When I’m sure I’m clean, I sit down on one of two peach-colored couches, set my twitching hands on my lap, and try to think beyond the foggy feeling in my head.
Hansel is here.
I’m pretty sure it’s him.
I won’t know for sure until I see his arm, but it just... It has to be.
And it makes sense. It makes this place make sense.
Why else would it look so similar?
That stage set…
Holy shit.
I bite down on my lip until I taste my own blood.
I can still see the woman lying, legs spread, on the green mattress. My mattress.
He remembers me.
Oh, God. That was Hansel.
I start breathing faster.
Do not hyperventilate, Leah!
I jump up, look around for something to put over my mouth. Seeing nothing else, I grab a hand towel from the sink and shove it into my mouth as tears start flowing like a faucet.
After what happened—
After how it ended—
I wanted you. I missed you!
How many times did I—do I still—dream of him? When my addiction first started, I drove out to Colorado and tried to find him.
Someone who would understand…
But there was nothing. No sign of the boy who was my companion in hell for months on end.
Hansel!
What is he doing here? Hansel is a sex-club owner? How the fuck am I supposed to take this?
I start to cry again—quiet, tired weeping—because I want to see him and I’m scared to.
I pace to the door, because I want to go back to the show; I want to see him, but I don’t. I can’t.
I’m standing directly in front of the bathroom door when it swings open, knocking me in the forehead so hard I fly back toward the sinks.
“Holy hell.” A tall, brown-eyed, red-haired girl wearing what looks like red ballerina gear grabs onto my shoulders.
I wriggle free of her and hold up a hand, squinting through my swollen eyelids.
“Tell me you’re not performing tonight,” she says when she gets a look at me. “Your eyes are a hot mess!”
She takes the towel from my hand and frowns at it, then me. “Are you okay?” I feel her eyes on my red jeans, on my black Star Wars shirt. “Do you even work here?”
“No.” I rub my forehead, then step over to the couch, where I sink down and fold my arms around myself. “I left the show,” I tell her tiredly. “Some guest services or whoever let me in.”
She glances into the mirror. Then at me. She makes a face like she’s considering what I said, then turns toward the stalls and opens a small door beside them that I didn’t notice at all until this moment.
She pulls out a dainty, black iron chair and pushes it over to the sinks. She plunks down in it, unzips the little black athletic bag she’s been carrying on her arm, and pulls out a turquoise makeup bag.
I run my eyes from her hair—it’s wild and damp—down her swanlike neck, over her perky breasts, spilling out of her red leotard, down her sparkly red tights, to her red slippers.
“Are you performing with Ha— Edgar?” I croak.
She laughs and turns toward me. “I wish.” She shakes her head, looking wistful. “He hardly ever does this anymore, you know?” Her gaze flicks over me again, as if she’s trying to make sense of who I am and what I’m doing here. “You see him in there? He’s really good.”
I nod. “Is it…a show? It’s not real, what they’re doing?”
“Oh, no.” She looks down into her bag and pulls out a pencil. She starts shading her eyebrows, hardly even bothering to look into the mirror. Her hand works quickly as she slides another glance at me. “His private life is very private. They say it’s messed up, but he makes all his subs sign gag orders. Don’t tell,” she says in a low voice, “but I’m thinking of trying out.”
“Trying out?” My stomach goes cold, like I just swallowed liquid nitrogen. “There are…try outs?”
“Oh yeah.” She nods, and moves the hand holding the brow pencil from one eye to the other. This time, she’s looking at the mirror. “I’ve never done it before, but there’ve been two try outs in the last few years, and one of my friends tried for the last one. You sign an NDA and go through a process. If you’re chosen from there, you interact with him. Let him dominate you.” She grins. “I’m really doing it only for that. I want to experience him. Edgar is a legend here in Vegas.”
I rub my lips together. It’s so weird, him going by Edgar.
I have a moment of panic where I wonder if it’s really him. How could it be? He wouldn’t do something like this. And yet—this place.
That set.
The body I saw on the stage.
I know him. It was Hansel.