I park in the circle drive in front, where a few valets come our way, and his eyes open. They’re warm, but…distant. “You’ve got a pretty mouth,” he murmurs. “Want to come with me?”
He shifts his shoulders, like his upper body is uncomfortable, and as he does, his shirt tugs, revealing a compact disc-sized blood stain underneath his arm, over his ribs.
“Shit. You’re bleeding.” Not just there; the little spot on his head is still oozing, too.
His vacant gaze clings to mine. “I can still fuck you.” He reaches down between his legs, and I’m shocked to find he’s hard.
Who is this man? He’s nothing like the Hansel who greeted me earlier today, and he’s nothing like the guy I knew.
“Let’s get out. I’ll go in with you.”
“That’s why you’re not her,” he says in a low, dark voice, as I reach for the door handle. “No one is. I try to find them.”
“Who do you try to find?” I ask.
“Other hers.” I’ve got one leg out the door. I step all the way out, then lean back in, despite the valet waiting behind me.
“You mean…submissives?” I ask.
“I don’t have subs... Did you read…the NDA?” His words are whispered. Someone opens his door, and I rush around to that side. I find him staring blankly at the warehouse-style building, ignoring the offers of help from one of the valets and swaying slightly on his feet.
I wrap my arm gently around his back, relishing the feel of his body under mine. I follow one of the valets’ pointing fingers toward a side door, where I help him up the stairs, moving slowly, at his pace.
I keep expecting him to say something else, but he never even looks at me as we come to the door. He stands there, breathing shallowly and staring at it, and a second later, it opens from the inside.
As soon as we step into the dark, torch-lit hallway, it seems like the entire staff at The Forest rushes around us.
“Is Edgar ill?” asks one with a French accent.
“What the fuck happened to him?” one of the bouncers asks. He looks at me as if I did something to ‘Edgar’.
“Is he…drunk?” another says, clearly dismayed.
His wide eyes slide to mine.
“Back off, you guys.” They look at him, and then do what I ask. I glance around the semi-circle at the four men, dressed in black.
“He was in a fight, at X-ray Machine at the MGM Grand. Before that, I think he drank a lot.” I fix my gaze on a face I remember from the other night. “Can you find Raymond please?”
The guy frowns slightly, like he’s trying to make sense of who I am. Then Hansel sneers, “You heard her,” and they all take off.
He chuckles a little, latching hands with mine as we move slowly down the hall. He stops in front of a door I’d have never noticed, tucked behind an indoor plant, and with the handle. As his hand closes around it, a little blue light flares.
He grins, silly, then smug. “Software,” he announces proudly.
We step through the door, into a private hall I think is his, and he looks left and right. “This way,” he tells me, tilting his head left. I follow him, and am relieved to see what seems to be a familiar door a few yards later.
He wraps his hand around the doorknob again, and it lights blue again. His eyes are heavy, but his mouth tucks up a little in a funny smile.
“Come in,” he tells me.
He staggers through the door and drops down on his couch. His eyes slip shut, and a second later, the man with the fro and the suspenders comes into the room.
As soon as he sees me, he frowns, clearly suspicious. “You’re the girl—from Monday.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here—in that?” he asks, gesturing to my street clothes, I guess.
I sigh. Hansel’s eyes are still shut, so it’s up to me to explain. “I saw him at a fight. He’s drunk, and I think he got hit in the ribs during the fight. He didn’t want to call a doctor…”
“No,” Raymond says sternly. “He wouldn’t want that. I’ve known him ten years, and never a doctor.”
“Never? Why not? Does he never get sick?”
Raymond shakes his head. “He won’t go.” He frowns a little at me, clearly suspicious. “You know each other? I feel that you know each other.”
“We’ve met before,” I say softly. “But he doesn’t know I’m the girl from Monday.”
He taps his finger on his chin, considering; then he shakes his head. “He doesn’t drink, hardly ever does he drink. I can help him now. It’s my job, not yours.”
