bid, trying to take care of me.
I can’t handle her sympathy, just like I can’t handle her affection. I can’t even handle Leah’s hand around my cock.
I wiggle my fingers and try to keep my focus on the road.
*
Leah
The drive back to Vegas seems to go by on fast-forward. One minute, we’re setting out on the interstate again. He’s not talking to me, and I’m in knots over Shelly.
Clearly, it’s a girlfriend.
I guess I must worry the time away, because the next time I really notice where we are, we’re on The Strip. A look at the clock reveals what the time: it’s getting late now. Almost six-thirty.
“You can just take me to the MGM Grand,” I hear myself tell him.
I fold my arms over my chest. It feels sore from the ache behind my ribs. From knowing this is really it; no more chances. Goodbye comes in just a mile or two. Back there at the gas station maybe.
Whoever Shelly is, she’s obviously very important to him. A whole lot more important than I am. I’m kind of glad, I guess. That he’s moved on. That he’s cared for someone, and she’s clearly not just one of his subs.
That’s a good thing, I tell myself. Maybe.
I don’t know what happened between them, but it seems intense.
I wonder if I should tell him any more about me. About how hard I tried to find him. How after we were rescued, my mom went back there with me and she went inside herself. How she was gone an hour while I waited in the car. How she emerged with three of his notebooks.
Stories for me. His fairy tales for me.
I look over at him and I don’t mean to—I just start talking. Murmuring to my lap. I can’t seem to lift my head full-on or speak at regular volume. “I ended up with your notebooks,” I whisper. “All those stories that you made up for me. That’s how I knew that you were real. Not just a dream or something. I still have them,” I tell him. And how sad is that? I guess that’s all this really is: just sad.
“Sorry,” I tell him. I lift my head.
&n
bsp; His eyes slide over to mine, wide and heavy.
“I looked for you for so long. I didn’t know your name. I guess I built you up inside my head. I think I’m pretty normal sometimes, but I’m not.”
His face tightens.
“I used to run ads on Craig’s List,” I tell him as we near the sprawling MGM Grand. “All over Colorado, California, even Vegas once or twice. I would say ‘Leah Seeking Hansel’. I got replies, but they were never you.”
There’s so much more. How every time I closed my eyes at night for years, I could hear his voice and feel his hand in mine. How I would cry for him, any time, all the time. How I still do sometimes.
I don’t want to think about that right now—I don’t want to be in this car—so I look out the window, and as he turns into the driveway of the casino and hotel, I shut my eyes.
“I’m sorry this worked out so poorly.” I feel numb. Stupid.
When he slows down to let me off in front of the main entrance, I peek my eyes open and look over him. I find his face a mask of apathy.
As soon as the Range Rover comes to a stop, I push the door open. “Please send my things,” I tell him, never looking up.
I shut the door quickly and start to walk. I hear his engine rev. I whirl around. “Stop him,” I scream.
A bell hop sees me. “Him! The Range Rover!”
I watch, rooted to my spot, as the man in the casino uniform holds his hand out, then steps almost in front of Hansel’s car. The SUV lurches to a stop, and I sprint over.
By the time I reach the vehicle, the window is already rolled down, and he’s got his eyes trained on the space where I lean in.
My heart beats sickly. I’m aware of the bell boy behind me, taking a step back.
“If you’re not lying, if you really do own that place, I want to go. You can take me or I’ll take myself. But I need closure.” I rub a hand down my overheated face. “I need to put this mess behind me,” I say, raising my gaze to his.
His eyes hold onto mine, and I try to read them. Fail. Because there’s nothing in them. Because he doesn’t care, not even one iota.
When he leans across the empty passenger’s seat and pushes the door open, I’m so surprised I stand there dumbly for a second.
Then he lifts his brows.
That’s all the invitation I’m getting.
The wheels are rolling before I even shut the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucas
Thirteen Years Ago
I hate bathrooms.
She knows this—Mother—so she soaks in that big fucking tub all the time and makes me stay in here with her.
There’s a big, suede couch along one of the mirrored walls, so I usually just lie there while she talks to her damn self.
Some days bad, some days worse… This one is a night. I’m drunk. Red wine. I like to drink a lot—and Mother keeps passing out Xanax like it’s candy. Not so much of a mother, a I right?
This woman is a fick suck.
I mean a sick fuck.
I think about it, running away, but it’s so snowy. Lots of snow and no shoes. She’s got small feet. My feet are big. This wouldn’t work.
I sprawl my legs over the arm of the couch and look up at the ceiling. So white. So high. Way up there.
I can hear her splashing, and I close my eyes. The sound of water… That’s okay. I don’t like the mirrors. I don’t like the tile. Because of her. You know who.
Mother’s voice rings through the bathroom. My body twitches, and I realize I’ve been playing with my dick. Oops.
Sleeping in her bed¸ and I don’t have clothes here. No clothes. A lot of days or weeks—could it be months—and no clothes for me. That old fucking lady wants my dick. I swear she does.
She’s a fucking bitch.
Sometimes, at night, or in the day…I’m always drunk. Sometimes she lies beside me and she grabs my wrists.
Behind the thick veil of wine and Xanax, I can feel my heart pound. Dread. I hope she doesn’t do it tonight.
I should have run when I first got here.
Sometimes when she sleeps I watch her tits and I jack off.
