The Lost

by Cole McCade

  Gary was out of his mind.

  The sharp plastic snap of the tag ripping off drew her attention back to the ringmaster—the shopkeeper, she reminded herself, though she couldn’t get that image out of her head. “Were you really a ringmaster?” she asked.

  “I was. Gallifrey’s Glories, Caravan of the Macabre. Eleven forty-five, please.” While Leigh peeled off a twenty and handed it over, the man smiled, his beady eyes softening, reflecting memories like black marbles reflecting light. “We had quite a time, in our heyday.”

  “What happened?”

  “We made the mistake of traveling south during hurricane season. A particularly terrible one back in…oh, oh-one, I think it was…trapped us in heavy flooding.” He made an offhand gesture—the kind of offhand gesture that said he wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, yet the pain was still carved as deep in him as words cut into the bark of a tree to say so-and-so was here, and never really left. “We couldn’t get the large animal cages loaded fast enough, and the National Guard wouldn’t let us herd them along evacuation routes. They all drowned, I’m sorry to say. We disbanded not long after. We were like family, but the family couldn’t survive the grief of losing everything we had.”

  “I’m sorry,” Leigh said. She seemed to be saying that over and over lately, and it didn’t get any easier. “I’m…I’m really sorry.”

  “Hardships happen. To everyone. What matters is what you decide to do afterward.” He smiled, kindly yet strange, and passed her change across the counter. “I decided I wanted to sell dresses. Perhaps it’s not glamorous, but every day a girl like you walks out of here happy. It’s simple, but it’s enough for me.”

  “I like simple.” Leigh picked up a quarter from the counter and toyed it between her fingers. “Seems like my life is much too complex lately.”

  “Complexities only happen when we are indecisive, dear child.” He shook out a plastic shopping bag with a flourish as grand as if presenting his next act. “Everything is simple, when you get down to it. The complicated part is knowing what to do about it.”

  “So you’re saying I’m overcomplicating things.”

  “Perhaps,” he said mildly. The dress folded neatly away into the bag, and he offered it to her, dangling from his long fingers. “It really breaks down to one question: what do you want?”

  “Lately? For people to stop asking me that.” Leigh hugged the bag to her chest and tried a smile. “Thanks. For the dress and the talk.”

  “It is ever my pleasure, dear. Do come again, won’t you?”

  “Maybe I will. Hey—what’s your name?”

  He swept another of those grandiose bows, his forehead almost touching the checkout counter. “Walford Gallifrey, Esquire, at your service.”

  “Esquire, huh?” She grinned. “I’m going to call you Wally.”

  His eyes twinkled. That wide rubbery smile bunched up his cheeks again, but instead of looking creepy, suddenly it was just comical and sweet. “You are an impertinent wretch.”

  “I get that a lot.” She turned to elbow her way through the racks, waving over her shoulder. “Later, Wally.”

  She was still smiling by the time she stepped out into the sunlight, though she wasn’t sure why. It was just a dress. But just for the hell of it, she stopped at the Dollar Store on the way back and picked up new socks, new panties, a cute cheap little pair of strappy jelly sandals in clear plastic strewn with glitter—the kind little girls loved to wear, but would fit Leigh’s tiny feet just fine. She was carrying a rustling cluster of bags by the time she made it back to Gary’s, and she loathed herself just a little for taking such joy in material things.

  But was she really doing herself any favors, denying herself these small pleasures just to live free?

  Everything is simple, when you get down to it.

  She was definitely overcomplicating things.

  The quiet blue-collar crowd was already settled in and watching yet another game, as if the outcome of Red vs. Blue would somehow have any real impact on anything in their lives one way or another. They looked different somehow, today. Colorless. Like statues of men, carved in bronze and painted in the green coating that tended to oxidize on statues over the years, devoid of the shades of flesh and blood and life.

  They would always be here, she realized. Always. Day in, day out. They had lives of their own, lives that would be the same day after day into perpetuity, and yet they’d chosen to make themselves into what was essentially the furniture of other people’s realities. These, she thought, were people without dreams, and she wondered what had happened to cut those dreams out and leave them hollow carriers of nothing but a feeble need to see something more in the mindless kick of a ball down the field. She’d once thought it was imaginary value, the way they watched this.

  But it wasn’t imaginary. It was real, when it was the only thing that let them feel like there was still some bright spark left in them. That had value, if only to them. That meant something.

  She wondered that she hadn’t seen it before. That she’d been so glibly, poetically dismissive of their quiet desperation, condemned to nothing but backdrop. It was as if someone had turned on the lights to show the harsh, cruel edges the shadows had softened and hid, transforming what she saw and how she saw it. She wasn’t sure what had changed, not really.

  Maybe just her.

  She waved at Gary and Jimmy behind the bar and slipped upstairs, tiptoeing just in case. She’d been right to, she found when she stepped over the file crate and passed the whisper-rattle of beads into the room. Hart was sleeping again, sprawled on his stomach with a sinuous grace that made her quiver inside with the kind of admiration that tempted her to pull the blankets down and lick the taut, tanned skin at the base of his spine. But that spot was already occupied by Tybalt, the cat curled up and sound asleep as if the hollow at the small of his back was a nest made just for her.

