Harley (Cerberus MC)

With my fingers tangled in my hair, I try to listen to the welcoming of his guests, but I get nothing. There isn’t backslapping from his dad or grunts from tight hugs from his mom.

I startle when there’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“C-come in,” I say, because the thing is already cracked a little, a clear indication that I don’t really need privacy any longer.

Harley pushes the door open wider, his breath sucking in loudly as he looks at me.

With my hands still tangled in my hair, I can imagine what he sees. I feel like a damn mess, despite my recent shower. His eyes sweep over me as he shifts on his feet.

I want to make excuses, realizing I’m wearing the very same tank top I had on that made him so angry in our video chat yesterday. His eyes lock on the top, making my nipples furl with the attention.

He doesn’t mention the clothes, doesn’t demand I cover up, but I can sense his annoyance at seeing me wear it.

“Boomer is here for your date,” he grunts. “He’s waiting in the living room.”

I know better than to count his gruff words as jealousy. He’s probably upset that I haven’t left already, but I refuse to regret the long shower I took. Although the longer he glares at me, the dirtier I feel. I nod, an attempt to get him to clear out before I’m overcome with the need to wash away his angry looks in another shower.

“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the mirror and finishing my hair.

I guess I could correct his assumption. I’m not really going out on a date with Boomer. We’re just two friends who haven’t seen each other in a week, and we want to catch up. I mentioned in a text yesterday evening that I’d be hanging out at the clubhouse today because Harley’s parents were flying in, and he kindly suggested something a little less boring.

I may not have any clue what’s going on half the time with the man still hovering in the open bathroom door, but I’m pretty certain about how Boomer feels about me. We’re friends and nothing more. He doesn’t flirt or kiss me then get mad. He doesn’t keep his eyes glued on my lips, and on my part, I don’t want him to do those things. I don’t think about the man constantly and lift my eyes when he walks by just so I can scope out his firm ass in his jeans.

All of that wasted energy is spent on Harley.

“Did you need something else?” I ask without looking over at him.

I’m desperate for a little space and his energy is filling the room and threatening to suffocate me more than the humidity from my shower.

“I’ll be out in five minutes,” I say when he doesn’t speak.

Only then does he take the hint and leave.

Pressing my palms to the countertop, I lean in close and stare at my face. I don’t know what I’m searching for… answers maybe. I find none in the long minutes I look, but I can find a sense of peace that I no longer have the urge to look away when I see myself in the mirror. I had felt dirty and disgusting after being abducted. I hated that there was something about me that attracted a psycho like Ronald Higgle, even though listening to the conversation between him and Karen Bishop before she killed him then offed herself revealed that my abduction was opportunistic. I was simply unlucky. Had I been ten minutes earlier or later, someone else would be struggling with this trauma.

If you hadn’t been taken, you wouldn’t be here.

I back away from the mirror, raw and a little shocked that the thought entered my head. Am I grateful for what happened because it led me right here? If Harley wasn’t such an ass most days, I’d probably say yes, and that is reason enough to seek a counselor, because it’s crazy, right? I can’t see my abduction as some fortuitous happening.

I swallow hard, flipping off the light in the bathroom before making my way to my room to grab my other shirt. I pull it on over my head, wondering what kind of response I’d get from Harley if I left the house in just the tank top. I swear I don’t do things to be purposefully petty, but I might have to start if he continues to be a jerk to me.

I don’t know what I expect to find when I walk into the living room, but it isn’t Harley staring Boomer down like he wants to shoot him then bury the body in the backyard. Boomer is smirking as if that death glare doesn’t bother him in the least.

I have to clear my throat to get their attention, but it’s not like I have a desperate need to have all eyes on me. Boomer is wearing a light-colored shirt, and stains on it from a nosebleed if Harley punches him would ruin our evening.