Dylan had looked out the small rectangular window. The light outside was weird so he peeked at his watch. Five thirty-five a.m., just past the butt crack of dawn. Yet Billie was fully dressed with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, ripping his dad a new one.

What was her deal this time?

Better yet, what had Jack done now?

His dad stood there, barefoot and shirtless. He hadn’t bothered buttoning his fly. His jeans hung low on his hips and his hair stood on end. Dylan’s mom must have woken him and dragged his sorry ass out of bed. Last Dylan remembered, Jack hadn’t been in his bed. He’d been passed out on the couch on the same bus Dylan was on, the band’s bus, not his parents’ bus.

Crap. Dylan groaned and flopped back on the foam mattress. Billie was probably shredding Jack about Dylan and Chase. They were all doomed.

Memories from the previous night pounded his brain as if it were a drum set. The party on the bus had lasted until 4:00 a.m. That was less than two hours ago. But the rank smell of secondhand bong smoke, the taste of warm beer filling his gut, and the feel of some gal’s hand dick diving into his jeans seemed like eons ago.

His stomach revolted at the memory. The girls he and Chase had hooked up with looked seventeen but swore they were twenty-one. He and Chase convinced the girls that they were eighteen. Stupid idea in retrospect. The girls had been all over them, cornering them in the back lounge and plying them with cheap beer.

The kissing had been hot, and he about blew a load in his pants when—What was her name? Kylie. That was it—had taken off her flimsy top with the funky little straps and let him touch her boobs. He was so down with that. First set he’d ever laid his hands on, and they were real.

But she’d started grabbing at his jeans and almost got them off before Dylan freaked. He flashed out of there to the only place he could hide on a bus traveling at sixty-five miles per hour down a six-lane highway: the sleeping bunks.

Their drummer, Tommy, was passed out in a chair in the front lounge, so Dylan hijacked his bunk, the middle in a stack of three. He wondered if Tommy was still in the same chair. Where had he ended up? And Chase, where was he? The last he’d seen of him, his cousin had his hands way up the other girl’s shirt and his tongue down her throat.

Billie screamed Dylan’s name. Her voice punched into his ear and he buried his face into the pillow. She was going to murder him.