  Leigh watched them with a small smile and settled into the high-backed chair to put her things away, folding her new clothing and sandals into her backpack before hiding the rest of Gary’s money in the little secret inside pocket. Hart really was looking better—his color stronger, his sleep easier and quieter than it had been when she’d held him and felt him tremble against her. His breaths exhaled in near-silent sighs, his broad shoulders rising and falling, his hair drifting across his face and the pillow in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it aside and tuck it behind his ear.

  She stayed right the fuck where she was.

  Kicking her boots off, she curled up in the chair with her legs tucked close and her cheek resting to the high frame of the chair. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Hart. He was still a puzzle, an enigma—but more of a puzzle was why she was getting so messed up over him, when she’d been burned enough times by selfish men who had to have things their way or no way. She still wanted it to be just about sex. He was fucking gorgeous, and the way he touched her was like burning coals on her skin. He was good; she had a feeling he’d be even better with his cock thrusting past his fly to nudge into her, and his body arched over her while she clasped his hips with her thighs.

  That would be so much easier: if she could reduce it down to that, if she could just keep denying. It had been days since she’d had someone. The last one had been the girl with the crow-black hair, with her quick deft fingers and a tongue that had circled, flicked, swiped, teased until Leigh had arched her back, clutched her hair tight, and nearly snapped the girl’s neck with her thighs. She’d pushed the ache to the back of her thoughts, that fire between her legs dampened by stress and pain and confusion—but now that she was thinking about it, she couldn’t think about anything else.

  Her senses heightened, stark tactile awareness rippling through her, highlighting every sensation. Her tank top molding tight against her breasts. The pulse of her heartbeat in lips that ached for contact. The press of her panties against hot flesh that burned to be touched, while she remembered Hart’s fingers flipping her skirt up and forcin
g into her clothing to plunge inside.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and squeezed her legs shut. She hated and loved when she got like this—hated and loved the wanton way it felt, singing in her blood until she wanted to let herself go and give in to every fucking perverted lust that flitted through her brain, dissolving into a hothouse of sensation and forgetting everything else. That was what was so good about it; it made her forget everything, mindless of all except the thrust of a searing-hot cock forcing into her. Any other night she would be downstairs, on the hunt, watching everyone who came in with carnivorous eyes, waiting for the one who’d soothe that ache tonight. But she had to stay. To watch Hart, even though he was sleeping and didn’t need her for a damned thing right now.

  But she just might need him.

  No. Absolutely not. She couldn’t play at this with him, wouldn’t give in to whatever this thing between them was. She just…needed a few minutes… God, maybe in the bathroom? Her fingers strayed down and traced along her thigh. Or maybe…maybe right here…

  Her gaze darted to Hart, laying silent and still with his eyes closed. If she was quiet enough… But quiet never seemed to make a difference with that predator of a man. Yet the idea of him catching her, opening those stark silver eyes the moment she touched herself, only made her breaths hitch while a familiar tawdry, sultry-scorching feeling speared inside her. The same feeling she’d had when she’d spread her legs and teased her pencil against her panties for Sister Mary Anne; the same feeling she’d had when she’d worn her short little skirts around the house and bent over where Daddy could see. Look at me, she’d silently demanded of Sister Mary Anne. Look at me, she’d begged as she’d waited to catch Daddy’s eye, needing that tormented, hungry look on his face.

  And look at me, she thought as she tugged the hem of her skirt upward and pressed her fingers against her panties, her eyes locked on Hart’s sleeping face.

  He didn’t move. She caught her tongue between her teeth as she ran her fingers up and down, up and down, trembling with the licking tongue of friction sliding over her folds, savoring the growing dampness sinking deeper into the fabric with each pass, until it was soaked and dripping under her fingers. She had to bite back a moan, sinking her teeth into the inside of her lip until the pain curled up rigid inside her and plucked at her strings in little sweet shots of pleasure. She couldn’t look away from Hart, from the part of his cruelly sensuous lips to the way the light cut over the saber starkness of his cheekbones—and as she tilted her head back against the chair and breathed in deep and licked her lips, she imagined she caught his gunmetal scent and rolled it over her tongue.

  Look at me.

  She touched her fingers to the bruises on her throat and arched her back, the dull sore throb of the marks rousing her nipples to strain against her tank top, her breasts aching and tender. She dragged her hoodie open. The zipper raked loud and she froze, watching Hart. Nothing. Nothing. She hissed through her teeth in frustration as she pinched her nipple viciously through the tank and slipped her hand down her panties, thrusting two fingers into herself. As if she’d jolt him awake, if she just did it hard enough.

  It didn’t feel right, her small slim fingers twisting around and probing and stroking all those perfect sensitive places that bit at her like pain and hate and wanting and sweet, sweet poison. She wanted his fingers, wrapped around her wrists and filling her cunt with his rough furious touch and making her curse him with every ravenous clenching jolt that was just what she needed and everything she despised herself for wanting.