“I can do it,” I say sharply. My heart pounds at the idea of being separated from him. “I brought him this far, I don’t mind getting him settled. Unless you’re going to call a doctor or a nurse? Do you have someone like that here?”
Raymond shakes his head. “No doctor.”
God, that’s weird.
“Well I know all the basics. If you have a first aid kit?”
Raymond presses his lips together. “I’m not sure how he would feel if—”
“I helped him?”
He nods.
“I signed an NDA, remember?”
He nods slowly, obviously checking me out, trying to discern some ulterior motive. “If you’re sure…” His mouth pinches as he hands me a business card. “Here’s my number. Call me. Update me. I’ve been with him for a long time.”
“You care about him. I can see that.”
He isn’t satisfied until he asks ‘Edgar’ how he is, and Hansel nods and gives a little smile.
“Is she still here?” he asks, blinking slowly. He looks around the room, and when his eyes find me, he grins a little. “That’s Leah,” he says to Raymond.
“You mind if she stays here?”
He starts to shake his head, then winces. “I want her to,” he whispers.
“Okay.” Raymond slaps his knee.
Finally, the man leaves. Hansel’s eyes stay shut, and I have a moment of panic wondering what to do with him. Raymond didn’t mention the First Aid kit. Is there one? I rush into the kitchen and check a few cabinets, finding a fully stocked kitchen but no First Aid kit. I check the guest bathroom and there are three. A creepy feeling wriggles through me as I think of what they’re for. Submissives, cleaning themselves up? Cleaning him up?
I open one and go back to where he’s sitting on the couch. I clean the wound on his head—he doesn’t move at all, or even open his eyes—and then peek under his shirt at the wound there. I don’t see a puncture wound, but there is clearly blood covering the right side of his abs.
Deciding I will figure this out in the bathroom, I place my hand on his cheek. “Wake up…Edgar?”
His eyes flutter.
“Can you get up? I’ll help you.”
I tuck my shoulder under his arm and push upward, urging him to his feet. I wrap my arm around his back and lead him through his bedroom. He walks haltingly, as if each step is almost too much for his legs. In the bathroom, he looks in the mirror for a long moment. I try to see what’s in his mind, but his face is so stoic. So blank.
I look around, hoping to find a comfortable spot, but the leather couches are firm and cold—I remember that—and the plush rugs covering the floor look both clean and soft.
I ease him down, and he settles cross-legged, lids low, head slightly bowed.
“Edgar?” His eyelids flutter just a little, then slide shut. I touch his knee. “Hey—um, can you help me get your shirt off?”
He doesn’t move, so I look in the First Aid kit and pull out a tiny pair of sharp scissors. I consider the shirt a moment: white, and stained with crimson, before cutting up the back and pulling it down his big, hard arms in the front.
It falls to the floor, and he peeks one eye open, holding my gaze for an unknowable second before shutting his eyes again.
I run my gaze down him, stunned by the number of bruises.
“Harder. Do it harder.”
Something cool and fluttery settles
at the bottom of my throat. I can’t look at his face as I check each of the bruises. I lift his arm and find a neat tear high up on his side, near the top of his ribcage. It’s at least three inches long, and…really…open. I suck back a breath and rifle in the kit, coming out with a neat square of gauze. I rip it open, press it over the wound, then move it off and rustle for a disinfectant. The next few minutes, while I doctor the wound and worry over whether it needs stitches, Hansel is quiet and still, sitting up but clearly somewhere else.
The moment that I’m finished, he lays down on his unhurt side, his cheek on the inside of his bicep, his body slightly curled, the way I think he always was when he would talk to me. He doesn’t even open his eyes again before he starts getting sick.
“Shit!”
I roll him further his side and grab some towels. Then I hold his head.
“Shelly. Shelly,” he moans, “don’t leave me.” His voice cracks on her name. “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be good.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucas
Twenty-two years ago
I’m watching by the bushes. Watching for her car. It’s a white Cambry. It smells like fruit inside of it. It smells like her.
