Hansel 1-4: The Complete Series (18 page)

He turns the car right, toward the MGM Grand, and my pulse stutters. “Your driver told me you would take me to the airport. If it didn’t work out, I’d be driven to the airport. Not the MGM Grand. I don’t have a reason to go there.”

“I’ll get you a taxi to the airport,” he says tautly.

“Fine!” The heat of tears prickles my eyes. “Try to drop me off and then forget me! But I
know
you get off on me. I know you’re fucked up, just like I am. You think that I don’t know that? We were both there. We’re both hung up there! How could we not be?”

“We are not the same,” he grits. “So stop pretending that we are.”

“I know we’re not.” My heart beats hard and fast as I remember the sound of his footsteps, disappearing down the hall in front of my door. “I know we’re not,” I say more quietly, “but we’re enough the same. I’ve been trying to find you for
years
, and now that I have, this is just it? You’re not dropping me off at a damn hotel. I won’t get out.” I slump back against my seat, feeling jittery and weak all at once.

My cheeks must be blood red, because they’re hot. My eyes are leaking. I’m such a loser. He makes me pathetic.

I flick a tear off my left cheek so he doesn’t see it and analyze the road. He’s still heading toward the MGM Grand. He’s really doing this.

I don’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t feel the same way I do.

I pin my most accusing stare on him, and even though he’s looking at the road, I know he has to feel it. “Is it the submissive thing? Like how I wasn’t—”

“You’re fine in bed. Better than fine,” he adds in a surly voice.

Good. And bad. “So you lied back in the room. When you were being mean.” I knew it, but it’s nice to hear him say so.

So pathetic.

His lips flatten as his hand slides around the wheel. He’s turning onto a side street. Maybe turning toward the airport?”

“It’s wrong, the way you’re dumping me like this. When I know you want me. When you know I want you. When we could talk and—”

“Reminisce about the past? Share our funniest home videos?” His voice is low and soft, filled with derision.

An empty feeling fills my stomach, like a cold, inflating balloon. I’m really nothing to him. Nothing but a memory, and, for reasons only known to him, a body he likes to fantasize about.

*

“If we get out of here, you won’t forget me, will you?”

I stroke his knuckles, so much bigger, so much harder looking than my own. I scoot up a little, moving on my belly, and I press my lips against his hand.

“Do you think that I’d forget you? Never,” I whisper. “You’re like…the center of the universe to me.”

There’s a brief pause. One in which my stomach flip-flops and my fingers on his hand go still. And then his voice, the wonderful rumble that makes me feel all warm.

“I won’t forget you either, Leah.”

*

A runaway tear drops off my chin. I turn my head away from him. “Take me to the airport, at least. Surely you could do that one thing for me,” I say in a thick, embarrassing voice.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I sink down into my leather seat. I see a sign for the interstate, and a second later, when we turn onto it, I notice his shoulders deflate as he pushes out a breath.

That’s how much he wants to be rid of me.

I look down at my lap for a few minutes, wondering what I’ll do when we get to the airport. This might be the last time I ever see him. He’s made it clear enough: he doesn’t want anything to do with me. And despite how much I care for him—despite my ridiculous obsession—I’m not going to keep begging. It’s not that I don’t want to. But if I do, and he still dumps me at the airport, I think that it will hurt a hundred times worse.

I allow my eyes to wander his way again. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other in his lap. He seems to be gripping the wheel tightly. The hand in his lap is balled into a fist. My gaze rolls up to his face. I find his eyes are hard, his face a closed door.

The impulse to pick at a scab rises up in me, and I’m too worked up to ignore it.

“You never really explained why I shouldn’t want anything to do with you, as you said.” Is it because he thinks he would be a bad influence on me? I hope not, because that’s ridiculous. “We’re probably the same,” I tell him. “Both fucked up.”

“You’re not fucked up.” His mouth pulls into a bitter, almost humored twist.

So that’s what he thinks. He thinks I’m some upstanding, never-sexed, straight-laced girl from the suburbs. And that would be true. It might have been. In another universe, maybe that’s exactly who I am. (Minus the never-sexed. I’d totally be sexed in my alternate reality).

“You don’t think so?” I laugh dryly. I reach into my pocket and I stretch my fingers out and rub around the fabric. “Would it surprise you to know I’m an addict? Some people say ‘recovered’ addict, but seriously? That shit’s a lie. That night I saw you up on stage? I still had an emergency oxy I was keeping in my pocket. I swallowed it and threw it up. Then I flushed it, and then a second later, I went back to see if it was still there. You know why I started?”

I move my gaze from the road over to him, and find his eyes on me.

“I would lie awake at night and think about the hole in my wall. Like, really focus on it. And I would think about the door, if it was closed. Like if I was at a hotel or something. On a trip with a friend. If the door got shut somehow or even if it wasn’t shut, if it was open; I would look at it and try to see the hall or whatever was outside it. And then when I closed my eyes, I would picture the ceiling. I hate ceilings. Walls are even worse. So I would think about the ceiling, and the hole in my wall, and in case you couldn’t guess I had a bunch of trouble sleeping. One of my therapists gave me some Xanax, and that’s how it started. It got way out of hand, until I had to go to rehab.”