  “Fuck you,” she whispered, lifting her hips into each thrust of her fingers, rolling herself into the curve of her palm until slick wetness pooled in her hand and she ground it against her skin, cupping and stroking her folds. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking bastard—”

  Faster, her toes curling tight, every touch scraping down her nerves until she was raw inside, ready to scream with sheer frustration. She hated that she needed him. Hated that she needed anyone, that she wasn’t enough for herself and God, that was half her fucking problem. She had this hole inside that she kept trying to fill with other people, when she couldn’t just be okay alone. Be okay with herself, before she made a mess of anything with anyone else. And she hated him for being right about that.

  That no one made her feel ashamed of herself, except her.

  That shame boiled hot through her—and how fucked up was she, when that was what it took to get her off? Disgraceful pleasure licked her insides with that black oozing sickness that made her feel so filthy and got her so, so fucking hot, gasping and panting through flared nostrils as she played her clit with flicking fingertips and dug her fingers into her breast and kneaded and sighed. The viper of pleasure sank its venom-teeth into her, and injected her with that low crawling sensuousness that threaded in her veins.

  It hit her like a slap across the face, striking hard when she’d wanted to hold on for just a few more moments, a few more seconds of that dirty-girl lewdness slicking over her skin like oily stains. Her cry hitched and choked off in the back of her throat as she arched off the chair, spread her thighs, trapped her fingers in the tight-hard lock of the shockwaves convulsing through her lower body. Wet-sleek muscle worked over her knuckles while she whimpered with each waning burst of sensation. It was slow in fading, slow in letting go, and gradually she eased her fingers free, staring numbly at the clear, glistening ropes of wetness that stretched from her hand and threatened to drip to the floor.

  Past her hand, Hart was a motionless blur. Still a-fucking-sleep. Good. If he’d woken up he’d probably have been a fucking dick, and she wouldn’t even have gotten this much out of it. Or she’d have humiliated herself and maybe he’d have fucked her, but she’d have hated herself for it. No matter how much she wanted to make it just about sex, it was well beyond that by now. There was no way she could have just eased the itch and let it go. Not with him.

  On Hart’s back, Tybalt opened one eye, just watching her in that way cats had. Knowing. Judging. Leigh wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, and wiped her hand on her thigh.

  “Like what?” Hart asked, and her heart did a backflip and tried to rocket right out the back of her chest.

  He opened an eye, the mirror of the cat—but instead of judgment there was only sleepy curiosity, as he watched her over the taut curve of his bicep. She swallowed thickly. Had…had he been awake this entire time and only waiting for her to finish? She flushed, a dizzy fever-sick feeling, and searched that single eye. Nothing. Nothing she could read, nothing that said he’d heard, seen. Nothing but that drowsy softness that made her ache in ways she didn’t want to think about.

  With a huff, she looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I was talking to the cat,” she muttered. He laughed, low and sleepy.

  “Of course you were.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  He pushed himself up on his arms, propping his weight on his elbows. “Did I interrupt an important conversation?”

  She shot him a peevish look; her lips tried to twitch upward. “You’re not funny.”

  “Never claimed to be.” He twisted over onto his back, dislodging the cat with an annoyed mmrrrp. “Are you my jailor again tonight, then?”

  “Is it jail when you put yourself here willingly?”

  “Just because a criminal turns himself in does not make his imprisonment less than what it is.”

  Leigh’s brows knit. “You’re not a criminal.”

  “Aren’t I?” he asked, and closed his eyes. She waited for him to say something else, to explain what he meant, but he said nothing. He said nothing, and she wouldn’t ask.

  Asking would mean she cared, and she was still struggling desperately to pretend she didn’t. To hold on to that lie.

  Because if she let one lie unravel…they would all come crashing down.
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br />   CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LEIGH FELT LIKE SHE WAS in detention.

  Hart had lain in silence for nearly half an hour—eyes closed, but she could tell he wasn’t sleeping. Just pretending to, leaving her trapped in quiet stillness, feeling like she couldn’t move or she’d ‘wake’ him and have to feel guilty for that, too. Or he’d say something awful, though she wasn’t even sure what awful was anymore where he was concerned. Because sometimes the things he said made her like him, made her hurt for him, and that alone sounded pretty damned awful to her.

  She’d curled up in the chair as if she hadn’t, just five minutes ago, gotten off the idea of him watching her. Tugging the curtains aside, she looked out the window. Thunder rolled hot over Crow City tonight, lightning stitching its darting bright needles against the clouds; even through the window she could feel the muggy steaming static promising rain that would sting the skin like molten sand. Sweltering tension crackled on the air, a sort of waiting quiet that only made the silence between them drag on longer.

  Finally he sat up, and she glanced over her shoulder long enough to watch him dig a Michael Crichton novel from his bag before settling in to read, quite calmly indifferent to her. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him, too. Seriously, he looked fine. Not like he’d go on a desperate rampage for his pills the second she left him alone.

  Yet on a closer look…his fingers trembled, when he turned the pages. More than once, he had to fight for a grip on the paper corners. Subtle. She had to know it was there to even see it, but she was learning his signs. Learning the way that proud fucking man repressed everything he could, every pain he felt, whether it tore at his body or tore at his soul.