My boy didn’t need telling twice. He swiped my uneaten food and I leaned back in my chair, fighting nausea. Fuckin’ antibiotics. I was almost done with them, but the sickly shroud wrapped around my gut was so profound it felt permanent.
Nothing’s permanent.
Fuck off, Lo.
You don’t mean that.
I didn’t.Another wrench twisted my stomach.I miss my brother. This was the longest I hadn’t seen him since the bad old days, and I’d been dodging him for more than a week, ever since I’d woken up in Nash’s bed with my arm stitched to shit and a poltergeist living in my ear. I’d sent him a text that I couldn’t remember typing, and apparently it wasn’t good enough.
Logan:don’t treat me like I’m fucking stupid.
Locke:i’m not
I wasn’t. I was treating him like he’d take one look at me on a video call and read between every line of bullshit I’d ever fed him, and I didn’t have the energy for that. I didn’t have the energy for anything except making it up to my kids that I’d let them down for the millionth time in their lives.
Except dealing with pain and disorder seemed more potent than I’d ever felt before, and that shit made no fuckin’ sense. I was used to being broken, and this time I’d had the best support system a man could ask for to help me heal.
So why did I feel like I’d put myself back together wrong?
Cos he’s still out there.
I shifted in my seat, scanning the windows, knowing Saint had eyes on us, other brothers too, but my skin crawling all the same. One on one, I wasn’t scared of Priest. Never had been. But that fucker had never fought fair, and he’d gifted me too many nightmares to believe I could ever rest while he was free. While he wasbreathing.
Which meant someone had to kill him.
Did it have to be me? Did I need that? Or would it give me the same brand of spicy déjà vu I’d seen in Folk when he thought I wasn’t looking?
It’s called PTSD, bro.
“Is Orla your girlfriend?”
The question came from Nicky. After Sea Rave, I was pretty sure Willow didn’t have any questions that weren’t where the fuck I’d been for the past few weeks.
I stole some of Willow’s lemon Fanta. “No.”
“Oh. Who is then?”
“No one.”
A puzzled frown creased my son’s face. A frown I matched. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Mum said you had a girlfriend.”
I glanced at Willow. She shrugged, texting on her phone and only half listening.
“Mum doesn’t know anything about my love life,” I said carefully. “Cos she hasn’t asked.”
Willow snorted. “What would you say if she did?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“Wills.”
“What?”
“Don’t shit-stir.”