“You think he’s mad at you?” “He’s always mad at me.” With a slow nod, Noah shoved his hands into his pockets. The bar had grown stuffy and warm, and Noah’s sleeves were now pushed up, highlighting the tattoos covering his forearms. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word, “but why do you think he’s mad at you this time?” Wasn’t it obvious? “He thinks I’m stealing his friends. Just like I stole his sisters.”