Her name is Shelly Powers. She’s my social worker.
Usually I want to see her all the time, but…not this time. It’s at night.
I wrap the top of the trash bag around my hand and look down at it. It kind of hurts. I slip my hand out, and the yellow tie part droops down.
I look down at the bag instead of at the driveway. It’s big and fat and black. Inside of it, that’s where my clothes are.
I don’t have a lots of clothes. My shoes are in there, too. My Ninja Turtle shoes. I like them. Shelly bought them for me. But Drew, my brother that lives here, said it wasn’t Shelly. He said it was somebody named The State.
I wonder if that’s where Shelly will take me when she picks me up in her Toy Yoda Cambry. I don’t think that I would like that. State sounds kinda like Stage, and there’s a boy at my kindergarten—Adam Stage—that isn’t nice. He says I’m gross like girls. He says I smell like yucky cigarettes.
My Mommy at this house smokes cigarettes. They don’t smell very good.
She was a nice Mommy, but—
I swallow.
I look up at the driveway, ’cause now I want Shelly to come.
I don’t like it here. I used to, but…I don’t like it anymore.
I bring my thumb up to my mouth, but I don’t put it in. My teacher, Miss Landry, told me that I have to stop or I’ll be like a baby.
I don’t want to be a baby.
People don’t want babies, or little children. That’s why Jesus loves the little children. Cause nobody else does.
I bite on my lip and keep on looking at the trash bag.
Last time Shelly had to come and get me, I had a backpack. This time, my backpack is at Miss Landry’s class, in my cubby. I left it there on accident.
This time I have a big trash bag, and that’s better than only a backpack. It’s way big.
The inside of my mouth feels wet and kind of hot. My face is hot, too. My eyes kind of hurt, and in the front of my neck is hot, too.
I wish Shelly would come get me.
I don’t like to be out here.
I can hear the dog next door moving around inside his cage. He’s not a nice dog. He is mean.
I want a dog. Sometime, if I could get a dog, I know I would feed him every day.
I look over my shoulder at the front door.
Yesterday, I fell down while I was coming in the door. I wasn’t paying attention. That’s what my Mommy at this house said. She sounded angry.
The troll under the bridge in the Billy Goat’s Gruff is angry, too.
I see some lights coming toward the driveway, and I get a whole bunch sadder. I don’t want to cry, but I’m kinda scared I might. When Shelly comes to get me, sometimes I want to cry. I forgotted that I missed her till I saw her.
The car stops in front of me, and I think if maybe I should run away. She’s going to be mad. I’m scared to see her mad face. I never want to see her mad face. Never!
I like her hair. It’s white hair, but she says it is blond. ‘It’s pale blonde’. That’s what she says.
She gets out, and she walks in front of her car. The car’s lights make her look really dark, like a black shadow man that might be evil. I hold my breath. Her arms and legs move fast, like a shadow man for sure. But she doesn’t get me. She drops down and hugs me.
“Do you know how bored I was tonight, you little beast? I was working on a grad school paper and I thought ‘Man, I wish I could see Lucas! And then I got a call telling me to come and get you.’” She picks me up and spins me around, and I giggle in her neck.
“You smell like French fries! Did you eat some French fries?” she asks me.
I smile a little. “Yes. Mommy made them tonight.” I whisper at the end, because I’m leaving now. I’m not supposed to call her Mommy anymore, ’cause that’s the rules.
“French fries are my favorite!” She tosses me over her shoulder and steps toward the car. “Wait—where is your booster seat?”
“Booster seat?” I crane my head around.
“Do you have a booster seat, my man?”
I try to shrug, even though I kinda can’t, ’cause I’m on her shoulder. “I dunno.”
“It’s okay. We’ll figure out tomorrow. For now, how about I buckle you in right beside Larry the bear?”
I hug her neck as she shifts me off her shoulder and lowers me into the back seat. She hands me a big, brown bear.
