Hansel 2(An Erotic Fairy Tale)(7)

“You may have a concussion,” one of them reiterates.

He rasps out a laugh. “I’ve got…no concussion.” He squints a little as his hand squeezes my arm. “I’m just…fuckin’ drunk.”

He starts moving, dragging me behind him, as we head toward a pair of metal doors topped by an EXIT sigh. He doesn’t turn to look at me again as we move, his hand tugging my arm. I move in front of him to hold the door open, and when we step through it, into a hallway that runs underneath the bleachers, toward the building’s edge, he stops and looks down at me.

His eyes are wide and a little confused, as if he knows I’m someone significant, but isn’t sure who.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Leah?” he chokes.

“Yeah.” Tears fill my eyes. His face swims.

His arms lock around me, and he’s leaning on me heavily. “Leah.” He wraps his arms around me, cradling my head. “Where’d you come from, Leah?” His voice breaks a little at the end—because he’s drunk, emotional, or both?

“I’m here in Vegas for my sister’s wedding,” I hear myself say.

He inhales. Exhales. I can’t see his face because he’s got it buried in my hair. “You smell…like you,” he whispers.

I tuck one hand behind his head, stroking his damp hair as I inhale. My heart beats hard. “You smell like you,” I tell him back. He doesn’t move for a long time, and I don’t either. Tears drip down my face as I hold his warm, strong body. I’ve missed him since Monday. But Monday wasn’t like this. He wasn’t calling me by my name. I love to hear him say my name.

I wrap one arm a little tighter around his back, because he’s shaking.

“Hey?” His name is on my lips, but I don’t know what he wants to be called. Maybe being called ‘Hansel’ bothers him, so I avoid it. “Are you okay?” He’s leaning on me pretty heavily, and his breathing seems a little fast.

“Hey…” I tilt his head up and come face-to-face with wild eyes. “Hey.” I cup his cheek. He’s bloody; bruised and fierce. I forgot his eye was swollen, but now that I see it, I realize how banged up he really is.

“Do you feel okay?” I ask. My hand moves to clasp his.

The hand I’m holding is the one with the scar on it. I remember what he told me about how he got to Mother. How he slit his wrist, and when he was out of it, drugged up, his adoptive family gave him to her.

God, of course he hates the hospital.

His eyes hold mine. He licks his lips. One side is puffy and bleeding. “I’m a-right. Just…drunk.”

And that he is. I wrap my arm around him, and we step out into one of the parking lots. An attendant comes up, asking for our receipt, but Hansel doesn’t have it. Somehow he produces his keys. He holds them out to me.

“You can drive,” he whispers.

I hold his hand, and his hand squeezes mine.

They go and get his car, and I can feel him swaying a little.

I stroke the top of his hand, and he groans. “Leah.”

A black Range Rover—Land Rover? I’m never sure the difference—rolls to a stop in front of us.

I lean my head against his arm. “Is this your car?”

He nods, then winces, as if the motion hurt.

I open his door for him and tip the valet, and he hoists himself in, moving as if he’s being careful. I wonder why he drank so much. Is it his habit, like my pills were?

I walk around to the driver’s side and take out my phone. I punch in The Enchanted Forest, and the address comes up.

He leans back against the seat, his hands in his lap, his eyes shut.

I note the classical music on the radio and turn it down a little. Nothing to make you feel dizzy and ultra drunk like shrill string instruments.

We’re caught in traffic on The Strip. He peeks his eyes open and looks up at me. He angles his big body toward me and blinks at me a few times. His eyes are practically rolling in his head.

“Are you…okay…Leah?” His hand grasps at my elbow. “You…okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Are you okay?”

One arm goes over his stomach and his eyes leave mine, returning abruptly to the road. “I don’t know,” he says roughly.

“Did you drink too much?”

“Yeah. I don’t ever drink,” he says. He takes a deep, unsteady breath, then looks at me as if there’s something more he wants to tell me.

“If you feel sick, tell me, okay? I can pull over.”

He puts a hand to his head.

I reach over and twine my hand through his free one, stroking his fingers as I drive. His fingers stroke mine back.

“Leah,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. His fingers on mine still.