Hansel 1-4: The Complete Series (12 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Lucas
 

I wake up
sore
. Not in a bed. I can feel the hardness of the floor, or ground, beneath me.

That’s all I’m able to discern before the dryness of my mouth demands my full attention. I try to open my eyes, but even my eyelids are sticky.

Fuck.

The smallest movement of my head, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.

I lie still, listening to the ticking of a clock. Ungodly fucking loud. My nightstand clock? The kitchen clock? I shift my arm a little and I can feel the plush carpet underneath my ass. So I’m in my bedroom.

I crack open my eyes, and there’s the ceiling.

I make the mistake of trying to sit upright. Pain rips through the side of my chest, so unexpected, a cold sweat pops out all over me. I push myself the rest of the way up and force my dry eyes open. Look around.

I’m lying just outside the bathroom, on a pallet on the floor with lots of blankets. I’m wearing pants—black shorts, like the ones they used to give out at fight night. I look down at my painful side and see some gauze there. What the
fuck
?

I reach my other hand up and rub my eyes.

“Fuck!”

I blink again, and realize one of my eyes doesn’t open all the way.

I take a deep breath and search my foggy mind. What did I do last night? Honestly…I don’t remember. I have this memory of being in a car. I wasn’t driving.

I was riding with someone.

Shelly.

My throat aches at the memory.

Shit, so it was one of those nights.

I grab the doorframe and pull my screaming body upright. God, my fucking head. I walk into the bathroom, hoping the change in location will jar my memory, but…nothing.

I rub my eyes and am reminded, again, of my shiner. One look in the mirror, and my mouth opens.

Shit. What the hell did I get up to last night? Where the fuck was I?

I tug at my shorts. These are fight night shorts. I can tell because they’re short as shit.

I lift my arm up and check out the bandage on my side. I’ve got a big scar there from way back, and it looks like it somehow got split open. I pull my shorts off. One of my hipbones is bruised as shit. So fucking weird.

I dig in a drawer and grab some eye drops. Drop some in my unhurt eye, and fuck the other one. It stings like hell, and I can barely open it, anyway.

I look around the bathroom and am sucker-punched by the memory of bathing with Leah in the tub beside me. Reality sinks in too quickly, as it does every morning for the last couple. Leah was here. I sent her away.

I’ve got the nagging feeling something else happened, something bad that I forgot, but as I start the shower and shuffle in, I can’t remember what.

All I know is…I feel desperate. Edgy. Fucked.

Whatever happened last night, wherever I went…it made me think of things I usually keep firmly barred from entering my mind.

I sigh and scrub my hand through my hair, then pull it down because the fucker stings. Knuckles. Every one of my knuckles is split open; both hands, too. 

Shit, so I did fight.

I have a hazy memory of blood splattered on a mat. I wonder where I went.

I used to get like this more often. I haven’t drank or used in years until this week, after finding out about Leah. After looking for a sub since Monday and nothing working out.

Three days of ‘try-outs,’ and not one eligible girl. I’m not sure what the fuck is up. They’re all so…wrong. Fat fingers, bony fingers, short necks, long necks, bad tit jobs, knobby knees, chapped lips, tatted earlobes, ridiculous manicures…and the list goes on and fucking on.

I turn off the shower and step out on unsteady legs.

I lift my arm so I can feel the pain of the gash there. I’ll need to try to do some stitches in a few, or else it’ll just keep splitting open, getting blood everywhere and drawing a bunch of unwanted attention.

I scrub a towel over myself, and again, Leah flits through my head. The ache I feel for her is intoxicating. I feel ripped apart by the force of it, even more so than with Shelly.

Christ. I toss the towel in the hamper and walk into the kitchen, where I pop the top on a beer and drink the whole damn thing. I find a first aid kit on the couch and poke around for the needle and thread I put in all my kits.

My fingers shake like crazy as I sew the wound.

When I’m done, I sit there holding my stomach. Fucking adrenaline. Fucking alcohol. 

I get up and pace the apartment, feeling lost. Feeling like I lost something, and I’m not even sure what.

Leah, I guess.

She was here. It still blows my fucking mind. I was inside Leah, and I didn’t even know it. What the fuck does that say about me?

I need Leah. I want her so much. I want to dominate her. I want her to hurt me. I need her to hurt me. I want to get off on Leah, not a fucking substitute.

She’d never know I knew she wasn’t ‘Lauren,’ so it wouldn’t be emotional. Just sex.

I wonder if she’s already gone. Fuck. What if she is? And if she’s not?

Maybe I could arrange something.

For a limited duration, maybe just a week or two. I can pleasure her. She said she’s scared to let go. I could train her to let go without that fear. 

I want to touch her. Need to fuck her. These thoughts have been there in my head, banging around, shouting, since I saw her in the parking lot, but most nights I’ve been drowning them with liquor.

Today, I feel…different. Like seeing her again is more urgent. I feel reckless. Like it wouldn’t be so bad to bring her here for sex. She’d have to hurt me, of course, but so what? She did it before. It would be deceitful, pretending I don’t know she’s her when in fact I do. But she deceived me, too, right? She came here in a mask. She found me and she came to me, but she didn’t tell me who she was. She signed on for this—for being my submissive. She’d have gone ahead with it had my dumb ass not thrown her out.

I could call her back anytime. I’ve got her number and her hotel room; I got it from Ray as soon as I got back to my room Monday night. Back when I was still considering going to her and offering an apology for the fuck and chuck act. Back when I was still considering telling her to go the fuck back home.

