Page 82 of Filthy Lies


Font Size:  

“I’m not sick,” I argued, pulling back when I just wanted to sink into him.

My body was confused.This was my Conor. I’d dreamed about him, for God’s sake. I’d shared things with him I’d shared with no one. And he was here. But… his presence was problematic. His presence had to mean—

“It’d explain why you think you’re hallucinating,” he pointed out.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not hallucinating. I don’t want you to be here if it means you’re a Brother. You can’t do this to me. And I was—”

“Breaking shit?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m running hot.” I released a breath. This wasn’t some lucid dream. It was random, but… “Youarehere.”

“I am.”

“That means you’re a Brother.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he scoffed. “It means the Brothers want me to help you.”

My mouth rounded as I darted away from him, growling, “So youareon their side!”

“I haven’t betrayed you, Star,” he grumbled. “Temperance has. I met her, by the way. She makesyoulook sane.”

“Temper? You met Temper?” If I sounded bewildered, then that was because Iwas.

“Sadly, yes. I’ve made her acquaintance.”

“She’s not a traitor,” I dismissed.

“She is.”

“I’ve known her for years.”

“Longer than you’ve known me so you trust her more than me?”

“You’re standing here. She isn’t.” When he grunted, I stepped forward, peering at him as if he could disappear at any minute. “For a traitor, you’re hot. I’ll give you that.”

Conor straightened. “Jesus, you must be sick. I barely got you to accept that you like me via text chat, never mind in real life. And I’mnota traitor. You know me well enough by now to recognize that I’m not good with authority figures, Lodestar.”

He had a point.

Conor was like a teen rebel. He enjoyed hacking into shit because hecould. Locks meant nothing to him. They were only an enticement because it meant something juicy was on the other side and if it was being hidden, then he was curious about it.

I didn’t say that aloud, just muttered, “I’m not sick.” I didn’t think I was. My head hurt, sure. But that was normal in these high-pressure situations.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I-I don’t know. Yesterday?” Unable to stop myself, I moved nearer. My hand reached out to gently touch his arm. He tensed at the stroke of my fingers but didn’t pull back.

“We were supposed to be a team,” he gritted out.

Seven words.

Somehow, amid the many arguments I’d had in my life, those seven hurt the most.

“I’m sorry.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like