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the bright white of
     the numbers. 3:37. Who was texting me? I pressed the little green square with the
     2 in the corner, like an angry exponent.
    The message window opened and I froze. Watch me, said the first text.
    Then I tapped at the picture to make it fill the whole screen, and it still wasn’t
     big enough. Tristan. Taking a selfie. I wondered for a minute if the phone was wet,
     as wet as he was. He was leaning against the tiles in the shower, the water splashing
     on to his torso, which was sleek and shining, rivulets flowing down the muscled core
     of his body, to land and hover in the neatly trimmed tight curls that partially hid
     his balls from view. Nothing else was hidden though, and the blood-flushed tip was
     coated lightly with water, and something else, something that showed his excitement
     in posing like this. Pressing send. Knowing the effect it would have. On anyone.
    The phone beeped again, and the next picture scrolled into view, his hand firmly grasped
     around the hard flesh. His eyes were less amused now, dark circles, slightly unfocused.
     A minute passed. The phone beeped. This time the photo was blurred, his eyes closed
     tight, his hand another blur within the photo, movement. I felt my face grow warm,
     the familiar sinking heat spreading down. He was a statue, the muscles taut and flexed
     in his shoulders and arms, the dip of the lines by his hips a rigid indent. Another
     minute, a beep and the new photo appeared. His eyes were wide open now, and his lips
     were wet and full, slightly open, as though he had been taken by surprise. His hand
     was still tight around himself, pulling out the last tremors of furious pleasure.
     The evidence was captured as it struck him, adding to the sticky wet sheen that covered
     his heated skin.
    I shut my eyes for a moment. It was almost too much. Then the phone beeped again.
     It was a text this time.
    Your turn.

chapter two
    New York
    The tour bus was both smaller and larger than I had expected. Parked on a rancid street
     of warehouses near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, the remnants of cobblestones
     stuck out from the badly smoothed-on patches of tar. The warehouses that lined the
     street looked deserted and desolate, the multi-paned windows gazing down blankly on
     the empty street. It hardly seemed believable that a place could be this empty, only
     a few hours after the rush hour blitz heading west through the tunnels, past the boundary
     of the Hudson River, separating the city from the rest of the country. Like in that
     old New York magazine poster, New York City seemed as big as the rest of the country, with only
     the Hudson, that narrow strip of water in between it and all the rest. And even that
     had been shrunk down, another obstacle to get across until you reached California.
     Everything outside of the concrete and steel of the city seemed slightly unreal. But
     we were about to head out, and see just how real it all was. Adventure. The thrill
     of starting a trip at night, heading into the unknown.
    Tristan and I got out of the car, and the driver turned off the engine. He quickly
     came around to open the trunk, and pull out my suitcase. Tristan’s gear was already
     on the bus. He had a messenger bag with him, slung over his shoulder. He shook his
     head when the driver went to take it from him, and he left my suitcase by my side.
     Tristan nodded. We stood there. There was something strange about it, after everything
     that had happened, to be on this dirty street as a starting point, looking at our
     rolling home for the immediate future. And we were sleeping on the bus tonight, then
     waking up in Montreal, where the tour would begin for real.
    I watched as Tristan shook his driver’s hand. “Keep in touch with Trevor. Let me know
     the situation.” I frowned at the pair of them, but when Tristan turned back to me,
     his face was calm.
    “Trouble?” I asked.
    “Nothing. Just keeping an eye on things. Cat’s away,”