them through a private, staff-only cut-through.
My chest is tight with anxiety by the time I reach Hall 4. I’m panting as I think of all the ways I can discipline this girl.
Leah.
I’m going to call her Leah as soon as I can get her back and spread her legs.
Leah.
She is mine.
I want her, need her, plan to keep her.
At last, for a moment, I’m behind her. Blonde hair flies in her wake like a superhero cape. The way her arms swing—God, those hands.
Leah.
Leah.
I open my mouth to yell, and it’s as if she knows; at that instant, she starts sprinting. Running for the door at the end of the hall, as if she absolutely cannot wait to get out of here.
I watch her reach up to her head and pull the mask off as she moves. From behind, I see her toss it as she pushes through the thick metal door. Clack. It’s swung open, and I run behind her.
She starts down the stairs to the back parking lot.
I call out, but she’s through the door.
I lengthen my strides and burst through a few seconds behind her: shirtless and wild-eyed, with my hands reached out in case I find her standing stationary at the top of the stairs.
That’s the position that I’m in when my world freezes.
When I see her, moving horizontally across the parking lot, maskless, and with one hand raised up to her cheek.
When I see her weeping as she runs.
My eyes can’t accept it. My feet stop. I can hear her sobbing.
I know that sound. I may not know her body, but I know the sound of her tears.
Leah.
It’s yelled. It echoes through my mind.
“Leah. Leah.” Whispered words.
I grab onto the railing. Grip it hard as my legs go numb and cease to hold my weight.
That’s Leah walking toward a row of cars.
Leah is leaving.
She’s crying.
She’s fucking here !
It’s a miracle.
A tragedy.
A fantasy: gone bad or come to life?
I sink into a crouch and slam my palm over my mouth before I turn around and stagger back inside, where I’m sick on the hardwood floor, aglow in torch light.
CHAPTER TWO
Leah
I hang up the phone and pull my legs up in the chair out on my balcony. Four days after Lana’s wedding, three days after the rest of my family has flown home, and I’m still at the MGM Grand Casino.
I finally did it. Just now booked a ticket for tomorrow. At three-thirty, I’ll be flying from here to Atlanta, going back to my life.
I inhale deeply. Hug my legs.
I want to feel okay, but ever since Monday afternoon, I just…can’t.
It’s so hard for me to comprehend what happened; sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. I found Hansel. That alone is almost unfathomable. I fond Hansel in Vegas, in a sex club—that he owns —rather than in a police uniform, on a fire man’s ladder, at the blackjack tables, in a sports car.
The boy I knew ten years ago was endlessly giving, always funny, patient, and kind. He took care of me. So I’m still tripping over the idea that he owns a place where women—and men—are paid for having sex in front of an audience.
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex clubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch
My chest is tight with anxiety by the time I reach Hall 4. I’m panting as I think of all the ways I can discipline this girl.
Leah.
I’m going to call her Leah as soon as I can get her back and spread her legs.
Leah.
She is mine.
I want her, need her, plan to keep her.
At last, for a moment, I’m behind her. Blonde hair flies in her wake like a superhero cape. The way her arms swing—God, those hands.
Leah.
Leah.
I open my mouth to yell, and it’s as if she knows; at that instant, she starts sprinting. Running for the door at the end of the hall, as if she absolutely cannot wait to get out of here.
I watch her reach up to her head and pull the mask off as she moves. From behind, I see her toss it as she pushes through the thick metal door. Clack. It’s swung open, and I run behind her.
She starts down the stairs to the back parking lot.
I call out, but she’s through the door.
I lengthen my strides and burst through a few seconds behind her: shirtless and wild-eyed, with my hands reached out in case I find her standing stationary at the top of the stairs.
That’s the position that I’m in when my world freezes.
When I see her, moving horizontally across the parking lot, maskless, and with one hand raised up to her cheek.
When I see her weeping as she runs.
My eyes can’t accept it. My feet stop. I can hear her sobbing.
I know that sound. I may not know her body, but I know the sound of her tears.
Leah.
It’s yelled. It echoes through my mind.
“Leah. Leah.” Whispered words.
I grab onto the railing. Grip it hard as my legs go numb and cease to hold my weight.
That’s Leah walking toward a row of cars.
Leah is leaving.
She’s crying.
She’s fucking here !
It’s a miracle.
A tragedy.
A fantasy: gone bad or come to life?
I sink into a crouch and slam my palm over my mouth before I turn around and stagger back inside, where I’m sick on the hardwood floor, aglow in torch light.
CHAPTER TWO
Leah
I hang up the phone and pull my legs up in the chair out on my balcony. Four days after Lana’s wedding, three days after the rest of my family has flown home, and I’m still at the MGM Grand Casino.
I finally did it. Just now booked a ticket for tomorrow. At three-thirty, I’ll be flying from here to Atlanta, going back to my life.
I inhale deeply. Hug my legs.
I want to feel okay, but ever since Monday afternoon, I just…can’t.
It’s so hard for me to comprehend what happened; sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. I found Hansel. That alone is almost unfathomable. I fond Hansel in Vegas, in a sex club—that he owns —rather than in a police uniform, on a fire man’s ladder, at the blackjack tables, in a sports car.
The boy I knew ten years ago was endlessly giving, always funny, patient, and kind. He took care of me. So I’m still tripping over the idea that he owns a place where women—and men—are paid for having sex in front of an audience.
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex clubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch
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