Page 90 of The Summer We Lie

I called Mom after that—Justin was over at a friend's house working on some project about dinosaurs, so I didn't get to talk to him, but Mom sounds like she's doing well. She seems less stressed than usual, though she still won't admit how much she's been struggling. I miss them both so much it physically hurts, like a constant ache in my chest that never quite goes away.

"Here you are, madam," Harper announces, sweeping back into the room with a flourish. She's carrying a pair of black strappy heels that probably cost more than I want to know.

"Thank you," I say, slipping them on carefully. The straps wind around my ankles like delicate chains, and I fasten the tiny buckles with fingers that are steadier than I expected. When I stand up, I'm suddenly three inches taller, and my legs look impossibly long in the mirror across the room.

I walk over to study my reflection, hardly recognizing myself. I look more like Cherry Red than Skye with the dramatic makeup—a dark smokey eye that makes my green eyes look mysterious and dangerous, deep red lipstick that matches Harper's. My light brown hair falls down my back in loose waves that Harper styled with her professional-grade curling iron, and the little red dress I got while shopping with her looks really hot. I was worried when I bought it, second-guessing every curve it showed, but now I actually like it. I look confident. Sexy. Like someone who belongs in Dom's world.

"Okay, I think I'm ready," I say as Harper comes to stand beside me in the mirror, our reflections side by side—fire and earth, confidence and uncertainty, best friends despite all our differences.

She wraps me in a hug, her vanilla perfume enveloping me in warmth and familiarity. "I'm so glad you're coming with me tonight," she says, squeezing me tight against her. "I need my wing woman."

"Me too," I say and smile, meaning it even though guilt immediately twists in my stomach. I am glad to be here with her, but I also feel absolutely terrible about what I'm doing with her dad. I didn't plan on fucking my best friend's father—I never wanted this complication, never wanted to be the kind of person who could do something like this, and I feel like complete shit about it. But I also have absolutely no willpower when it comes to him. Being around Dom is like standing next to a black hole; the gravitational pull is impossible to resist, and I'm already past the event horizon.

"Okay, let me go get my purse," she says, releasing me reluctantly.

"Let me grab mine too," I say. When she disappears down the hallway, I add my phone to my small clutch and walk out to the kitchen to get a couple of water bottles for the drive. The house feels different at night, more intimate somehow, with most of the lights dimmed and shadows pooling in the corners.

I'm bending down to reach into the fridge when I hear his sharp intake of breath, that low groan that goes straight to my core. I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I grab the water bottles, taking my time standing back up because I know he's watching. When I turn around, Dom is leaning against the doorway like he owns the world, his dark eyes raking over my body with an intensity that makes my skin flush hot. He's wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and this time he has a shirt on—a simple black t-shirt that somehow doesn't do much to hide his incredible physique. If anything, the casual clothes make him look more dangerous, more touchable.

"Hey," I say softly, suddenly feeling completely exposed under his intense gaze despite being fully clothed.

"I don't like this," he says, his jaw tightening in that way that means he's fighting for control.

I smile at him, trying to lighten the mood even though the air between us feels charged with electricity. "What?" I ask innocently, though I know exactly what's bothering him. I can see it in the way his hands clench at his sides, the way his eyes keep traveling over my dress.

"You going off looking like that without me," he says, his voice low and rough with possessive need. "I didn't like it the first time and I sure as hell don't like it now."

"I'll be a good girl," I whisper, the words barely audible over the thundering of my pulse. The way he's looking at me makes my knees weak—like he wants to devour me whole but is holding himself back by the thinnest thread of control.

He shakes his head slowly, his dark eyes burning with possessive intensity. "When you get back, I want you to come to my room."

The command in his voice sends electricity shooting straight through me, pooling low in my belly. "Yes, sir," I breathe automatically, the submission falling from my lips like it belongs there. God, I want to kiss him so desperately it physically hurts. Want to press myself against that hard, perfect body and lose myself in his touch again. But I can hear Harper's heels clicking across the floor upstairs, getting closer, and the risk of discovery makes my chest tight with panic.

I'm right to worry because seconds later, she appears in the doorway.

"Ready?" she asks, barely glancing around the room before her eyes land on her father. There's a moment of surprise that flickers across her features. "Oh, hey Dad." Then, with typical Harper efficiency, she adds, "Bye Dad," and reaches for my hand to tug me toward the door.

"Where are you even going?" Dom's brain is clearly cataloguing every detail of our appearance—the way my dress hugs my curves, Harper's confident stride, the careful application of our makeup. I can practically see him filing away information, and something possessive flashes in his expression.

"I don't know, a couple of clubs," Harper replies with the kind of casual shrug that only comes from a lifetime of privilege. "Nothing too crazy. But we'll be back tonight." She pauses, shooting him a reassuring smile. "Late, though. Don't wait up."

He groans, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The gesture makes him look older, more tired, like the weight of being a protective father is suddenly too much. "Fine, just call me if you need me. Be careful and no drinking and driving."

"I'm driving us tonight," I volunteer quickly, desperate to ease some of the tension radiating from his powerful frame. "I won't be drinking."

The relief that washes over his face is immediate, and I catch the small upturn of his lips—barely there, but enough to make warmth bloom in my chest. "Good," he says, and that single word carries layers of meaning that only I can decipher. Good that I'll be safe. Good that I'll be sober. Good that I'll come back to him.

Then Harper is pulling me through the house toward the garage, her excitement infectious as she chatters about the night ahead. We climb into her sleek BMW, and I adjust the driver's seat to accommodate my shorter legs while she takes control of the sound system. The pulsing beat she settles on fills the car with energy, and I can't help but feel like we're embarking on some grand adventure.

Twenty-five minutes later, I'm staring up at what looks like any other upscale business building in this part of the city. Glass and steel reaching toward the night sky, discreet signage, nothing at all like what I imagined an underground sex club would look like.

"This is it?" I ask, unable to hide my confusion.

Harper grins at my expression. "The best secrets hide in plain sight," she says cryptically, directing me toward a private parking area tucked behind the building.

We make our way to what appears to be a service entrance—completely unmarked, guarded by a man in an expensive suit with an earpiece curled around his ear. He looks like he could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat, but his demeanor is perfectly professional.

"IDs," he says, extending a gloved hand.