Another glance at him shows me he’s still flicking his gaze to me, in between watching the road. He’s still listening to me talk about how messed up the grown-up Leah is.

For a long moment, my breath feels like it’s caught inside my throat. I swallow the sensation away before I keep on talking.

“You want to know why I came to see you in a mask? That’s why. Because I’m trying to stay sober. Every little thing that happens…” I shake my head, feeling stupid. Feeling vulnerable. I let a little laugh slip out.

“This is embarrassing,” I say, meeting his eyes for a brief second. I look back at the road. “I don’t know why I thought it would be so easy to tell you things, but—” I exhale slowly. “But I had this whole thing pictured.”

It’s nothing like I thought—this meet-up with him. I can already feel the sadness creeping up on me, grabbing me by the hand and pinching my fingers with a death grip. Tomorrow, I’m going to be a mess. But I’ll be a mess at home, where I can call my AA counselor. Who would probably tell me…to be honest.

I swallow and regain my composure before I say another word. “I needed to talk to you. And now I’m with you. So I’m going to be honest, if it’s no skin off my back and it won’t hurt you: I was afraid of what I would do if I showed up and you didn’t want to see me. I needed to see you again. And before we get to the airport—” I’m already seeing signs letting us know it’s about ten miles away— “I want to know if you remembered last night. Like, this morning. Did you want to call me—Leah—even though you wanted to still pretend that I was Lauren? Or when you called this morning, were you calling Lauren?”

I hold my breath in anticipation of his answer.

“I was blackout drunk. You might remember,” he says. He’s got his eyes trained on the lanes spreading out in front of us. Because, again, he doesn’t want to look at me.

“So you’re saying that you don’t remember last night.”

“I know you shouldn’t have done that.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me, it seems, but you sure want to screw me. Am I like…your fetish? Some kind of re-do of Mother’s house where things are better because we’re having lots of sex? No peep hole? Maybe we’ve got a door, a little trap door we can go through when we’re extra horny? Or is it possible you actually remember being friends with me? You cared about me, too.”

Tears sting my eyes again. I blink and let them roll down my cheeks. I smile a bitter smile. “I got told that you were fake. A lot. By lots of people. You were some kind of wish-fulfillment.” I say it with a question on the end, even though I’m not asking anything. “You just disappeared, you know. So people didn’t believe me when I told them about the guy who held my hand and told me stories through this little…mouse hole, peephole. And then that person-superhero killed our captor with nothing but his bare hands. Yeah. That sounded like some kind of fantasy. But here you are, you’re real. Am I your fantasy? Maybe you spent a lot of time thinking about my body when we were on opposite sides of the damn wall?”

“I think about you when I fuck,” he says.

I look fully at him; raise my eyebrows. “You think of me hurting you?”

“Jesus, Leah. I don’t want to talk about this shit. I don’t want to get to know you. Grown up Leah. I fucked you. You didn’t do it my way. I don’t fucking blame you, but let’s let this die.”

His words hurt me so much, I actually gasp.

Then I take a page from his playbook. I ask the one question I know might really hurt. “Who’s Shelly?”

CHAPTER THREE

Lucas
 

I’m driving, so I can’t pull over when my legs and arms grow cold and I start seeing spots.

I struggle to suck air into my lungs, but they are frozen.

My fingers feel so…

“Hansel? Edgar? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I whisper, but I’ve started feeling…

Terror.

Can’t breathe. Trying, but I need to…

Stop.

“Stop asking me about her!”

“Edgar?”

I need a fucking exit.

             
Need to get these restraints off my arms…

              “How are you feeling?”

God, my heart is going fast.                                         

Gas station sign.

Foot on the brake. Fuck, I can barely steer the car.

“Charged with manslaughter… You weren’t… Tell us that you’re not considered… other family members… Shelly’s family… Right here… Juvenile detention or…”

“Oh, God.”

I feel like I’m floating as I park the car.

Bathroom on the side of the building.

Stumbling; the door; open and shut. Blue tile.

             
“Been in the bathroom for a really long time…”

              “…another suicide attempt?”

              “Mrs. McKenzie, we wouldn’t recommend…”

              “But Shelly cared about him…very much.”

              “We have three girls…”

              “A brother.”

              “Tomorrow.”

              “…well enough.”

              “Take all the medicine…”

I sink down to the floor and work to get my numb, cold fingers to pull my shirt’s collar over my mouth and nose.

Breathe.

You can fucking breathe.

“Hansel?”

Please don’t call me that.

“Are you okay? Open the door!”

              “I didn’t do it. Please believe me, please, I didn’t…”

“Edgar!”

“…you know anything about the plans to murder and…”

“…when did she adopt you?”

I stagger up and smash my fist into the mirror just to make it STOP.

It has to stop.

“Stop!”

“Edgar? What’s the matter?”

I whirl around. She’s there. “Leah…”

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 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.

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 bellhop 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 bellboy 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.