Page 61 of Side Trip

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 werereal.

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.

He wasn’t allowed to set foot on the band’s bus. But he and Chase had followed Jack there after the concert and the next thing he knew they were rolling down the highway. Once the buses got moving, nobody dared ask the driver to stop. The loser who did got assigned bathroom cleanup and trash duty for the next leg of the journey. The only time the bus stopped was when the driver had to get gas or take a piss.

Billie shouted his name again. She’d wake up the entire entourage if he didn’t get moving. He inchwormed his jeans on and his stomach rolled. He almost puked. He drank too much last night and ate too little.

“Dylan!”

“Coming,” he grumbled. He sat up quickly and smacked his forehead on the bunk’s flip TV.

“Fuck.” Now his head hurt, and not just from the dent left by the TV.

He scooted off the bunk and landed in a heap of duffel bags, loose clothing articles, and a random pile of shoes, items from the junk bunk. Dylan peeked behind the bunk’s privacy curtain and found Chase passed out, snoring, and thankfully, alone.

Dylan dropped the curtain and looked around. The bus smelled like urine and stale alcohol. It felt like a sauna. Someone had cranked up the heat and no one had bothered to open any windows. They’d been too drunk to care.

He walked to the front of the bus, stepping over empty bottles. Half-naked bodies sprawled on couches. Food and half-filled red Solo Cups cluttered every surface. Billie was still yelling.

Man, his ass was grass.

He exited the bus and his parents turned in unison. Billie gaped and Jack scowled.

“You see?” she shrieked. “This is why I’m taking Dylan with me. I can’t trust you to keep an eye on him. There’s lipstick all over his face. What happened to him last night?”

Dylan clapped his hands over his cheeks, horrified. What was she talking about? He started wiping off the lipstick he couldn’t see. He had no idea if any was coming off or he was just smearing the marks and making it worse.

Jack shrugged. Dylan knew he had no idea what he’d been up to last night. Jack Westfield had been smashed.

Billie came over. She touched Dylan’s hair, his face, his shoulders. “Are you okay, baby?”

“I’m fine, Mom.” He fended off her hands. He hated when she went all mama bear on him. It was embarrassing.

“Grab your things. We’re leaving,” she said at the same moment a yellow cab pulled into the fairground’s dirt lot.

“What the hell, Billie?” Jack exclaimed.

“I told you, Jack, if you got drunk one more time and couldn’t be a damn parent to your own son, then we’re through.”

“Nothing happened, Mom.”

“Stay out of this, Dylan,” Jack ordered.

Billie nudged his shoulder. “Get your stuff.”

“I can’t leave,” Dylan said. “The tour’s only half-done. I have a job,” he pleaded, desperate for her to understand. Dylan always let Jack down about performing live, but when it came to keeping his dad’s axes in top condition, Dylan was the best, and Jack knew it. It was one way—theonlyway—Jack didn’t see Dylan as a disappointment.

“Get your things. I’m not telling you again,” she said, handing off her duffel to the cabdriver.

“You’re the band’s manager. You can’t leave,” Jack protested.

“Watch me.” She opened the cab door. “Dylan,” she urged.

“What about Chase?” he argued.

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