Chapter Twelve
Harley - Present Day
New Divide – Linkin Park
This may not be very professional of me to say, but watching Quinn walk in front of me, with her hips swaying unintentionally and her ass wobbling, screaming at me to spank it, the things I could do to this woman are fucking ungodly.
I don’t realise until she starts to walk away from the edge of the bridge that I’m holding my breath.
And even in the shadows of the trees as we walk back towards the main road and down to the local late-night café , her beauty dazzles me.
Her hair flames different dimensions of colour in the dusk light as she walks.
Tendrils of it fall out of the messy bun on top of her head, framing her face.
The blue eyes that could quite literally see into my soul if I let her look like they’re a different shade of blue based on the harshness of the sunlight, and the freckles that dust her face are like pieces of a puzzle I want to connect together just to see what the prize is.
Her waist is accentuated by her curves, almost in the perfect apple shape, and it makes me want to take the biggest bite to test its sweetness.
To some, she’s dressed in an oversized hoodie, leggings and trainers, but to me, she’s like the perfect present you want to unwrap.
It’s clear to see that she has no idea just how exceptionally beautiful she is or how her humour could reel people in and have them in stitches, and it has me wondering what the fuck has happened to her.
I’ve never felt like this in this situation.
Fifty per cent of me is telling me I’m a fucking idiot, and one call from her could have my licence revoked, but the other half of me wants to believe my parents sent her to me.
Or me to her. Whichever way you want to look at it.
What are the chances? I jokingly ask my parents to send me a carrier pigeon or a magpie, and she stands there and fucking salutes one before schooling me on my ignorance of magpies?
She turns, almost timidly, checking to make sure I’m still here. “I’m still here, Magpie. Can’t get rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now.”
“Typical. It’s like waiting for a bus. None come along, and then all of a sudden they’re all there at once.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t about to be a ‘why choose’ situation. I’m too greedy to share.”
She splutters, stopping in her tracks, her eyes glistening as she tries not to burst out laughing.
“You can laugh, you know. It won’t break you. In fact, it suits you. You should do it more often.”
“I haven’t had much need to laugh in my life.”
“I have a feeling that’s about to change.”
We reach our destination, and I glance through the window to make sure that we will have the privacy we need.
She’s jumpy, and it’s clear she doesn’t trust anyone, so it’s not appropriate to take her somewhere she will be by herself with me.
At this point, I have no idea the trauma she has experienced, so I need to tread carefully.
Apart from the server, the place is empty.
Candlelight highlights the tabletops as dusk turns to darkness, and music plays at a low volume.
Low enough that I can’t even make out what it is without straining my hearing, but once I do, I’m amused to hear Pretty Distraction by Sky Dxddy.
Someone out there is playing jokes right now.
Respectfully, Mum, Dad, fuck off, I’m working.
I can hear my dad in his usual jolly tone saying, “Yeah, Son, of course you are.” I wonder what they would think of her before I hear the server clear her throat and I’m reminded I’m not alone.
“Can I take your order, please, sir?”
“Quinn? What do you want?”
“Uhhh, just a glass of water, please.”
“I don’t think so. Pick something proper to drink, and while you’re at it, something to eat, too.”
She requests a vanilla iced latte, with a can of Coke and a glass with some ice on the side. She likes her drinks cold, got it. And for food, she orders a double cheeseburger without the bun and a salad and then goes off to find a table.
“Stick the bun on that burger and switch the salad for sweet potato fries, please.” She doesn’t look like a normal chip kinda girl.
I pay for the order and turn around to see which table she picked.
As suspected, she picked a booth in the furthest corner of the cafe with a view of the door and is sitting in the seat facing it.
Okay, so she’s definitely faced some kind of abuse.
She’s anxious, skittish, and looks like a deer caught in headlights whenever I ask her a question.
Almost like she doesn’t want to give me the wrong answer.
I used to love this place as a kid. Mum would bring me here on a Saturday for fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, and maple syrup with a side of whipped cream.
It was our little mother-son date before I cleared out the library shelves and hit the limit on my borrows for a week.
It was a tradition her mum started with me, and when she sadly died, my mum carried it on.
It’s had a bit of an upgrade since I was last here, but from what I’ve heard in the streets, it’s still the same family that owns it, so hopefully the pancakes will taste exactly as I remember them.
Where the booths used to be brown with cream leather seats, now they’re black with red seats.
The tables are black too. There are booths along the back wall with smaller tables scattered throughout, and the server stands behind a bar with a half-barn door separating her from us.
Instead of the old jukebox, there’s a TV on the wall, muted but playing sports, and music streams from the speakers in the corners of the ceiling.
It’s modern. I like it. They’ve got a liquor licence now, and they’ve rebranded as a sports café, so it seems some things in our tiny little town do change, after all.
I take my seat in front of her, and she avoids my gaze. She’s picking at her fingernails, pulling the skin and ripping at the cuticles. I place my hand over the top of hers, gently coaxing her to stop.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“You say that like I’ve never heard it before. And I was never safe any of those times either.”
“It’s clear that you’ve been through some stuff. No normal person would be on a bridge trying to end their life if they hadn’t.”
“I wasn't trying. I was going to jump, but you rudely interrupted.”
“You say interrupted, I say I was in the right place at the right time. To-may-to, to-ma-to.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re weird?”
“Plenty of people. It just encourages me to carry on and make them even more uncomfortable for being so fucking judgemental.”
“You’re not like a normal therapist.”
“And what, pray tell, is a normal therapist like?”
“Stuffy. Hard-faced. Sometimes mean. Determined to convince me that how I feel is wrong and that what they tell me to feel is right.”
“And where did you find these therapists?”
“I didn’t. My parents did.”
“And are they part of the issue?”
“Oh, look, he’s psychic too.”
“Not psychic. I just have the ability to read between the lines. And in my professional opinion, if it was your parents finding you the therapist, and they are involved in your treatment, then if this is a regular occurrence with every therapist, maybe, just maybe, the therapist has been doing their bidding for them. It’s not unheard of.
Illegal, yes, because of confidentiality.
But if the price is right, then some can be swayed. ”
“So you think they were all part of some elaborate plan to, what? Break me?”
“You tell me. Only you know the answer to that.”
She ponders. Her eyes roam the room as the thoughts race through her brain, but something lights up in her eyes—realisation.
“Something just clicked in your brain. Care to share?”
Before she has a chance to think, the server comes over and places our food on the table. As she walks away, Quinn says, “She got my order wrong, but I don’t want to be rude in case she thinks I’m telling her she’s shit at her job.” Doesn’t like confrontation either, noted.
“No, she didn’t. I changed your order.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you could do with a good meal.”
She cackles. A loud, dirty cackle. No hesitation like before, almost like she’s comfortable—but then she realises and stops.
“Why did you stop?”
“Because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me, Magpie. Now, tell me why you laughed.”
“Because you said I looked like I could do with a good meal, like I’m not fat.”
“Are you? I never noticed. I was too busy looking at your ass.”
Her eyes go wide.
“I’m joking! Shock factor. I have no filter, but usually, when I’m with patients, I can switch it off. You, however, seem to pull out this side of me that not many get to see. I figured you’d need a good meal. No one should make big decisions on an empty stomach.”
“You think a good meal will make me change my mind?”
“No. I think I can, though.”
“Ok, Harley, the therapist with no filter. Give it your best shot.”
Game on, Little Magpie. I have a few tricks up my sleeve that you’ll never see coming. Operation Convince Quinn To Live is a go.