Hansel 1-4: The Complete Series (21 page)

And then it’s morning.

He’s in one bed. I’m in the other. But hey…no wall.

I’m so tired from a good night’s sleep, I can hardly remember how it happened.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leah
 

Everything is different today.

Maybe it’s the frigid air blowing down over the mountains, turning the sunlight pale and filmy, like the dull light of a memory. Maybe it’s the cinnamon rolls, which I haven’t eaten much since the summer I was thirteen, and Lana went insane for all things cinnamon, forcing Laura and I to join her on a Cinnamon Toast Cereal diet for a whole week. Maybe it’s the waking up beside him. The way his eyes roll over me as he props his hand up on his head: possessive, almost. Thirsty.

He doesn’t speak to me, just checks me over with his eyes, but I can tell from the moment he walks across the room and pushes one of the curtains open, then turns and walks toward the bathroom, that he isn’t angry today. Not like yesterday.

He’s in the bathroom for a few minutes, and I hear the shower going, so I grab the sheet off my bed, wrap it around myself, and start to pad back to my own room to get dressed. The bathroom door opens in front of me just as I approach. He’s standing there with a towel tucked around his hips, steam drifting out into the room.

“I ran the water for you,” he says simply.

Then he steps into the little hall area and nods at the bathroom.

My stomach clenches. “Thank you.”

I don’t have any of my toiletries on hand, but I’ll be damned if I won’t enjoy the shower he ran for me, so I step into the bathroom, shut the door and drop the sheet, and get into the shower with a handful of hotel soaps.

“Ahhh.” I sigh.

There’s nothing like a nice, hot shower.

A few seconds later, I hear the door open, and my heart begins to race. The curtain opens just a little, and my soaps and shampoo appear on the tub’s side.

“Take your time,” he says. I see a brief flash of his big hand, pulling the curtain shut. Then he’s gone.

I do what he says and take my time bathing every part of myself. I think about last night with him, unable to keep my mind from the gutter of reimagining his gorgeous cock. I used to laugh at Lana for calling it a cock, but now I understand completely. When it’s that big, when it’s that perfect, there’s no other word.

As I wash my hair, my thoughts turn to Mother’s house, and to the day she took me. I let the memories play out even though they make me sick—or maybe that’s the hot water. I turn the shower off and dry myself, and then the door opens again, and he rolls my suitcase inside.

He’s quick. It’s really just his arm I see, and then the door is shut again.

My fingers shake as I put on some light makeup and dry my hair. When I finally step back out into the room, I find him dressed in dark jeans, a different pair of boots—these are brown, and not as crappy—and a green sweater that somehow seems to emphasize the yellow flecks in his hazel eyes.

I laugh, because his hair is wet, which means he showered, too.

“What’s so funny?” His lips curl fractionally, as if he agrees that something is, but isn’t quite sure how much so.

“You take my shower?” I ask him.

He nods once, looking me over as he does.

I’m wearing black jeans and a red sweater. My hair is blown out, hanging to my shoulders, and despite how off I feel, my face is made-up like nobody’s business, right down to my favorite red lipstick.

I’m holding the handle of my rolling suitcase. He steps forward to grab it, moving quick and graceful.

“Let me get that for you.” He nods at the door. “Everything else from your room and mine is already loaded in the car.”

I’m nervous as we walk side-by-side down the hallway. Really nervous.

This is what you wanted
, I tell myself.
You wanted nice Hansel again. Remember?

And I do, but I am nervous. Why the change?

On the elevator down, I feel his eyes lap up and down me, assessing but admiring, too. He shifts his stance a little, and I swear I see his hand flit briefly to his pants.

As we walk through the lobby, his hand bumps into mine, and I get the weirdest feeling that he did it on purpose. Like today, he wants to touch me.

That’s weird, too.

The automatic doors swish open, and a cold wind slaps against us as we step into the parking lot. His car is right there, idling below the hotel’s awning. Above a row of bushes that surround the lot, I can see the mountains rising stark into the pale sky.

