The Summer We Lie (Summer Of Secrets #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Skye

"So this guy requested that I shove my desserts up my—pussy," Harper says, and I spit my coffee out and begin choking on it.

She just laughs then pats my back, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I know, crazy, but I can't tell you how common it is.

People love combining sex and food," she continues, casually dropping this bomb like she's talking about the weather.

"You'd be surprised what fetishes are out there.

Food play is actually pretty tame compared to some requests. "

After I'm done dying, I clear my throat, still feeling the burn in my nasal passages. "Well, did you?" I ask, both horrified and morbidly curious.

"Of course I did, girl! He paid me ten thousand for the private session, plus it sounded fun." she says with a shameless grin, and I laugh again, shaking my head. "The cupcake was still warm too. Made for quite the sensation."

Harper has been my best friend since she moved to our small town in Pennsylvania in sixth grade.

She's one of the only girl friends I've had.

I don't like a lot of people, and most of my friends are guys, but she won me over—or perhaps it's because she decided we were friends and never let it go.

Her confidence is magnetic even now, as it was back then when we were awkward preteens.

She's so fun and beautiful with her fiery red hair and freckles scattered across her face like constellations.

I love her and wish I could be as carefree and confident as her, never second-guessing herself like I constantly do.

She started working as a cam girl on Good Girl Gone Live when she turned 18, and not long after, she convinced me to set up an account also.

But I don't do as much on my account as she does.

She bakes in the nude for live shows and does one-on-ones, building a devoted following who tune in to watch her create pastries while completely naked.

Meanwhile, I hide behind heavy makeup and a wig, too scared to show my real self to the world.

My phone vibrates on the table in front of me, the screen lighting up with Mom's face.

"Tell Mom I said hi," Harper says as I answer the phone.

"Hey, Mom," I say, giving Harper a look. She winks at me and takes a sip of her coffee, her red hair falling over her shoulder in perfect waves.

"Skye, honey, are you alright? You sound strange."

"I'm fine," I clear my throat. "Just swallowed wrong. What's up?"

"I need a big favor," she says, her voice tight with that familiar maternal strain.

"Okay," I say, taking another sip of my coffee, already mentally rearranging my plans for the evening.

"When you come by, can you grab Justin's sketch book from your dad on the way?

Your dad has to work late and Justin left it in his car this morning.

He's already texted us about it a few times," she explains, the weariness evident in her voice.

Justin without his sketchbook is like a ticking time bomb—his main source of comfort when the world gets too overwhelming.

"Yeah, sure. I can grab it when I leave the coffee shop in a minute," I tell her, already calculating how much time the detour would add. Dad's work isn't far, but parking is always a nightmare.

"You're a lifesaver. I owe you," she says with genuine relief.

"You can pay me in food," I reply, only half-joking. Between classes, work, and helping with Justin, grabbing proper meals often falls to the bottom of my priority list.

"Well, I'm making you dinner tonight already."

"Then I guess we're square," I say with a laugh.

She laughs too, the tension leaving her voice. "Are you with Harper?"

"Yeah, we met after our last classes for coffee. She says hi, by the way." I glance at Harper, who's scrolling through her phone, probably checking her Good Girl messages.

"Tell her I said hi and she needs to come for dinner soon," Mom says, and I can hear the genuine affection in her voice. My mom has always had a soft spot for Harper.

"I will. I'll see you later. Love you."

"Love you, Mom!" Harper yells into my phone, leaning across the table with a grin.

Mom laughs. "Tell her I love her too. Bye, Hun."

"Bye," I say and hang up the phone. "Mom said she loves you too," I tell Harper, tucking my phone back into my bag.

She's always gotten along great with my family. Justin even likes her, and he doesn't like many people. Something about Harper's directness works for him—she never expects him to pick up on social cues he can't read, and she answers his blunt questions without getting offended.

"Your mom is the sweetest," Harper says, draining the last of her fancy latte. "So, issues with Justin's sketchbook?"

I nod, gathering my things. "Yeah. Justin probably spent the entire car ride this morning telling Dad about his latest dinosaur discovery, then got distracted and left the sketchbook behind. You know how he gets."

"The paleontologist-in-training," Harper says with an affectionate smile. "Want me to come with you? I'm done with classes for the day."

"Don't you have that economic theory paper due tomorrow?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "Did it already. Some of us are organized, Caldwell."

"Show-off," I mutter, but I'm grateful for the company.

As we head out of the coffee shop, I try not to think about how I'll have to rush to get Justin's sketchbook and still have time to do my cam show later tonight.

