Tortured Souls (Rebels of Sandland 2)

“I’m okay. I have a roof and four walls. That’s all you need to know. When I’m ready to tell more, you’ll be the first person I come to.”

He seemed happy with that answer and gave a weak smile.

“They miss you, you know. We all do.”

And I call bullshit.

“Didn’t stop them doing the gigs again though, did it? Those parties were my idea. I deserve a cut.” It still stung that they’d done that without me. Those were my events. Damn it, I was the fucking event. People only came to watch me fight.

“And if you come back, you’ll get a cut.” He sighed. “Do you need any money? I don’t have much, but whatever I’ve got you can have.”

I needed to start teaching him to defend himself again. Weak fucker was gonna get his ass kicked for being so damn nice.

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“For what it’s worth,” he added. “They didn’t want to start it all up again without you. And to be honest, it’s just not the same. We needed the extra cash though, and we’ve been chipping in to help your nan.”

“Yeah, she told me.” I let slip and then covered my mouth, realising what I’d said.

“We guessed she knew where you were. Didn’t push it though. She’s your nan. Be careful though. I think the Lockwoods are watching her.”

Fucking Lockwoods could watch all they wanted. If I got my hands on them going anywhere near my nan, they wouldn’t have eyes to watch her with. Burning their cars was just the start as far as I was concerned.

“I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t get caught. I’d never put her in danger and I’d never let them hurt her either,” I stated, as if it needed saying. Finn knew me. He knew what I was capable of.

“Cool. Well, you know where I am if you ever need me, bro.”

“Yeah, down here mooning over a ten-foot portrait of Effy fucking Spencer.”

He went bright red, like I hadn’t guessed who it was he was painting. Dude was flogging a dead horse with that one.

“If you want my advice, you’ll give it up. Fuck them, but never let them get their claws in and never stick to one girl.”

“Effy’s not like that.”

I laughed at his naivety.

“They’re all like that. Trust me. You come first.”

And with that little nugget of wisdom, I left him to brood over his artwork and the hopelessness of his case.

I didn’t want to be here.

If it wasn’t a stipulation from my workplace that I attend, I wouldn’t be.

I sat twiddling my thumbs as the counsellor from occupational health wittered on about the merits of grievance counselling and the statistics for successful phased returns to work after a breakdown like mine. He said all the right things. They were there to support me. They wanted what was best. But spending a rainy Wednesday afternoon in this guy’s stuffy office, bobbing my head like a nodding dog in the back window of a granny’s car wasn’t helping at all. He was speaking and I didn’t want to listen.

“Everything we say here is strictly confidential. Unless you tell me something that I feel could or would cause you harm, then I’ll need to report it to other agencies.”

So not confidential at all then.

“But I will always ask for your permission to share anything. You can trust me, Harper.”

Yeah, no. I was jumping through his hoops because I had to. I had no choice. But if he thoug

ht I’d open up to him after sitting there for ten minutes, he was kidding himself.

“Do you want to tell me a bit about what happened?” He sat forward in his chair, his focus trained solely on me.