He lets go of my luggage and gets the door for me, and as I slide into my seat, I can’t help remembering the thickness of his cock inside my throat. Inside my pussy. Is that what’s behind all of this? Enthusiasm for Sex Leah? It doesn’t make sense, though, because he’d loaded my room down with all that stuff before he even brought me up to it last night.

I get into the car and shut the door, and then I see the open console. It’s filled with Neutragrain bars of every flavor, two packs of Pepto, and a small bottle of ginger ale.

*

“I have a really bad stomach,” I tell him, angling my cheek, propped on my arm, so I can see through our wall hole.

“Mine is iron. It can handle more than I can.” He smiles a little, and it’s a miserable smile. The sort of aching smile that makes me wonder what he does when he leaves his room.

“That sounds like a mixed blessing,” I tell him.

“Maybe.”

That very afternoon, she comes for him. An hour later, when he returns, he doesn’t speak to me—he never does; just heads to his cot—but he stops at the peep hole to leave two round Pepto Bismol chewables.

That night, after he knocks, and we meet at the peephole, and I sing, I have to hide tears from him.

Mother stopped bringing him pencils, he told me recently. “Just charcoal and oil paints.”

That means this hole will never get much bigger than the width of his forearm.

A sob sneaks out, and his hand clutches mine.

“What’s the matter, Leah?”

“I’m just...lonely.”

*

Lucas
 

We’ll be there in an hour, and I’m worried.

I was fucking stupid, agreeing to bring her to this place. All day—ever since the moment I saw her lying half asleep in bed this morning—I’ve known she was…at risk. For what, I’m not quite sure, but you could see it in her eyes: something bare and cautious. Something hurt.

The first two hours we were in the car today, I tried to make up for being a dick yesterday by talking to her. Hello, I know it wasn’t perfect. I didn’t know what the hell to say, so I asked her dumb shit, like if she liked the biscuit that we picked up at a fast food place.

I gave her the blanket I packed, not one from the club’s bedding, but one I keep in my room at The Forest when I’m staying there for a few days. It’s fleece, pale blue, and even though it’s Echo’s, it’s not one I think would be missed, so I take it with me.

I like seeing her wrapped in Echo’s blanket, but the more we drive, the smaller she seems. And now we’re here, just past Grand Junction, and I’m feeling fucking ill because she’s been fake sleeping for two hours.

What should I say to her?

I’m not good at this shit.

I wonder what she’d say if I kept driving right past the Arapahoe National Forest turnoff, where the house is. We could go straight down to Denver. She grew up in Boulder. Maybe she would feel better being there again.

My head feels hot. My throat feels tight.

No she wouldn’t, asshole. She was taken from there. Why do you think her family moved to Georgia?

Her closed eyelids are making me crazy. I feel fucking sick, and I’ve got a goddamned iron stomach.

We pass through Fairplay, Jefferson… Sprawling valleys, lots of sky, and of course, the snow-capped peaks.

I want to say her name. To take her hand. I know for damn sure she’s not asleep. Why won’t she talk to me? I hope to fuck it’s because I’ve been such an ass, and not because she’s worried about where I’m taking her.

Why did I agree to this?

What’s wrong with me?

Our highway road winds between massive mountain peaks, twining alongside a river, and I know we’re nearly at the turnoff to the national forest. I hang a sharp and sudden left, pulling into the parking lot of a local diner with a log cabin façade and a wrap-around porch.

As I park, her eyes slit open. Slide to me.

“Han— Edgar?”

“You can call me Hansel,” I say in a low voice. “Edgar is a stage name, and you’re right…it’s kind of fucking stupid.” I lean toward her, struggling to keep my fingers from a strand of hair that’s drifting in the stream of warm air from the heat. I want that silk between my fingers. Want to tuck it behind her ear, just so I can feel her. Instead, I rest my fucked-up right hand on the console between us and try to make my point.

