Hansel 2: An Erotic Fairy Tale (2 page)

Then I dress for a night out.

Where am I going? I have no idea. I promise myself as I ride the elevator from my room on the eighth floor down to the lobby that I’m not looking for pills. I don’t need an oxy or a Xanax or anything else small and swallowable to get through the next fifteen hours. Alcohol should do just fine.

The elevator spits me out in one of the massive corridors, an extra-wide hallway with three-story ceilings, two-story artwork, dozens of outrageously themed alcoves, hundreds of little, name-brand storefronts, and so many tourists I can barely see the sparkling marble floor.

It’s hopping tonight—not as busy as the weekend, but still alarmingly crowded. I push my body through the throng, aiming for one of the help desks. When I get there, I ask a younger guy in a uniform for advice on a good bar inside the casino. If I’m getting smashed, I probably shouldn’t branch out far.

“What kind of bar?” He looks me over in a way I’m pretty sure he thinks is discreet, but is actually pretty obvious.

I shrug, struggling not to seem bitchy. “An interesting one?”

He pulls out a casino pamphlet and points to something on the second page. “Try X-Ray Machine. There’s a fight there tonight, and a strip club in the downstairs behind the ring, but if you don’t go to the basement, you won’t run into the traffic, and upstairs is a nice place. There’s a whole section just for trivia.”

I like trivia, and it will keep my mind occupied, so I get walking directions and head off to the chunk of space on the rear side of the building.

A snazzy, flashing, X-ray Machine-style sign greets me from the far end of the rear hall, and I lengthen my strides.

What will I have tonight? Lemon drop martinis? Vodka and tonic? How drunk do I want to get? I think I know the answer there…

At rehab, much is said about how anything can become your new addiction, but let’s be honest: hangovers suck. I’m not going to fall into the bottle after one night of forget-my-troubles drinking.

I slow down a little, and follow a lit-up, red arrow down some stairs and into the entrance of the X-Ray Machine before I realize I’ve accidentally gone down to the basement. I walk back up the stairs, go a few feet past the red arrow, and find the main entrance. It’s a popular place, with the crowd spilling out into the hallway. I make my way through the sea of shoulders and elbows, bypass the bar, and opt for a booth.

Sure, it’s kind of selfish. I’m only a party of one, but I want privacy tonight. To justify my decision, I order a large Caesar salad and a Dr. Pepper to gobble down before I start my lemon drop martinis. Then I rifle through the little plastic basket of crayons, stamps, and other random shit beside me, finally pulling out a small, plastic keypad. I look around for TVs and find the ceiling littered with them.

Mmmm, the trivia right now is about literature. Perfect.

Except not perfect. Because the section we’re on? Fairy tales. I’m not even kidding. I answer a few questions about Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood, even though thinking about any of those stories makes me think of him—the way he used to modify them to amuse me.

Eventually, I put the clicker down and stare numbly at my salad, unable to go back up to my room and equally unable to take a cab to The Forest. I’m leaving tomorrow. I will have to put this chapter of my life behind me or my life will start to fall apart.

Somewhere inside my head, a little voice whispers
it’s already there
, but I ignore it. I’m a businesswoman, damnit. I have an app. A bestselling app. I pay my own apartment rent in Georgia, and I go to spin class. So what if I don’t ever date? I know my vag has cobwebs, okay? Maybe I’m quirky, and the closest I’ve come to a crush in ten years has been that maybe-a-guy, maybe-a-girl author M. Pierce, because writer guys remind me of one story-telling guy—my hand-holder and fairy tale designer. But I live a perfectly good life.

Liar
.

I finish my drink, desperate to shut up that annoying little voice, and when the waiter stops back by, I order another.

Life is pain. That’s all I know, I think, a little drunkenly. You know why I got addicted to oxycodone? Because I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep, because I would look up at my ceiling in the dark, and worry I was trapped in whatever room I was in. Sometimes I had dreams, and I would wake up the next morning on the floor, beside the baseboard. Only instead of a little hole, and Hansel on the other side, my wall would be perfectly intact.

