Whoever Shelly is, she’s obviously very important to him. A whole lot more important than I am. I’m kind of glad, I guess. That he’s moved on. That he’s cared for someone, and she’s clearly not just one of his subs.
That’s a good thing, I tell myself. Maybe.
I don’t know what happened between them, but it seems intense.
I wonder if I should tell him any more about me. About how hard I tried to find him. How after we were rescued, my mom went back there with me and she went inside herself. How she was gone an hour while I waited in the car. How she emerged with three of his notebooks.
Stories for me. His fairy tales for me.
I look over at him and I don’t mean to—I just start talking. Murmuring to my lap. I can’t seem to lift my head full-on or speak at regular volume. “I ended up with your notebooks,” I whisper. “All those stories that you made up for me. That’s how I knew that you were real. Not just a dream or something. I still have them,” I tell him. And how sad is that? I guess that’s all this really is: just sad.
“Sorry,” I tell him. I lift my head.
His eyes slide over to mine, wide and heavy.
“I looked for you for so long. I didn’t know your name. I guess I built you up inside my head. I think I’m pretty normal sometimes, but I’m not.”
His face tightens.
“I used to run ads on Craig’s List,” I tell him as we near the sprawling MGM Grand. “All over Colorado, California, even Vegas once or twice. I would say ‘Leah Seeking Hansel’. I got replies, but they were never you.”
There’s so much more. How every time I closed my eyes at night for years, I could hear his voice and feel his hand in mine. How I would cry for him, any time, all the time. How I still do sometimes.
I don’t want to think about that right now—I don’t want to be in this car—so I look out the window, and as he turns into the driveway of the casino and hotel, I shut my eyes.
“I’m sorry this worked out so poorly.” I feel numb. Stupid.
When he slows down to let me off in front of the main entrance, I peek my eyes open and look over him. I find his face a mask of apathy.
As soon as the Range Rover comes to a stop, I push the door open. “Please send my things,” I tell him, never looking up.
I shut the door quickly and start to walk. I hear his engine rev. I whirl around. “Stop him,” I scream.
A bell hop sees me. “Him! The Range Rover!”
I watch, rooted to my spot, as the man in the casino uniform holds his hand out, then steps almost in front of Hansel’s car. The SUV lurches to a stop, and I sprint over.
By the time I reach the vehicle, the window is already rolled down, and he’s got his eyes trained on the space where I lean in.
My heart beats sickly. I’m aware of the bell boy behind me, taking a step back.
“If you’re not lying, if you really do own that place, I want to go. You can take me or I’ll take myself. But I need closure.” I rub a hand down my overheated face. “I need to put this mess behind me,” I say, raising my gaze to his.
His eyes hold onto mine, and I try to read them. Fail. Because there’s nothing in them. Because he doesn’t care, not even one iota.
When he leans across the empty passenger’s seat and pushes the door open, I’m so surprised I stand there dumbly for a second.
Then he lifts his brows.
That’s all the invitation I’m getting.
The wheels are rolling before I even shut the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucas
Thirteen Years Ago
I hate bathrooms.
She knows this—Mother—so she soaks in that big fucking tub all the time and makes me stay in here with her.
There’s a big, suede couch along one of the mirrored walls, so I usually just lie there while she talks to her damn self.
Some days bad, some days worse… This one is a night. I’m drunk. Red wine. I like to drink a lot—and Mother keeps passing out Xanax like it’s candy. Not so much of a mother, a I right?
This woman is a fick suck.
I mean a sick fuck.
I think about it, running away, but it’s so snowy. Lots of snow and no shoes. She’s got small feet. My feet are big. This wouldn’t work.
I sprawl my legs over the arm of the couch and look up at the ceiling. So white. So high. Way up there.
I can hear her splashing, and I close my eyes. The sound of water… That’s okay. I don’t like the mirrors. I don’t like the tile. Because of her. You know who.
Mother’s voice rings through the bathroom. My body twitches, and I realize I’ve been playing with my dick. Oops.
Sleeping in her bed¸ and I don’t have clothes here. No clothes. A lot of days or weeks—could it be months—and no clothes for me. That old fucking lady wants my dick. I swear she does.