My fingers shake as I put on some light makeup and dry my hair. When I finally step back out into the room, I find him dressed in dark jeans, a different pair of boots—these are brown, and not as crappy—and a green sweater that somehow seems to emphasize the yellow flecks in his hazel eyes.
I laugh, because his hair is wet, which means he showered, too.
“What’s so funny?” His lips curl fractionally, as if he agrees that something is, but isn’t quite sure how much so.
“You take my shower?” I ask him.
He nods once, looking me over as he does.
I’m wearing black jeans and a red sweater. My hair is blown out, hanging to my shoulders, and despite how off I feel, my face is made-up like nobody’s business, right down to my favorite red lipstick.
I’m holding the handle of my rolling suitcase. He steps forward to grab it, moving quick and graceful.
“Let me get that for you.” He nods at the door. “Everything else from your room and mine is already loaded in the car.”
I’m nervous as we walk side-by-side down the hallway. Really nervous.
This is what you wanted, I tell myself. You wanted nice Hansel again. Remember?
And I do, but I am nervous. Why the change?
On the elevator down, I feel his eyes lap up and down me, assessing but admiring, too. He shifts his stance a little, and I swear I see his hand flit briefly to his pants.
As we walk through the lobby, his hand bumps into mine, and I get the weirdest feeling that he did it on purpose. Like today, he wants to touch me.
That’s weird, too.
The automatic doors swish open, and a cold wind slaps against us as we step into the parking lot. His car is right there, idling below the hotel’s awning. Above a row of bushes that surround the lot, I can see the mountains rising stark unto the pale sky.
He lets go of my luggage and gets the door for me, and as I slide into my seat, I can’t help remembering the thickness of his cock inside my throat. Inside my pussy. Is that what’s behind all of this? Enthusiasm for Sex Leah? It doesn’t make sense, though, because he’d loaded my room down with all that stuff before he even brought me up to it last night.
I get into the car and shut the door, and then I see the open console. It’s filled with Neutragrain bars of every flavor, two packs of Pepto, and a small bottle of ginger ale.
*
“I have a really bad stomach,” I tell him, angling my cheek, propped on my arm, so I can see through our wall hole.
“Mine is iron. It can handle more than I can.” He smiles a little, and it’s a miserable smile. The sort of aching smile that makes me wonder what he does when he leaves his room.
“That sounds like a mixed blessing,” I tell him.
“Maybe.”
That very afternoon, she comes for him. An hour later, when he returns, he doesn’t speak to me—he never does; just heads to his cot—but he stops at the peep hole to leave two round Pepto Bismol chewables.
That night, after he knocks, and we meet at the peep hole, and I sing, I have to hide tears from him.
Mother stopped bringing him pencils, he told me recently. “Just charcoal and oil paints.”
That means this hole will never get much bigger than the width of his forearm.
A sob sneaks out, and his hand clutches mine.
“What’s the matter, Leah?”
“I’m just...lonely.”
*
Lucas
We’ll be there in an hour, and I’m worried.
I was fucking stupid, agreeing to bring her to this place. All day, since the moment I saw her lying half asleep in bed, I’ve known she was…at risk. For what, I’m not quite sure, but I swear to God you could see it in her eyes this morning: something bare and cautious. Something hurt.
The first two hours, I tried talking to her. Shit, I know it wasn’t perfect. I didn’t know what the hell to say, so I asked her dumb shit, like if she liked the biscuit that we picked up at a fast food restaurant.
I gave her the blanket I packed, not one from the club’s bedding, but one I keep in my room when I’m away for a few days. It’s fleece, pale blue, and even though it’s Echo’s, it’s not one I think would be missed, so I take it with me.
I like seeing her wrapped in Echo’s blanket, but the more we drive, the smaller she seems. And now we’re here, just past Grand Junction, and I’m feeling fucking ill because she’s been fake sleeping for two hours.
What should I say to her?
I’m not good at this shit.
I wonder what she’d say if I kept driving right past the Arapahoe National Forest turnoff, where the house is. We could go straight down to Denver. She grew up in Boulder. Maybe she would feel better being there again.
My head feels hot. My throat feels tight.