Harley (Cerberus MC)

“That does sound hateful,” April says.

“I’m not trying to gossip about the man, but yesterday when Boomer and I were planting the flowerbeds, he showed up in front of the house and just glared at me. When I saw the scowl on his face after waving, I had to ignore him the rest of the time. That’s twice now he’s made me cry, and the only reason I didn’t cry the very first time is because I was on freaking Xanax.”

Grace tilts her head. “How much Xanax are you taking?”

I roll my eyes at her. “I took one to make it on to my flight to get here. I haven’t touched them since. I hate the way they make me feel.”

“I cry easily, too,” April says.

“I could never imagine what the man is going through, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” I look to April. “You were friends with his wife. Was he a big jerk before?”

She shakes her head immediately. “He was happy, quick to laugh and tell a joke. He adored her. They were so in love.”

I want to argue that losing his wife doesn’t give him the right to act like a complete asshole, but even in my head, it sounds insensitive.

“This morning was almost civil though. He told me I didn’t have to leave the room to drink my coffee.”

They both laugh.

“Sounds like things are improving,” Grace says with a wide grin. “Maybe by next month, he’ll walk into a room and not leave.”

I want to mention Boomer’s theory about why Harley is so hateful around me, but I don’t know if now is the right time.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

I glare at Grace, giving her a get real look.

“He bites my head off when I mention diaper cream. I doubt the man would stick around or feel bad if I mentioned that I don’t like being treated like crap.”

“Then I don’t know what it is. You look nothing like Lana, so it can’t be that,” April says. “I read in a book once where the man hated a woman on sight because she looked like someone else that he hated. He just could never get over it.”

“Boomer says it’s because I’m pretty,” I blurt, my eyes widening at my inability to control my words.

“I can see that,” Grace says after a long look of scrutiny of my face.

“Of course she’s pretty,” April adds.

“No,” Grace says. “I mean, I can see him being skittish because you’re pretty.”

“What?” April says. “Can someone explain it to me because I’m obviously confused?”

“Men think with their dicks,” Grace says, smiling when April gasps. “Really? You’re around Gigi too much to clutch your pearls at the word dick, and besides, I walked past your room too many times before you moved for you to pull that blushing-bride mess on me, Mrs. Oh God, Nathaniel. Right there!”

April’s eyes widen, her cheeks darkening to a deep red, the heat of her embarrassment rushing down her throat.

I lean in closer. “It’s good, huh?”

April nods quickly before looking away.

Grace and I have a good laugh at her expense, but she doesn’t seem upset with it.

“It still doesn’t explain what you were saying,” April says after we’ve had our fun.

“He thinks with his dick when he sees her,” Grace says. “And because of losing Lana so recently, he feels guilty about it. He’s projecting that guilt on her because it’s easiest.”

“That actually makes total sense,” April agrees.

“It’s a really immature response if that’s the case,” I mutter.

“Men are inherently immature when it comes to emotions. They can handle all the hard stuff. Decisions come easy, but if they get an erection, they have no brain power.”

“That’s not fair.” I argue Grace’s reasoning. “It opens the door to victim blaming. It’s not my fault he can’t control himself around someone he might find attractive.”

“I’m not saying it is, but look at it this way. The man has been through hell and back. He lost the woman he was planning to spend the rest of his life with. He’s grieving. Wait,” she says when I open my mouth to insert another opinion. “Let me finish. He’s overwhelmed with her loss and now being a single father. He’s not capable of critical thinking right now. I doubt the man has had a decent night’s sleep since it happened. Grief comes in stages. I’m sure you did tons of research on loss and PTSD. Many people move on, heal, or find their new normal after horrible things happen. Harley is in his thirties. To think the man won’t move on eventually is ridiculous.”

“I am not trying to be the next Mrs. Harley Cobreski,” I huff.

“Of course you aren’t, and this isn’t really about you. He’s drowning in his emotions, but that doesn’t stop him from being a man. If he’s acting this way around you, then he probably hasn’t had sex since Lana. There’s a good chance with his current obligations, he may not have even taken care of it himself. His body is waking up, and it’s not surprising that it happens long before his heart is ready.”