I guess that’s why I haven’t knocked on her door yet. Not because I’m not sorry, but because I can’t give her up so easily. I can’t face her as Hansel, all grown into what I am. I’m a monster, and if I see her face to face, I’ll have to tell her that.

I might not even need to tell her. She probably knows.

She’s probably gone back home.

But if she hasn’t…

I want her back in bed. More than want. I need her. Need the pain and pleasure. Leah. Now that I’ve had her, only Leah will do.

It’s sick and selfish, but I’m feeling sick and selfish.

I call Raymond, telling him to arrange things so I’m here at my city place a few more days.

*

Leah
 

I wake up with puffy eyes from crying, and the events of the night before come crashing back over me.

Hansel.

Lucas.

Shelly.

My shock and sadness are ridiculous. I remind myself of that as I hold a small bag of ice on my eyes, as I shower, as I dress and pack my bags.

I have no claim to him.

He told you all the subs are you.

And Leah, he was drunk. So drunk he could barely walk.

A horrible thought pierces me: Later in the night, he called me “Shelly.” Does that mean what he told me in the car was meant for Shelly, too?

But he called me Leah
, my inner optimist argues.

But he said he loved someone named Shelly.

He was drunk. I can’t take anything more away from the ordeal. Hansel likes to drink, he likes to fight, and someone named Shelly really hurt him. That’s all I know for sure.

Fitting, I think as I stuff my clothes into my suitcase. My mom’s sister Shelly was murdered, so the name seems to be a sad one all around.

Before I leave my room, I call Raymond. I find out ‘Edgar’ is doing fine. He might have a mild concussion—or so Raymond thinks—but he’s up and about.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him. I’m actually leaving town today.”

There’s a funny little pause during which I assume he wonders what the fuck is up with me and ‘Edgar.’ Finally, he clears his throat. “Have a safe trip.”

I hang up and leave the room, rolling my suitcase down the hall with a knot in my stomach. This trip has turned out nothing like I thought it would. It’s official now: I wish I’d never met him. I really do.

I tell myself as I ride the elevator down that obviously he didn’t mean all the subs were meant to be stand-ins for me. He probably thought I was Shelly the whole time. She must have been a blonde like me.

If he wanted me, Leah, he could have contacted me years ago. I have a prominent web site with my contact information listed.

But why would he want me? We knew each other in a terrible circumstance, when we were so much younger.

He was good to me. Nice to me. He got me through that awful time, and of course he was attached to me then. I’ve let my feelings balloon over the years, because I’m too afraid to look for real, plausible love.
So is he
, I think.

That’s not my business.

For the first time, as I head toward the front of the casino where the cabs are, I don’t feel filled with giddy longing for a ghost. I feel unhappy, sad, that’s true – but at least I’m living in the real world now.

I stop and get a muffin from a café, then head to the customer service desk to settle up my bill. I stayed here way too long, I think as I wait in line. I’m kind of glad I did, because seeing him last night brought closure.

I’m paying my bill when someone grabs my shoulder.

“Ma’am? Are you Lauren Liberty?” The name creeps up my neck and makes me flush.

“Who’s asking?” I say as I turn around to face a casino staffer.

He hands me a letter. “Room eight thirteen, right?”

I nod, frowning.

“I see your actual name is Leah McKenzie, but we understand about the pseudonym. Hearts in Vegas is a popular event here, so there are a lot of authors.” He winks, and I stare down at the envelope clutched in my shaking hands.

I finish paying my bill, walk out into the main corridor, and find a bench beside a large potted palm.

It takes me three tries to open it, because my fingers shake so badly. I pull out a letter, and even before I unfold it, I can see the thickness of the pen he used, the heavy stamp of The Enchanted Forest letterhead.

Lauren—

Let’s give this another go. You submit, and I’ll help you work through your fear of letting go. You hurt me, I’ll pleasure you. One week trial run. What do you say?

And, in loose cursive below:

Let me take care of you.

Yours,

E.

It’s the ‘yours’ that cracks the top layer of ice over my heart.

I re-read it, several times. The man from last night wants to help me with my fear? He wants to take care of me? I remember a thought I had while I was at his place: Who takes care of him?

I think of the woman he might find if I say no. Someone who won’t mind hurting him. Someone who will likely even enjoy making him bleed and flinch.

The thought makes me sick.

Everything I told myself this morning evaporates as I hold the thick letter. While I sit there, feeling dizzy, with my thoughts racing and my chest aching, I feel a light tap on my shoulder.

“Ma’am?” I whirl around to find myself facing an older man dressed in a black uniform. “Are you Lauren?”

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“I’m Cecil, an employee of Edgar. Would you like a ride?”

My eyes bug out. “You were here waiting for me?”

He smiles a little. “Yes ma’am. I’m your chauffeur.”

I look from the letter, to him, and back to the letter.
What the fuck, Hansel?
“How did you know I would say yes?” I demand.

“I didn’t,” he says.

“If I say ‘no’ right now, what will you do?” I’m genuinely curious.

“Are you saying no?” he asks me lightly.

“Maybe.”

“Yes or no, ma’am?” His face looks strange, as if he’s waiting for my answer to take me to the next level of some game.

“I’m saying yes, I guess. Yes to no. I’m saying ‘no.’”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another letter.

I’m sorry to be pushy, but I have to have you, Lauren. You remind me very much of someone I once loved.

Let me turn your Vegas trip into a fairy tale.