I cup my hand under my balls and jiggle them around and watch the ceiling move. She’s saying something. Something with the water. About Mother Goose and children. Fairy’s tales children. Drunk kids.
I laugh.
“You’ve had too much wine,” she says from the tub.
I laugh again.
“’S all too much.” Right? I’m fourteen. “Not legal.” I grin. “I like Xanax.”
What I don’t like is those dreams. I’m lost for a little while, trying to outrun them.
“Hansel?” She stands over me, stark naked. She’s a lot of woman. Red lips move.
“Umm hmm?”
“What do you think? Would you like a brother or some sisters?”
“Foster brothers suck,” I tell her, sitting up. I fall over on my elbow. It’s the sore one. Wrist is sore.
Why does it hurt me even though I’m wasted?
Shouldn’t…this protect me?
She sinks down beside me. Her breasts are in my face. “Would you like a brother, or a sister first?”
My eyes roll back into my head. She grabs my wrist. It’s healed…but there’s a scar. I…wish she wouldn’t touch it.
“What?” I open my eyes, and she’s smiling.
“I think we need a girl here, or a young man like yourself. I would like this house to be The Shoe. So many children, I won’t know what to do.” She smiles and twirls a strand of her damp hair. “Do you think I make a good mother?”
No.
I can’t say that or she’ll… I’m gonna keep the peace. I nod a little. “Triplets,” I offer.
“You think I should have triplets?” She laughs. She leans over me, her breasts almost touching my lips, and ruffles my hair. It’s damp from the steam in here.
I pull away from her. I try to let her do what she wants, but…no touching. I blink a few times, trying to convey this.
“I’m too old to be a biological mother, but adoptive moms can be special as well. Isn’t that right?”
“There were triplets.” Three girls—younger than me. They looked just like Shelly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Leah
We drive from the MGM Grand to The Forest without a word. I don’t know how long it takes in minutes, but in my mind, it takes like…years.
I’m hyper-aware of him. Every time he slides his hands around the steering wheel, every time he leans forward to see around a car, the motion vibrates somewhere deep down in my throat. Everything about him is so vibrant now: his wavy, dark hair; his hazel eyes; his face, which is still bruised from last night.
His hand has stopped pouring blood, so that’s good. I wonder if it needs stitches. I wonder if he’s really taking me to Mother’s house. When we park in the employee lot behind The Forest and he gets out without a word, I wonder if he’s coming back. He does. This time, I watch the clock, so I know it takes sixteen minutes.
His hand is wrapped in fresh, white gauze, and he’s carrying my luggage, plus another black gym-looking bag. He opens the door to the back seats and sets the things inside, and then he’s sliding into the driver’s seat again. I’m startled by the width of his shoulders. By the scent of him. I swear he has a scent, and it’s a good one. I can’t even explain what it is, but there’s a subtle richness to it.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and I reach around to get my purse. He reaches back at the same time. My arm bumps into his. He jerks away.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine.”
I grab my purse and pull it into my lap. I go through my phone as he drives us out of downtown Vegas. Somehow it’s only just now occurred to me that it’s a long drive to that house. I’m not sure how many hours, but definitely a few. Maybe more than a few. Will we stop somewhere for the night? I guess it depends on how far Denver is from Vegas. It’s been a long time since I liv
ed in Colorado. As soon as all of “Mother’s children” were rescued, my dad took a transfer from Boulder to Atlanta. Before my kidnapping, I didn’t really drive around the states nearby. I’m guessing it’s maybe seven hours. We’ll be stopping for the night, or getting there late.
I inhale deeply.
I can do this.
It’s something my therapists have suggested in the past, but I just never was that interested. It’s hard to think of going back.
The first two hours we are on the road, moving out of Nevada and into southwestern Utah, he says nothing to me. I don’t know what to think about him—what to think about how he feels for me; about how he treated me before I got out at the casino—so I’m trying hard not to.
I slip my headphones in my ears and listen to some Broken Bells on my phone. I exchange a few texts with my sisters. When Laura asks if I’m home yet, I tell her “yes.” She doesn’t live near me. Not like she’ll know. And if she thinks I’m lying, she’ll assume they worst. They all will. Luckily, Lana doesn’t ask. She says she’s having fun on her honeymoon and that’s it.
Mom and dad haven’t called or text’d, so I don’t bother texting them. Now that my dad’s retired, they’re kind of withdrawn from the world. Not in a bad way; just in the sort of way which means they never know which day is Monday. Good for them. They retired to Gulf Shores, so they won’t know I didn’t come home on time.
Utah is a pretty state. Lots of rocky, cliff-y mountains. Not huge, but still really pretty. Seeing the mountains with Hansel—Edgar—by my side is kind of a head trip. There was no window in my room at Mother’s, so I never saw the majestic Rockies all around us, but I knew that they were there.
The sun starts going down behind us, casting everything in a soft, red glow. I turn the music down because I’m curious about his choice of radio. I’m a little surprised to find he’s listening to something on National Public Radio. I can’t tell for sure, having only listened for a minute or two, but I think they’re discussing the stock market.
I dare a glance over at him, and happen to get a full-on glance at the thick scar on the inside of his left wrist. I used to touch it every blue moon—just the barest stroke of my fingertip over the pink line. I didn’t do it often, because I could tell it made him tense, but once or twice, after I touched it, he twined his fingers tightly through mine.