“I used it sometimes when I followed you.”
I stare. “You what?”
“You knew my car.”
“So you rode a motorcycle?”
“Sometimes.”
“To stalk me.”
“Yes.”
I drag both hands down my face. “Of course you did.”
“It was practical.”
“It was stalking.”
“Practical stalking.”
“Violet.”
“What?”
I should have questions. Lots of questions.
Instead, my stupid brain has decided to focus on the fact that Violet rides a motorcycle.
The image of her on it is hot.
So hot, I forget what I was going to say.
Her lips curve. “You like the motorcycle.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re giving me that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re turned on.”
I scoff, even though she’s right.
But I don’t admit it.
“I’m concerned.”
“About the motorcycle?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me riding it?”
