Page 58 of The Summer We Lie

We clink glasses, the sound lost in the throbbing music. "To summer time," I repeat, throwing back the tequila. It burns a fiery path down my throat, settling like a warm coal in my stomach alongside the butterflies Dom's text has stirred up.

"So," Harper says, leaning closer conspiratorially, her vanilla perfume mixing with the scent of tequila and lime, "I want to go back to Obsidian. I think I want to perform. Do you want to come with me next time?"

"Yeah, definitely," I agree, curiosity piqued despite the nervous flutter in my chest. "But I don't want to perform. What exactly will you be doing?"

"I think I'll start off simple," she explains, excitement lighting her eyes, transforming her already beautiful face into something radiant. "They have these things like window boxes or whatever. You're in them and people can watch you dance or strip or fuck yourself—whatever the hell you want. But you're alone in there and nobody can touch you."

"Oh wow, that sounds really cool," I say, genuinely intrigued despite my perpetual shyness and the voice in my head reminding me of my inexperience.

"Oh," she continues, leaning even closer, her eyes wide with excitement, "and the best part—you can decide if you want to see the people watching or not. There's a button you can push to make it like a one-way mirror and they can only see you."

"I would do that," I admit, picturing myself hidden but exposed. "I don't want to watch people watching me." The thought alone makes my chest tight with anxiety.

Harper laughs, shaking her head, her red curls bouncing. "Oh no, I love watching them watch me. It's such a turn-on for me. Seeing their reactions, knowing I'm the one making them feel that way."

"You're crazy," I say affectionately, giving her arm a gentle squeeze, "I'm too shy for that." I honestly envy her confidence, her complete comfort in her own skin, the way she owns her sexuality without apology.

"Harper!" a male voice calls out, cutting through our conversation.

I look up to see an impossibly attractive guy approaching our table with an equally stunning woman beside him. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his smile radiates the kind of confidence that comes from growing up with money and being told you're special your whole life.

"Oh my god, Reed!" Harper jumps up and hugs him, genuine pleasure lighting up her face. "It's been so long!"

"God, what, like two years?" he says, keeping an arm around her shoulder as they pull apart, familiarity evident in their easy interaction.

"Yeah, since you went off to college," she replies, looking genuinely happy to see him.

I chug my water while they catch up, itching to respond to Dom but not wanting to draw attention. My fingers practically twitch with the need to type something back, to continue whatever this dangerous game is we're playing. The text burns in my mind like a brand: "I'm already addicted to you."

My body feels electric, alive in a way it never has before. The club's bass pounds through me, vibrating in my bones, but it's nothing compared to the thundering of my pulse. I sneak another glance at my phone under the table, wondering how long I have to wait before I can respond without Harper noticing, without having to explain the flush on my cheeks that has nothing to do with dancing or alcohol and everything to do with the man who shouldn't want me but somehow does—the man whose daughter is my best friend, the man I sold my virginity to, the man I can't stop thinking about no matter how hard I try.

Me: Good!

I hit send and tuck my phone back in my purse.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Skye

"Skye!" Harper yells over the pounding music, gesturing wildly between us. "This is Reed. Reed, this is my bestest friend in the whole world, Skye." She drags out the introduction with tipsy enthusiasm, her arm looping around my shoulders and squeezing me against her side.

I shake his hand, noticing up close the same easy confidence I'd spotted from across the crowded, dimly lit room. "Nice to meet you," I say, trying not to fidget under his appraising gaze.

He smiles a way-too-charming smile that probably works on most women but feels rehearsed to my artist's eye—all perfect angles without the genuine emotion behind it. I can immediately tell he's used to getting his way based solely on his looks. I turn my attention to the dark-haired woman standing slightly behind him, extending my hand. "I'm Skye."

"Hi, I'm Wren," she replies, taking my hand with a grip that's firm but feminine. Her nails are perfectly manicured in a deep burgundy that complements her olive skin, and I can't help but admire the artistry of her subtle makeup.

"Nice to meet you," I say, and she smiles a beautiful smile at me that reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners slightly. Something genuine in her expression makes me instantly like her, a warmth radiating that Reed's practiced charm lacks entirely.

"So, you remember Ethan, right?" Harper asks, leaning against the sticky table.

I look at her with confusion furrowing my brow, my fingers automatically reaching up to twist my nose ring. "Yeah?"

"Reed is Ethan's son," she explains, as if dropping the most casual bombshell while taking another sip of her brightly colored cocktail.

"No shit," I say, genuinely shocked, my eyes widening as I study his face more carefully. "I didn't know he had kids." Now that I think about it, they do resemble each other, but Ethan is all man—a grown-up version of the younger one standing before me. The same strong jawline, similar piercing eyes, but Ethan's carry years of experience that make them infinitely more compelling, more mysterious. There's something about the way Ethan looks at people, like he can see straight through to their core, that his son completely lacks.

"Oh god, are you comparing us?" Reed asks with a knowing smirk, catching my appraising look as I mentally catalog the similarities and differences.