I pull into a parking spot in the garage, surprised there's actually a space in here. It's normally packed to the brim with cars, forcing me to park all the way down the street and trek back.

"See? I'm good luck," Harper says, flashing me that confident smile of hers—the one that makes her green eyes sparkle and her freckles seem to dance across her face. Her hair catches the light, making it look like fire.

"Uhuh, that's it," I say and park carefully, trying not to scratch the pristine black Mercedes beside me. "You can wait out here if you want," I offer, knowing Harper usually gets bored in corporate environments with their sterile hallways and hushed conversations.

"Okay, cool. I have some messages I need to return anyway," she says, already pulling out her phone, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.

I know she means her Good Girl notifications—her followers are constantly blowing up her inbox with requests and compliments.

Unlike me, she's completely comfortable with the attention, thriving under the adoration of strangers who pay to watch her bake in the nude.

"Be right back," I say and climb out of the car, shutting the door with a metallic clunk that echoes through the concrete structure.

My reflection distorts in the polished metal doors.

I hit the button for the 8th floor and watch the numbers climb steadily upward.

My dad's a financial analyst for Friedman and Myers, all suits and spreadsheets and serious conversations about money that might as well be in a foreign language to me.

When I reach the 8th floor, something feels off. It's eerily quiet, the overhead lights dimmed to their evening setting. That's weird. It's about 6:30 or 7:00 now, and this place usually has plenty of dedicated employees working late, their voices creating a gentle hum of activity.

I continue down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking slightly against the polished floor.

The sound feels invasive in the unusual silence.

I only pass one occupied office, where a tired-looking man glances up from behind stacks of papers.

I nod politely and keep moving until I reach the door with my father's name on it: David Caldwell, Senior Financial Analyst.

I open the door without knocking—and immediately scream, "Holy fuck!"

There's a young woman bent over the black leather sofa, her skirt hiked up around her waist, and a man—my father—pounding into her from behind.

His face is contorted in pleasure, hands gripping her hips with bruising intensity.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room.

I avert my gaze so quickly I almost give myself whiplash, but the image has already burned itself into my retinas.

And then I hear my dad's voice, panicked and breathless.

"Fuck! Skye."

Oh god. I slam the door shut with such force the frosted glass rattles in its frame.

My hands are shaking as I stumble down the hall, my chest constricting painfully.

My dad's a cheater, and I just had to see that shit in high-definition reality.

I need to wash my eyes out with acid and quick because I can't unsee what I just walked in on—the way his wedding ring glinted in the dim light as he gripped that woman's body.

I have to stop and hold onto the wall to catch my breath because I can't breathe.

The image keeps flashing through my mind on repeat like some horrific slideshow—the woman's face turned away, her long blonde hair spilling across her back, my father's hands gripping her hips, the look of ecstasy on his face that I never wanted to witness.

"Skye," my dad says again, his voice closer now.

I turn to see him walking toward me while he rights his clothing with practiced efficiency, tucking in his shirt, straightening his silk tie like that could somehow fix what I just witnessed.

His face is flushed, hair disheveled, and I can smell the sex on him from here.

"Don't," I say, putting my hand up, palm out like a traffic cop. My stomach churns violently, and I genuinely think I might vomit right here on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice hoarse and cracking with panic.

"What are YOU doing?" I ask, disbelief making my voice crack. "Actually, don't answer that. I saw exactly what you were doing."

"It wasn't what it looked like," he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his wedding ring catching the dim hallway light. The same ring Mom saved for months to buy him when they were young and broke.

"Oh yeah? So you weren't just having sex with a woman that isn't Mom? Because that's what it looked like to me." I say, and then the image runs through my head again in vivid detail and I feel sick and I gag, actually gag, having to swallow back bile.

His face falls, shoulders slumping, and for a moment, he looks like the father I used to know—the one who taught me to ride a bike and helped me with math homework when I struggled.

The one who used to carry me on his shoulders at the county fair.

Then his expression shifts to something calculating and cold, and I realize I'm seeing the real him for the first time—the man behind the mask of fatherhood.

"Are you going to tell your mom?" he asks, and I look at him with a death glare that could freeze hell itself. Is he fucking joking? He looks serious and pathetic standing there, his hair mussed and his eyes pleading like a child caught stealing cookies.

"No," I say, watching his face closely.

He has the nerve to look relieved, shoulders sagging, a small exhale escaping his lips as though I've granted him some great mercy.

"You are," I say, my voice steady despite the nausea rolling through me in waves.

I straighten my spine, feeling the weight of my responsibility to my mother, to Justin, to our family that this man is about to tear apart.

"You're going to go home now and tell her, or I will. That’s the least you can do for her. "