On the inside, the bus is more like a mini-mansion on wheels. I'm basically gagging as Zayd gives me the full tour. We've just gotten back from lunch, and I have to say, it felt good to be with the boys again. I missed them so much it hurt. At the same time, there's a lot of tension, all these tangled threads that need to be unwoven.

I just keep telling myself to deal with one thing at a time.

“These are the bunks,” Zayd says, showcasing the beds on either side of the narrow hall. The dark look he gives me says he's thinking of doing more than just sleeping in them. “Plenty of room for one guy and a very special guest.”

“And how many very special guests have you entertained on this bus?” I ask, but he just laughs, that howling, all-consuming sound that makes me smile.

“Oh, Charity.” Zayd pats me on the head and then kicks open the bathroom door behind him. “There's even a tub in here. Again, plenty of room for one guy and a very special guest …”

“I'm leaving now,” I say, turning and making my way back down the hall. Zayd catches me from behind, his arms sliding around my waist, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder. My entire body flushes warm, and my eyes close of their own accord. Speaking of tension … There's a definite thread between me and Zayd, one that's been there from the first second I laid eyes on him.

“Don't go, Charity, I was just playing,” he murmurs, nuzzling against my neck. For the moment, we're the only two people on this bus. An impossible heat rushes to my core as I lay my hands over Zayd's. “There's only one special guest I want on my bus from now on.”

“Is that so?” I ask, as he squeezes me even tighter, my back to his front.

“Definitely so. What say you we kick all the rest of these bastards to the curb for the night, and have a little sleepover in here? I'll give the driver the night off …”

“My dad might not like that very much,” I murmur, but I know I'm getting close to turning eighteen. He won't have much of a say over what I can and can't do. The thing is, I love him and respect him, and I wouldn't want to cause him unnecessary stress either.

“What Dad doesn't know won't hurt him,” Zayd whispers, running his tongue up the curve of my ear.

“Maybe it won't bother her dad, but it certainly bothers me,” Tristan says, appearing at the top of the steps. I shudder in Zayd's arms, and my mind goes to the naughtiest places. I wonder what it'd be like with Zayd on one side and Tristan on the other?

Oh dear. I might've spent too much time reading that book, Groupie, that Miranda gave me a few days ago. It's a reverse harem story where the main character gets all five boys to herself. Like … what I have. But, it ends that way, too. She doesn't have to choose.

Lucky bitch.

Zayd releases me with a sigh, propping his elbow on the edge of one of the top bunks.

“What do you want, Vanderbilt? Some cash to get a hotel room for the night? Because in this case, I'm willing to offer up a little charity to get some alone time with, well, Charity, if you catch my drift.”

“Doesn't your family have a place on the beach?” I ask Tristan, but his face just darkens up and he says nothing. Oh. This whole disowning thing is for real, isn't it? “You know, I'd have to ask my dad, but I'm sure you could stay here for a few nights.”

“He doesn't need a place to stay for a few nights, chickadee,” Zayd says, sounding almost like he's taking pleasure in Tristan's downfall. Hell, knowing him, he probably is. “He needs a place to stay for the entire summer.”

“I'm a homeless vagrant now,” Tristan drawls, leaning his shoulder against the kitchen cabinets and watching us with sharp, silver eyes. “Does that make you happy, Zayd? Do you lather up your dick with lotion and dream about it?”

“No, I lather my dick up and dream about Marnye,” Zayd retorts with a smirk, grabbing me again. I wiggle out of his arms and cast a look over my shoulder.

“You shithead,” I grumble, but I'm not entirely displeased at his statement. I move over to the much wider kitchen area and try not to think about the fact that this bus is like a more luxurious version of the Train Car. Like, Dad and I lived in that our whole lives, and Zayd just owns one for the hell of it. Wealth disparity sure is an interesting topic. “Well, I don't see why one of the boys can't put you up somewhere,” I tell him, looking between Tristan and Zayd. “Don't you all usually go to the Hamptons for the summer anyway? There was plenty of house up there to go around.”

“We're not going to the Hamptons this year,” Zayd says, moving over to the fridge and opening it to reveal about a hundred different bottled drinks. I can see from all the way over here that there's an entire shelf of iced teas and sodas for me; it's not all alcohol which I appreciate. Zayd snags a beer for himself, tosses one to Tristan, and then turns to look at me with his pierced brow raised. “What can I get you, babe?”

“Iced tea, thank you.” Zayd hands one to me, and I take a seat on the edge of the bench that surrounds the small table. “What do you mean you're not going to the Hamptons?”

“He means we're staying here. With you.” Tristan uses a bottle opener that's screwed to the wall and pops the top on his drink, putting the long neck of the bottle to his lush mouth and taking a sip.

“Why?” I ask, feeling this surge of tender appreciation bubble up in me. I want to jump up and down with excitement, but I'm also mildly suspicious. “I mean, I'm grateful and honestly pretty excited to hang out, but I'm also curious.”

“We want to chill with you,” Zayd says, picking at the label on his beer with black fingernails. I get the idea that they're both hiding something from me, but then, I've been getting that vibe since I first saw them this morning. He glances up at me. “And we know you want to be close to your dad.”

“That's it?” I ask, and Zayd shrugs. “I feel like you're all hiding something.”

“It's just more Infinity Club bullshit,” Tristan says, his voice as smooth as cognac, settling over me in a cool wave. “It doesn't matter. I'll sleep at the homeless shelter if I have to.”

You wouldn't survive a single night, I think as I narrow my eyes and unscrew the cap on my drink.

“There's no reason for that. You can stay with me for the rest of the summer.”

“Wait, what?” Zayd asks as I stand up. I give him a frosty look.

“Well, he has to stay somewhere, doesn't he? I guess he'll be just steps away from my bedroom door for the next few months.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Zayd inserts, holding up his hands and backpedaling a little. “Of course he can stay with me. We're almost sorta, kinda friends.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Tristan says, narrowing his eyes and sighing. He looks almost as tired as Windsor. I swallow hard and lick my lips, drawing his attention up to me. There's this strange, silent communication that passes between us. Breakfast when he pushed me over the table, that game of Twister, Lizzie's confession. “But I accept the offer.”

“Good on you,” Zayd murmurs with a roll of his eyes, pausing as the driver of the bus pops his head in and asks to speak with him for a moment. “Be right back. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone.” He hops down the bus steps, and the door swooshes shut softly behind him, sealing Tristan and me into the air conditioned space together.

“Can I ask you a question?” I start, trying to fill the awkward silence. Tristan moves over to the table and sits across from me, his silver eyes cutting across the surface and digging straight into my soul. He moves one foot forward and ends up brushing it against mine.

“You can ask it. Maybe I'll answer it, maybe not.” I narrow my eyes and take a sip of my tea.

“What colleges did you apply to?”

Tristan goes very still, like that's not a question he'd even remotely considered me asking. He reaches up and runs his fingers through his silky, raven-dark hair, looking out the window toward the street instead of at my face.

“That's your question? You don't want to ask about my father, or about Lizzie, or even why I tried so hard to beat you during third year?”

“You always try hard to beat me. What's new? Tell me where you applied.”

Tristan pauses, leaning back in his seat as he studies me carefully.

“Harvard.” Of course. “Stanford.” Expected. “Brown.” Interesting choice. “Oxford.” That's too freaking far away. Tristan takes another drink of his beer, watching my face like he's expecting a certain type of reaction from me. “Bornstead.”

My heart leaps out of my chest, and I stand up.

“I've already decided against that one though,” he adds before I can get too excited.