I dart into the bathroom before Saskia takes it over like always and lock the door. I turn the shower on and go to grab a towel—shit. No towel. Sighing, I unlock the door and move to the cupboard on the landing, where I know there’ll be a stack of freshly laundered and folded towels. A hand shoves at me just as I reach for one.

“Hell no!” I snatch a fluffy blue towel and dart toward the bathroom. I grab Saskia’s arm before she can close the bathroom door and yank her out into the hallway. “Kiss my ass, Sas. I’m showering.”

“But you take so long!” she whines.

“Oh, as opposed to your twenty minutes to pee?” I hit her hard with a glare before I slam the door in her face and lock it for a second time.

My pleasure at winning the bathroom race rapidly deflates when I look at the towel. Damn, this is a hand towel. I’ll be lucky if it covers my ass, let alone my boobs and my ass.

I can’t go back out there or I really will lose my bathroom time.

Crap.

I guess that’s that. I’m gonna have to shower and make a break for it back to my room.

I glance at the door one last time—I don’t trust my sister not to pick the lock the way she did in the past, and that time, I had to put her in a headlock until she removed the picture of my butt from Facebook.

Sometimes, I wish I was an only child. Or had enough money to, you know, move out of my parents’ place.

I shower in record time, thankful I shaved my legs yesterday morning before work. I’m not usually an October leg-shaver, but hey, I’ll make some exceptions for girls’ nights.

Unlocking the bathroom door, I clasp my towel around me desperately and dart into my room before Sas sees me. Thank fucking God. The last thing social media needs is my vagina gracing its newsfeeds.

Something else I don’t trust my sister not to do.

I press the button on the remote control on my desk and my TV flashes to life. Instantly I’m assaulted by flashing images of Dirty B. returning back home to Shelton Bay and the screaming horde of fans outside their house.

Good grief. If I thought the little fangirls were bad before they went on tour, or even before they took their break this summer, I had no idea.

They are literally crying. One girl is clasping a tissue and screaming. Another is leaning over the barricades so far she almost falls on her face and is only saved by a police officer righting her.

I don’t remember ever going this gaga over the Backstreet Boys, or even the Jonas Brothers. And, dang, I loved the hell outta those guys. Like, poster-plastered walls and T-shirts and begging my parents for concert tickets kinda loved.

I will neither confirm nor deny that I cried when the Backstreet Boys broke up.

But I’m more than a little embarrassed that my little sister is one of those screaming girls outside the Burke residence. If I didn’t like their music myself, I’d strap her to a chair and demand she act like an adult.

It’s impossible to look away from the screen—from the ridiculous train wreck of a fandom born from their latest tour. The nine months they’ve spent traveling around the United States has literally birthed a million babies, and they’re all screaming, restless imbeciles.

“The four Burke brothers that make up Dirty B. will be home for the next three months before heading back to L.A. to start recording what’s sure to be their third hit album . . .”

I scoff at the reporter on the screen. Thank you, Ms. Whatever Your Name Is. It’s always nice for every female between the ages of thirteen and twenty-four to know how long they have to: a) get an autograph, or b) get inside their pants.

But hey—there isn’t a teenage girl in town who doesn’t already know this information. My sister woke me up this morning, screaming, because she has three months to get an autograph. I shake my head and grab my underwear, watching as footage shows their tour bus rolling up to the house. Conner is the first to come into view, his daughter, Mila, snug tight in his tattooed arms. She rests her head on his shoulder, her dark hair touching his, and he moves to shield her face from the flashes aimed their way. Sofie is trailing right behind him, blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, and even from here, I can see the smile in her bright blue eyes.

I smile at the sight of my old friend. We missed each other this summer when she came back, because my family was on vacation, but knowing I’ll see her in a couple of hours makes it better.

Tate is next, holding Ella’s hand, and I peer at the girl who finally tamed the rogue Burke boy while I grab some panties to stuff into my purse. You know. Just in case Chelsey’s plan actually works. Tate is as toned and tattooed as I remember, and his smirk is just as arrogant as it’s always been, despite the soft edge he has standing next to Ella. She’s much smaller than him. . . . Cute, almost, with her dark hair and broad smile.

Kye is next. Scruffy dark hair, just like his brothers, his T-shirt stretched across toned shoulders, revealing the tattoos decorating his arms. And if you didn’t know better, another Kye follows after him. Of course, that’s Aidan, his twin, and even though they completely ignore the cameras, it’s plain to see that they’re identical. Except for the tattoos—it’s the easiest way to tell them apart now. From Kye’s almost iconic stopwatch on the inside of his left bicep to the trees that crawl up Aidan’s forearm from his wrist.

Of course, this is information I know already.

I grew up with these guys throwing balls at my head in PE, for the love of God.

The favor was returned some years later when Aidan Burke invited me to senior prom and I gave him a very big, very public “no.”

Tip: if you’ve given a girl a black eye with a tennis ball, don’t serenade her after school in the parking lot.

Naturally, though, it worked out just fine for him. Girls flocked to him while declaring very loudly what a fool I was, how rude I was, and that I couldn’t possibly have a Southern heart since I told him “Oh, fuck you” instead of “bless your heart.”

I distinctly remember giving them a giant “fuck you,” too.

That was almost more satisfying.

I turn the TV off and open my laptop, waiting for a few seconds as it loads from sleep mode to my home screen. I tap the Spotify block on the Windows panel and double-tap the screen on my weekend playlist. “It’s You” by Syn Cole comes on, and I twirl my way to where my black dress hangs on my closet door. I reach for it . . .

Shit. Spanx.

I leave the dress where it is and turn, taking a deep breath to prepare myself as my eyes fall on the nude garment.

Jesus, Spanx really do look like torture devices.

I sit on the edge of my bed and brace myself. Putting two feet in, I roll the sucking-in panties up my legs easily until they reach the tops of my thighs—and, oh shit. I can’t feel my feet anymore. I push myself into a standing position, grasp the top band of the panties, take a deep breath, and tug hard.

They slide up my legs with the help of the suspiciously sex-like noises coming from my mouth, though it was in no way pleasurable fitting myself into them.

Seriously—can we make Spanx for guys that give six-packs beneath shirts? Okay, thank you.

Safely fitted into my fabric boa constrictor, I pull my dress over my head, tug it down over my butt, and grab my hair dryer.

My phone buzzes with endless text messages from Chelsey as I get ready, and I reply to them awkwardly as the clock ticks away minute by minute and my primp deadline draws dangerously closer.

By the time the doorbell rings, I’m placing my bangles on my wrist and stepping into my heels at the same time.

You’d think that by twenty-four I’d have the whole timekeeping thing down. Maybe next year.

“Jessie!” Dad yells. “Are you going out tonight?”