Just like my life now. There’s no drama in my life right now, but I’m finding the drama doesn’t have to be linear, occurring right here on this time plane. The past can find you anywhere you go.

I stand up, suddenly over-hot and antsy. I’ve got to go. I need to get out of here. Not out of the bar; out of the city. I want to go home—to Georgia.

Suddenly, I feel angry at how much time I’ve wasted wanting…what? A teenage boy? I get out of the booth, and I try to convince myself I’m in love with a memory. The man who bathed me in the tub Monday: I don’t even know him. I don’t miss him. I don’t want him. Edgar is no one to me, and Hansel is long gone.

I’m not brave enough to go to him as “me,” with the mask off, so check mate. Why am I still here?

I start toward the door, and I’m mid-stride when I hear “Edgar.” It’s followed directly by the words “ass kicked.”

I whirl around, trying to figure out who said it, and find two bouncers standing guard beside the stairs that lead down to the fights.

I step over to them, feeling bold and glittery thanks to my martinis. “Excuse me—did I hear you guys say Hansel?”

“Hansel?” One frowns.

Oops. “Edgar, I mean. Did you say something about Edgar?”

The confusion on their faces smooths away, and one of them smiles. “You know Edgar? Forest Edgar?”

My throat seizes up, so I can’t draw in air. I manage a nod.

“Decent guy,” one of them says, as if that’s surprising. “He’s downstairs kicking ass at charity fight night. It’s an open night, any walk ons. He just showed up, and he’s good.”

The taller guy rolls his muscled shoulders. “You gotta expect it, you know. He likes to dominate.”

He says ‘dominate’ in a joking tone, but I’m hardly listening.

“Do you mean he’s fighting?”

“Yeah, babe.” Smirk. “You wanna see?”

“So he’s downstairs?”

Another smirk. “Yep. Right downstairs.”

The guys exchange a look at my expense, and I start breathing fast.

Fate is something I’ve spent a lot of time considering. Why was it me and not Laura? Why me and not Lana? Why was it anyone? There were years I spent feeling like I’d find Hansel again. Like it was fated to happen. Those years have been followed by a few I’ve spent telling myself that’s ridiculous. I wanted him, and so I lied to myself. Fate? Fate is nothing more than the occasional favor of probability.

Isn’t it?

“How much does it cost?” I hear myself rasp. One of the bouncers is holding a money bag, and I don’t have cash.

The taller one winks. “It’s free for you, Gretel.”

My head goes cold as the blood drains from my cheeks. I nod once and hurry down the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE

Lucas
 

This is. For Leah. This fucking. Drunk. Shit. Fighting. For. Leah. I’m. Fucking. Drunk. And. I forgot. No pain. Drunk. Means. No. Pain.

Fuck
.

I continue slamming Hank McGillin’s face until I’m bathed in blood. Until my fist feels broken. Until he’s moaning on the floor. Until they haul him off.

I can’t feel the pain the way I want, and so I agree to take the next one, too. Double the winnings.

“Michaellllll Howwwarrrrrdddddddddd!”

I grin.

Fuck me hard—just how I like.

Cause this guy is a motherfuckin’ pro.

*

Leah
 

He’s holding his own—barely.

The girl beside me screams like she’s being stabbed every time the other guy—Howard—gets a hit. My head throbs. My heart throbs. It feels like this has been going on for hours, although I know it’s probably only ten or fifteen minutes.

Hansel makes contact on the other guy’s side.

Howard strikes out, popping Hansel in his raised forearm.

There’s a brief break in the brawling. Hansel and Howard circle one another. Hansel’s fists are dripping blood. His left eye is swollen almost shut.

Howard backs away, then jumps close for a rib-shot.