“Listen, Leah, do you want to turn around—or keep driving? The turnoff isn’t far, but this is fucking dumb. I’ve got one thing to do there with plumbing. I can do it after I take you to the airport. You can change your mind.”

Her mouth draws up, and she shakes her head, but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes are trained on the wood and stone building in front of us, with a sign advertising
Best Burgers Around
.

“No,” she says. “I need to do this.”

I exhale, clenching my jaw for a moment before I back out of the lot.

“We can make it fast,” I say as I pull out onto 285. It’s a struggle to keep my gaze off her face and on the road. “I stay there some, and I changed how it looks. It doesn’t look the way it used to.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wrap her arms around herself. “That seems strange,” she says softly.

My throat feels full and tight. To answer her, to talk about this shit…it kind of throws me off, but I ask, “Why?”

“Well, you made The Forest look like it, that’s all. I would think you would want it to look the same.”

I try to think of how to answer her. I’ve gotten used to hiding myself from people, so it’s hard to think of being honest—even with Leah.

A moment later, she turns her head to look at me. “You really stay there? I wish I could understand why.”

She widens her eyes, and I decide to give her something honest. “Because…I like to leave.” The words feel big in my throat and clumsy on my tongue.  “The groundskeeper watches it when I’m not there,” I say, as if that matters.

Then we’re at the turn. It’s just a little dirt road, marked by two food carts set off over to the left. We’re in a rural ass area, so I’m not sure who buys the jerky and burgers these guys sell, but I guess someone does, because the carts are always there. 

In late fall and winter, the forest is closed off sometimes, but I’m a resident. As long as my car can make it, I don’t let the snow or cold restrict me.

The road is bumpy, sharply curving, lined with trees and topped by low-lying power lines that service other houses tucked away in the forest. We pass a modern-looking home with a large, grassy yard and a swing set sitting unused at this moment. On the left of the road, a river runs; over it, metal and wood bridges stretch, leading to houses.

“We’ve got a few more miles. We’re on the other side of the forest, more toward Georgetown,” I tell her.

I watch her look around as I navigate the dirt road. It winds up through mountain peaks so high they’re void of everything but rock and snow. Gravity bears down on my chest because it’s high up here—about twelve thousand feet above sea level. I’m used to the sensation, having come here dozens of times since our captivity. But Leah isn’t. I can see her panic in the pallor of her face.

I open my mouth to suggest we turn around, or just keep driving on to Georgetown. We’re descending slightly from the last summit we passed, surrounded by nothing but the rock-scattered desolation of the high Rockies. All along the left of the road is a frozen lake. I think something in her recognizes it, because, as I wind slowly down the road, toward the fork that leads to Mother’s place, her lips press flat and her shoulders stiffen.

I hold my right hand out for her to grab, then realize she probably won’t, because it’s swollen and still wrapped up in gauze from yesterday.

She’s got her left elbow propped on the console, so I just let my fingers brush it gently.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Her eyes, stretched wide, slide over to meet mine. My chest aches as I slow the car from twenty to ten. Over to our left, there’s a smaller dirt road, winding past some aspens, down a slight slope.

“Leah.” Her name catches in my throat. “This is the turnoff, baby. Are you sure you want to—”

“Yes,” she whispers. Her gaze clings to mine. “But…can I hold your arm?”

I hold my arm out to her, fucking glad to be of use in some way. “Hold on all you want. We’ll make this fast.” With my left hand, I start to steer us down the half-mile drive, down the slightly sloping, twenty-acre valley that I bought with money from my real estate investments. 

“Can…we go inside?” she whispers as we drive between the aspens, with their thin, pale trunks and small, round, orange leaves. She’s got her head turned toward them, looking out the window. My heart pounds as I wonder how much of this she remembers. As I think about the last time she would have seen this driveway: the day the police came and took her somewhere safe.