“How old are you?” I ask, sweeping gently tangled hair over one shoulder. I should probably shower properly. After our foursome, all I did was rinse. My eyes drift over to the kitchen, to Michael talking on the phone as he prepares himself some frozen thing from the fridge. His voice is low and angry, and I wonder if he's talking to his girlfriend again. “Twenty-nine,” Cope says, drawing my attention back to him, to those stunning eyes of his. I could stare at those all day and never get tired of looking at them. “I'm the oldest one on this bus.” “Fucking ancient,” Pax mutters from his end of
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