Page 39 of The Summer We Lie

"I'll go to the bar," Ethan says and gets up, leaving me and Logan alone with the weight of this revelation between us.

Logan leans forward, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious. "I wouldn't have watched it at all if I'd known, man. If I'd had any idea how you'd feel about her."

"What the fuck kind of virgin is on a site like that and selling her virginity?" I ask, but don't expect an answer. The contradiction doesn't make sense.

"That's why he said that maybe she would be open to some of your tastes," Logan says, connecting dots I don't want connected, drawing a map I don't want to follow.

"I just need to keep avoiding her," I say firmly, just as Ethan returns with a pitcher of beer and heavy glass mugs that thud against the wooden table.

"How's that working out for you so far?" he asks, filling them up with amber liquid, foam rising to the top like clouds before a storm. "I ordered a couple whiskeys too."

"Thanks," I say and take a long drink of the beer, knowing he's right. It's not working. Not when I'm sitting in a bar discussing her online activities instead of being at home with my daughter. Not when every waking thought seems to circle back to Skye, to the puzzle she presents.

Ethan and I down the whiskey when it's brought to the table and nurse our beers. Logan cuts himself off, saying he's the DD tonight. We spend the rest of the night not talking about Skye, but she's there in every pause, every moment of silence between us, a ghost at the table we can't exorcise.

Chapter Seventeen

Dominic

When I go to the bathroom and the room is spinning, the floor undulating beneath my feet like I'm on a ship at sea, I figure it's time to call it quits and get home. I take a piss, bracing one hand against the wall to steady myself, and make my way back to the table, gripping the backs of chairs for support.

"I think I need to go home," I announce, the words slightly slurred, my tongue feeling too thick for my mouth.

"Yeah, I think you're right," Ethan says, studying me with barely concealed amusement. "I haven't seen you drink this much in years. Not since that time in Vegas after the Richardson project."

"I don't remember the last time I did," I agree, running a hand through my hair, feeling it stand on end beneath my fingers. "Or the last time I felt like I needed to."

"You're going to feel it tomorrow," Logan warns, shaking his head with the wisdom of someone who's been there too many times.

I groan, already dreading the hangover, the pounding head and dry mouth that await me. "Come on, I'll drive you home," Logan says, standing up.

"Me too," Ethan adds, finishing his beer in one long swallow.

"Why did I agree to being the DD?" Logan whines, but there's no real complaint in his voice, just the familiar banter that's carried us through two decades of friendship.

The three of us make our way out to the parking lot after we pay the tab and pile into my truck because Logan has a sports car that can barely fit his own lanky frame, let alone all three of us. The night air hits me like a physical blow, crisp and sobering, and I realize just how drunk I am—drunk enough to temporarily forget about green eyes, about innocence and performances, about all the contradictions embodied in one small woman currently living under my roof.

But not drunk enough to silence the voice in my head telling me I'm completely and utterly screwed.

The world tilts and sways as Logan helps me navigate from the truck to my front door. I fumble with the keys, dropping them once before finally managing to slide the right one into the lock. As the door swings open, a strange sound filters through the house—a female voice rising and falling rhythmically.

"What the fuck is that?" I mutter to Logan, my drunk brain struggling to process what I'm hearing.

Logan tilts his head, listening. "I think she's singing... or rapping?"

We move further into the house, and the sound becomes clearer. Skye's voice carries through the open layout, sweet but with surprising confidence as she raps along to what must be playing through her headphones. The lyrics are suggestive, playful, and hearing them in her voice sends a jolt of heat straight through me.

Then I see her.

She's in the kitchen, back to us, completely oblivious to our presence. Her hips sway in perfect rhythm, the movement hypnotic and fluid. She's wearing those damn sleep shorts that her ass eats in the most perfect way, paired with a cropped tank top that reveals a strip of pale skin at her waist. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck.

My eyes are glued to her every movement as she continues rapping, hitting every word of Shoop by Salt-N-Pepper perfectly while stirring something in a bowl. The alcohol in my system amplifies everything—the sway of her hips seems deliberately seductive, the flash of skin at her waist an invitation.

I become suddenly aware that Logan is watching her too, his eyes tracking the same movements mine are. Something primal and possessive flares in my chest.

"Take your eyes off of her," I growl, low enough that Skye can't hear over her music.

Logan chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Already leaving," he says, backing toward the door. "I'll get your truck back tomorrow."