Hansel stumbles a little, then straightens up and grins. The crowd cheers, and deep down in my shredded heart, I hate that grin. It’s one I’ve never seen before, and there is nothing good or glad about it. It’s just…pure suffering.

“Does he come here much?” I yell to the bouncing girl beside me.

‘Edgar’ seems to have a lot of fans.

“What?” She glances at me. I see her mouth the words to my question, and I see the understanding on her face as she gets it.

“No.” She shakes her red head. “Never,” she mouths. I can’t hear the word at all, because they’re going again.

Hansel gets him in the belly.

Howard doubles over.

It’s a fake-out. Howard bounces up and smashes his bare fist into Hansel’s temple.

I shriek as Hansel flies back, his shoulders and elbows catching on the rope that lines the ring. He staggers up, and Howard is on him: throwing punches at his chest and sides.

The girl beside me wails.

I can’t even speak as I watch his neck snap back once, twice, three times.

Then he spits out blood and goes for Howard’s throat.

Hansel wrestles the pro fighter to the floor, not via his superior technique, but because he’s fighting dirty. Going for the throat, the eyes, the mouth.

He gets his hands around Howard’s throat and despite Howard hammering away at his chest and sides, Hansel won’t let go.

Howard’s fists get slower, and I start to feel a rush of panic.

A second later, the dinger starts to
ding ding ding ding ding ding ding!

“ANNNNNNND THE WINNER
IS
…EDGAR FROM THE ENCHANTED FOREST PLEASURE CLUB, fighting for The Dave Thomas Foundation!”

I watch in awe and horror as two big men in black pants and gray jackets grab Hansel by his arms and drag him off Howard. He grins a bloody grin and lifts his fist up. Someone puts a giant, gold mug in his other hand, and he wobbles just a little as he climbs out of the ring.

He’s wearing only a pair of black swim-trunk looking shorts. My eyes cling to his broad, blood-streaked back as he’s led around the ring, past a crowd of mostly women congregating in the middle of the fighting arena.

Every move he makes is like a needle poke to my already fragile heart. He rubs his forehead and mine aches. He rolls one shoulder up and leans his ear against it, like his neck is sore. I want to go ask if it is. He stiffens his big body while he poses for a picture with someone, and I watch as a woman in a bikini rushes up and fills his golden mug with liquor.

Hansel
.

All I can see from my seat, twenty-something rows up, is his broad back and shoulders, hunched a little as he takes a drink. Another scantily clad woman puts her hand on his shoulder, saying something to him.

Someone turns the music up, and the next pair of fighters enter the ring to less fanfare than Hansel and his opponent. Everyone around the ring is still gathered around him. A third woman is there now, stroking his shoulder, leaning close to whisper in his ear.

So strange to me, seeing him here. Almost stranger than the club, because this place is almost ordinary. It’s hard for me to comprehend that he lives here, that he’s sailed on through time and space, growing, changing, and I should see him in a common place like this.

Every detail of him lights me up inside. The dampness of his hair. In the bright lights of the arena, I can see the subtle wave of it; he wears it short now. How short? My fingers want to feel each little hair. I’m intrigued by his nape: the strength of it. I can see the muscles flexing as he looks down at his drink, occasionally glancing up to say something to a female fan as he and the men in jackets move slowly toward a metal door to the right of the ring. The way he looks up as another woman hands him what looks like a shirt. The way he takes it from her, nodding slightly. His arms are art, the biceps bulging slightly as he pulls the t-shirt on. The elegance of the inside of his elbow; I can feel it deep down in my belly. That part is soft. I remember how soft. His forearms are flawless; where they were lean and lightly muscled when I knew him, now they’re taut and hard. His hands. What to say about the beauty of a man’s hands? And those are my man’s hands.

Another woman drapes an arm around him, and my body burns. It’s as if my lies—the lies I told myself tonight—are seeping out my pores.

That I don’t want him.