The Biker's Rules
She giggles, snorting Kahlua-tinged ice cream out of her mouth, wiping it away with her sleeve.
“Me too,” she says, “It must be the air.”
She waves her hand in a chaotic circle above our heads like a broken helicopter.
I shake my head. “I think it’s the ice cream.”
She peers into the tub suspiciously. “Yeah, this stuff can’t be healthy.”
Before I can agree, the door flies open. Logan stumbles in, collapsing on the sofa like a drunk sack of potatoes. He looks half dead.
“Hey … (hic) sis… I… (hic) love you, baby,” he hiccups, eyes glazed and unfocused.