Page 225 of Filthy Truth


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CONOR

While date nights with Star always ended with a bang, they were definitely outside of my comfort zone.

The ones that I didn’t plan, at any rate.

The first with her at the wheel was a soccer match, the second, a nightclub when I goddamn loathed techno music, and then there was tonight.

We were attending the opera.

The fucking opera.

My rock-loving self was going to watch Carmen at the Met when I’d prefer to stick pins in my eyes.

The woman had better know how much I goddamn loved her.

I wasn’t about to argue, not after surviving our first period together with my head intact, and especially not knowing how the date would end, but still, the fucking opera?

When I tugged on my bow tie for the twentieth time since she’d collected me from the Saturns’ stadium where my brothers and I had been talking strategy for the last few hours, she grabbed my hand, dragged it to my side, then quipped, “You’re worse than Kat on school picture day.”

My nose crinkled. “When was the last time I wore a tux, do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your communion?”

I grinned. “I’m not that bad. I think it was Eoghan’s wedding. Savannah might have been a bridezilla but she didn’t make me wear a bow tie for more than the photos.”

“And now she’s earned your undying loyalty?” The twinkle in her eye told me she wasn’t unhappy about that.

“I like her. She’s a freak so I’m comfortable with her. Plus, she makes Aidan happy.”

Her gloved fingers swiped across my jawline. Some men might have preferred the silk against their skin, but I preferred Star’s calluses. She wore her history in her hands, on her palms, and I preferred her at her most raw.

“You’re a sucker for family.”

The tender touch and the mocking words were discordant, but I smirked anyway. “And you like me so that means you’re a sucker too.”

She snorted. “The logic is far-reaching but I’ll accept it.”

When she shifted in her seat, I said nothing, well aware that in these moments leading up to our ‘dates,’ she turned inward. Becoming somber.

It made sense. The past and present were colliding for her, and that required some mental skulduggery on her part.

I’d have left her to her process, knowing full well that they were integral to her healing, but even seeing her in a fucking cocktail dress with killer heels wasn’t worth this torture.

I growled under my breath a final time as I dragged the ends of the bow tie and freed myself from its chokehold.

“I’ve felt more comfortable garrotes,” I grumbled.

“Do I want to know how you know how ‘comfortable’ a garrote is?”

“Da left things around the house that he shouldn’t have,” was my retort as I tugged on my collar. Which, now that I thought about it… “My shirt’s tighter.”

“And?”

“It’s not the bow tie. It’s the shirt!” Jerking my neck to the side, I heaved a sigh. “This is your fault.”

“How is it my fault?” she spluttered.

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