The Biker's Rules
Then slowly turns his head like a kid caught stealing the last cupcake.
“Alejandro Ronan O’Sullivan Grimm,” I say slowly, “are you following me?”
I smack his shoulder with my good hand. He stares very intently at the flowers by the grave.
“Technically,” he says, clearing his throat, “I was sticking with my brother … while he followed you.”
A laugh escapes him.
“The guy has it bad. Like … tragic-romantic-poetry bad. And somehow you turned him into a total wuss.”
I snort.