I watch her reach up to her head and pull the mask off as she moves. From behind, I see her toss it as she pushes through the thick metal door. Clack. It’s swung open, and I run behind her.
She starts down the stairs to the back parking lot.
I call out, but she’s through the door.
I lengthen my strides and burst through a few seconds behind her: shirtless and wild-eyed, with my hands reached out in case I find her standing stationary at the top of the stairs.
That’s the position that I’m in when my world freezes.
When I see her, moving horizontally across the parking lot, maskless, and with one hand raised up to her cheek.
When I see her weeping as she runs.
My eyes can’t accept it. My feet stop. I can hear her sobbing.
I know that sound. I may not know her body, but I know the sound of her tears.
Leah.
It’s yelled. It echoes through my mind.
“Leah. Leah.” Whispered words.
I grab onto the railing. Grip it hard as my legs go numb and cease to hold my weight.
That’s Leah walking toward a row of cars.
Leah is leaving.
She’s crying.
She’s fucking here!
It’s a miracle.
A tragedy.
A fantasy: gone bad or come to life?
I sink into a crouch and slam my palm over my mouth before I turn around and stagger back inside, where I’m sick on the hardwood floor, aglow in torch light.
CHAPTER TWO
Leah
I hang up the phone and pull my legs up in the chair out on my balcony. Four days after Lana’s wedding, three days after the rest of my family has flown home, and I’m still at the MGM Grand Casino.
I finally did it. Just now booked a ticket for tomorrow. At three-thirty, I’ll be flying from here to Atlanta, going back to my life.
I inhale deeply. Hug my legs.
I want to feel okay, but ever since Monday afternoon, I just…can’t.
It’s so hard for me to comprehend what happened; sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. I found Hansel. That alone is almost unfathomable. I fond Hansel in Vegas, in a sex club—that he owns—rather than in a police uniform, on a fire man’s ladder, at the blackjack tables, in a sports car.
The boy I knew ten years ago was endlessly giving, always funny, patient, and kind. He took care of me. So I’m still tripping over the idea that he owns a place where women—and men—are paid for having sex in front of an audience.
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex clubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch him, feel his hands on me. His mouth on me. I heard his laugh. I was there with Hansel, after ten long years of wanting nothing more than him. How could I forget that? How could I want to?
I…fuck, I don’t know. Can I say I love him? Is that insane? It’s been ten years, plus the soul-sucking experience of Monday afternoon, and still…I want him with both mind and body.
I reach onto the table beside me, grab a chocolate-covered strawberry, and pop it into my mouth. I eat a few more while I stare out at the hazy Vegas sunset, streaking in between the billboards and buildings.
I’ve been sitting out here almost all day and night since leaving The Forest Monday evening. Sitting out here, trying to tell myself to close this door. Cut my losses and go home.
He didn’t know I was me, but if he had? I’ve got no reason to assume he’d care. I’ve got every reason to assume he wouldn’t want to see me at all, given an option. Or if he did, he wouldn’t want more than a ten minute hi-how-are-ya. He wouldn’t see the two of us as having anything in common anymore. I don’t know for sure, of course, but that’s what I think would happen.
So here I sit, stuffing my face and avoiding the thought that I’m leaving tomorrow. Avoiding the extreme….the extreme disappointment, I think as tears start to flow.
I was right there with him, and I didn’t play it right. I couldn’t make him want to keep me there.