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Ira pulls the comforter over his head and burrows farther into my skin, his neon-colored arms tightening around my waist.

Now what? I don’t want to wake him up, but they’re still pounding on our door, making horrible moaning noises and repeating shit Ira said. Which is… exactly what we were doing last night when Tyler had a girl over. Karma’s a bitch.

The news broadcast is still playing, but I only catch every other sentence around the insanity happening.

“…mandated curfew…”

“…oh, Beckett. Fuck…”

“…nighttime classes at Saint Aurelius…”

What? What about classes at our college?

I rewind the video, putting the phone’s speaker close to my ear so I can hear over the fake sex.

“In accordance with the mandated curfew of nine o’clock, all adult nighttime classes at Saint Aurelius have been postponed until further notice. Extracurriculars have been cancelled at the high school, as well as all home games; away games may proceed as planned. Also, some full-time college students may notice their three and four o’clock classes have been moved to earlier time slots in case they have a lengthy drive home. This is the second time in thirty years that we’ve had to deal with this extreme level of tragedy, but it’s not the 90s anymore, ladies and gentlemen. Our police are more equipped—”

More equipped, my ass.

The only reason they think there are two of us is that Ira went ballistic with the knife drawer—in his words, “I wanted to use him as a spaghetti colander”—and punctured a hundred and fifty holes in Raymond’s body. They took one insignificant piece of information and made a case around it. God only knows what our profiles look like.

“If they don’t shut the fuck up in point six seconds, I’m going to give them something to moan about,” Ira hisses.

He throws the comforter down and sits up. This time, I move out of the way before he breaks my front teeth by accident. His hair’s nuts and he smells like cotton candy chapstick, strawberry lube, and sex—even his tattoos look tired.

“Hey Beck,” Tyler yells through the door. “Can I see your dick, too?”

Ira’s so pissed, he’s vibrating. He jumps off the bed, nearly stumbles, then grabs my white-stained hoodie off the ground and yanks it over his head—it doesn’t cover anything except the tattoos. I scramble off the mattress after him and lift him off the floor. His legs pinwheel out, like I’m trying to kidnap him, before I manage to toss him onto my bed.

I slam my hands on either side of his hips to keep him in place. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell them the truth,” he grits out, his hazel eyes wide. “I got fucked for three hours. I think my cum’s made of water. I hurt in places I didn’t know I could hurt—” His voice cracks. “I’m just… I’m—I’m so fucking tired, Beckett.”

He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and chokes back a watery noise. “I just want to cuddle with you and sleep until I feel better.”

Oh, wonderful. No problem at all.

All I have to do is explain to our housemates that I’m screwing my roommate.

No sweat.

It’s not the worst thing I can confess to.

“You’re going to stay put the whole time?” I ask. “I don’t want to worry about you flashing the whole frat while I’m at it.”

He nods, sniffling in a way that makes me feel worse. Tears slide down his face, and I bite down on my tongue.

I’m fucking exhausted, too.

I rub his arms, take a deep breath, then march over to the door. After making sure my jeans are buttoned, I swing it open. Tyler and Gavin almost fall through.

“No, you can’t see my junk,” I say flatly. “No, I’m not alone.”

Carl hands Tyler a ten-dollar bill. So does Gavin. I’m not about to ask what the hell they’re betting on, but they’ll definitely let me know later.

“Ira and I were…” I trail off, unsure of how to phrase it.

The guys fill in the blanks for me.