“Tonight, you and Larry are going to a really nice lady named Amanda’s house. She likes to make cakes, and she sleeps with funny curlers in her hair. She’s kind of like a really nice grandmother.”
She rubs my head, and gets into her seat in front.
I start to gulp down air.
We’re backed out of the driveway before she realizes.
“Lucas, what’s wrong?”
I start to cry. I just can’t stop.
It’s really loud. I can’t stop.
“Hang on, okay? I’ll pull over. Just a second. Okay. Okay.” The lights come on. I cover my face.
Shelly is there. I feel her brush against me, unbuckling my seatbelt, sitting down beside me on the seat. She hugs me close to her. I cry like a dumb baby.
“What’s the matter, honey? Talk to Shelly.”
I cry more.
The words are stuck inside my mouth. There’s no more air around to say them with.
“No one wants me,” I say. “Only you.” I throw my arms around her and glue my body to her chest. “Shelly, will you be my Mommy? I love you, Shelly. Be my Mommy! Please, Mommy! I’ll be the best boy in the world!”
*
Leah
I hold him as silent tears flow down his cheeks. His shoulders and his chest tremble, but he never sobs. Even in this state, he’s holding back.
His ribs are bruising a little darker and look puffy all around the gauze patch. It must hurt to cry.
I whisper to him for a long time, saying, “it’s okay,” even though it isn’t. Even though my throat is so tight I’m afraid I won’t be able to draw my next breath. Even though I want to ask who Shelly is.
I try my best to save my thoughts and feelings for later. I keep on whispering, and stroking his arms, and finally, he seems to fall asleep—or pass out.
I wish I could put him in the tub, because I think there’s no way that wouldn’t feel good, but I don’t think I can get him in there. I can’t even get him to the shower, so I get towels and try to clean the blood off him and take care of a few more small cuts. I don’t take off his pants, just try to take care of his upper body and his face.
He rouses a little, and I get him over to the carpet of his room. I pile blankets on him and he starts to shiver. His breathing is slow and shallow.
“I want to stay,” he moans. “Please, can
I stay?”
“Of course you can. Don’t worry. You can stay as long as you want.”
I’m really worried that he’s still not lucid. I might need to call a doctor. I get my phone and call the number Raymond left.
“I think he needs a doctor,” I say quietly.
“Have you checked his pupils?” Raymond asks.
“No. Why can’t I call a real doctor? Is he afraid of them?”
I have the sharp, bizarre impulse to tell Raymond everything I know about the man beside me. Find out what I can about him from Raymond. Does he know his Edgar’s triggers? Who’s been taking care of him? What kind of person refuses to see a doctor for ten years?
He starts to whisper Shelly’s name again. I hold him, because he’s mine, and I can’t stand to see him hurt, but hearing her name gouges at my heart.
“Please don’t leave me, Shelly. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Edgar. I won’t leave.”
“Luke.” He frowns. “My name is Luke,” he whispers.
“Okay, Luke.” I stroke his hair. “You’re okay. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”
I check his pupils with a little flash light from the kit. They’re responsive, in the way I’m pretty sure they should be. He must just be drunk.
“Shelly,” he moans.
I kiss his temples as my stomach twists. “Do you love me?” My voice shakes. “Do you love Shelly?”
“I love you,” he whispers.
When he falls asleep again, I call Raymond.
When he arrives, I go.
CHAPTER SIXLucas
I wake up sore. Not in a bed. I can feel the hardness of the floor, or ground, beneath me.
That’s all I’m able to discern before the dryness of my mouth demands my full attention. I try to open my eyes, but even my eyelids are sticky.
Fuck.
The smallest movement of my head, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I lie still, listening to the ticking of a clock. Ungodly fucking loud. My nightstand clock? The kitchen clock? I shift my arm a little and I can feel the plush carpet underneath my ass. So I’m in my bedroom.
I crack open my eyes, and there’s the ceiling.