Page 11 of The Summer We Lie

FROM: Obsidian Elite Services [[email protected]]

TO: Dominic Grayson [[email protected]]

SUBJECT: Auction Confirmation: Cherry Red - Exclusive Arrangement

Mr. Grayson,

We are pleased to confirm your successful acquisition in tonight's exclusive virginity auction. Your winning bid of $1.2 million has secured your exclusive arrangement with "Cherry Red."

Per our elite member protocols, we have initiated our verification and security procedures. Our private concierge team will contact you within 24 hours to discuss your preferred accommodations, scheduling, and any special requirements you may have for this exceptional experience.

Please note that all arrangements will be conducted with our signature discretion and attention to detail that Obsidian members have come to expect. Your privacy remains our utmost priority.

As a reminder, all participants in our exclusive auctions undergo thorough screening and participate voluntarily. Full documentation will be provided through our secure portal upon finalization of arrangements.

Should you have any immediate requests or requirements, please utilize your private member channel rather than responding to this automated confirmation.

We thank you for your continued patronage of Obsidian's most elite services.

With appreciation for your discernment,

The Obsidian Management

This communication is encrypted and intended solely for the addressed recipient. Any unauthorized access is tracked and legally actionable under our membership agreement.

What the fuck? I stare at the screen, the blue light harsh in the darkness of my car. I read it again. And again. And again. My heart rate picks up, a rush of adrenaline flooding my system as the implications sink in.

I didn't bid on any fucking auction. Especially not a goddamn virgin auction. A virgin? What the hell would I even do with a virgin? My tastes run specific, controlled. I'm not gentle or patient or sweet—qualities a virgin would need. I haven't been with a virgin since I lost my own virginity at fourteen, fumbling in Jennifer McKenzie's basement while her parents were at church.

What the actual fuck is going on here?

I examine the email header carefully, checking the encryption signature. It matches Obsidian's protocols perfectly. This isn't spam. It's not some elaborate prank email. This is legitimate correspondence from the most exclusive underground club in California. Someone placed a bid in my name, and now I'm apparently on the hook for one-point-two million dollars and... a person?

The interior of the car suddenly feels too small, too confined. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes hard enough to see bursts of light behind my closed lids. This has to be Logan and Ethan. Who else would do something this monumentally stupid? But how the hell did they access my Obsidian account? The security protocols there are military-grade, designed specifically for men like me who require absolute discretion.

My fingers hover over the screen, tempted to call them immediately and unleash hell. But I decide this is best to handle in person.

I peel out of my driveway, the Audi's engine roaring as I push well beyond the speed limit. The streets blur past, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. One-point-two million dollars. For a virgin. In my name. The absurdity of it would be laughable if I wasn't so goddamn furious.

The drive to McCabe's takes half the time it should. I pull into the parking lot with a screech of tires, barely remembering to lock the car as I stride toward the entrance. The bouncer nods in recognition—I've been coming here for years with Logan and Ethan—and steps aside without a word, sensing my thunderous mood.

Inside, the familiar sounds and smells assault my senses: classic rock thrumming through expensive speakers, the rich tang of aged whiskey mingling with craft beer, low conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from the corner booths. I spot Logan and Ethan immediately at our usual table in the back. Ethan has a redhead practically draped across his lap, her manicured hand resting on his chest, laughing at something undoubtedly charming he just said.

I head straight to the bar instead. I need alcohol coursing through my system before I deal with those idiots, or I might actually commit homicide in a public place.

The bartender notices me immediately, a young woman with a silver nose ring and intricate sleeve tattoos climbing up both arms. "What can I get you?" she asks, efficiently wiping her hands on a small towel tucked into her apron.

"Whisky on the rocks," I tell her, my voice tight with barely controlled rage.

"Sure, sweetie." She grabs a crystal tumbler and drops in a few ice cubes with practiced precision.

"Make it a double," I add when she reaches for the bottle of Macallan.

Her eyes flick to mine, assessing my mood, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "Rough night already? It's barely nine." "You could say that." My clipped tone doesn't invite further conversation, and I'm in no mood for small talk.

She pours generously, then slides the glass toward me with a practiced flick of her wrist. "I'm a good listener if you need one," she offers with a hint of flirtation in her voice.

She's cute, I notice distantly. Warm brown eyes, full lips. Too young, though. Probably mid-twenties. And I'm definitely not in the mindset for this shit right now. I hand her my platinum card. "Open a tab," I say, taking the drink and turning away without waiting for a response.