Harley (Cerberus MC)

“Don’t you miss them?” I ask, looking up at him from my work.

“No,” he answers without hesitation.

There’s more to the story there, but since I’m not planning to speak about things that bother me, I’m in no position to dig into it deeper with him.

“How long were you in the Marine Corps?”

“Eight years.”

“So that makes you how old now?”

He grins again. “Older than you, even though I don’t look it.”

I gasp in mock outrage, holding a hand to my chest before remembering that it’s filthy. “Are you saying I look old for my age?”

“I’d never!” he returns with the same level of silliness. “I’m twenty-seven. My birthday is in January if you’re wanting to get me a gift. Books are always a good idea.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’d have to have them shipped to you.”

“Because you don’t want to go to the store?” He blinks as if he thinks he’s crossed some sort of line. “Online shopping is easier anyway.”

“I could go to a store,” I say, almost certain it’s something I could manage even though I’ve yet to go grocery shopping. I’ve been ordering Door Dash at home in the evenings and eating at the clubhouse on my lunch break. This morning I woke up early and made coffee, grabbing a protein bar from the pantry for breakfast. “I just don’t imagine I’ll be around in January.”

He nods, his face blank and giving nothing away.

“So have we loosened you up enough for you to ask the real questions you want to ask?”

I watch his face, considering my options, but I place my bet on the fact that Boomer may have some actual insight.

“Do you know why he hates me?”

“Harley?”

I tilt my head to the side, giving him a look that says you know that’s exactly who I’m asking about.

“He doesn’t hate you. The man doesn’t hate anyone. He just—”

“If you say he’s just going through a lot, I’m going to stab you with my spade.” I hold the tiny shovel up to emphasize my threat.

He laughs again, and I can really see being good friends with this man.

“Although he is going through a lot, that’s not what I was going to say. I think he’s struggling with the fact that you’re you.”

“Me who?” I ask. “The girl that got abducted and held prisoner by two psychopaths before the woman killed the man, only to find out she was also abducted years and years ago and had been through unmentionable abuse herself?”

I take a long deep breath after saying all of that, wondering if it’s going to draw his own round of questions.

“Pretty.”

“What?”

“You’re very pretty, and he has to see that or feel some way about it, and the man’s wife died. He loved her, and if he sees you and thinks you’re pretty, I can see him struggling with that.”

“So I should try to look uglier?” I ask, grateful he isn’t asking about my time with Higgle and Bishop.

He laughs, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Could you manage it even if you tried, because you’re gorgeous?”

I slow blink in his direction. “Not to make another assumption, but are you flirting with me?”

His laugh dies away. “I’m not. I promise, I’m not. I wouldn’t do that. You aren’t my type.”

Believing what he says, I tease him, “You’re not into pretty girls?”

“Nope.” He gives his head an emphatic shake. “Ugly girls only.”

We both laugh at the ridiculousness of this line of conversation.

“He doesn’t hate you,” he says after the laughter dies away. “But every day is a struggle for him. It’s been nearly six months, and he’s just now talking to some of the guys. If he seems rude, just keep in mind, it’s probably because he honestly doesn’t know how to act around you. Plus, he’s a former Marine, and we’re all kind of assholes.”

“I think I’ll just do my best to avoid him from now on,” I mutter.

My being pretty makes him a jerk? Is this guy kidding me?

I can’t help my looks, and there’s sure a hell of a lot more to me than a pretty face, but with the way Harley has treated me, I don’t have any plans to go out of my way to make the man see it.

Chapter 8

Harley

Getting up as quietly as possible and sneaking out of the room has become my morning routine. It’s the only time I don’t feel an ounce of guilt for leaving Aria. The baby needs sleep, and since I take the monitor with me, I’ll know the second she starts to wiggle in her crib.

As always, the clubhouse is silent this morning, and I take a minute to stretch, letting a little grunt of approval out of my lips with how strong my muscles feel. Keeping fit is part of my job requirements, and since I have to do it, it’s another way for me not to feel guilty about dropping Aria off at daycare. It also gives me time to release extra energy and anger, and to work out some of the issues I struggle with via the punching bag.