Hansel 2(An Erotic Fairy Tale)(4)

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!”