Page 46 of Stranger Danger

“What?” Gavin shrieks, at the same time Tyler says: “Pay me, motherfuckers. All of you owe me fifty bucks now.”

You know what? Good enough. I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now. They can grill me later, when I’m not running on five hours of sleep in two days.

I shut the door in their faces and flop down in my bed. My body curls around Ira’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world—his hips slot perfectly against mine, shoulder blades snug against my collarbone. He’s already asleep again, his breathing deep and even, but his hand finds mine and holds on anyway.

It’s so warm.

Why the hell is it a furnace in here? Our thermostat doesn’t go above seventy in the winter.

I reach up blindly, trying to peel the comforter off my sweaty body, and hear a tiny choking sound. That’s not good. I let go and feel something sharp on my jaw. It’s enough to open my eyes.

Ira’s lying on top of me, still in my crusty hoodie, the long edge of his phone pressing into my forehead. He unlatches his teeth from my jaw and taps the screen; a video starts playing. All I can do is blink up at the popcorn ceiling, his hands hovering at the edge of my vision.

When did I become a phone rest?

“Morning,” he chirps. His thighs squeeze against my waist as he shifts up—and I gasp loud enough to choke on my own spit.

No wonder it’s a thousand degrees in here.

My goddamn dick’s inside him. Like it’s perfectly normal to wake up in this position. He’s not moving either, just sitting on me, happily tapping something on his phone screen.

“Ira, can you move?” I grumble, my voice scratchy.

“Why? I’m comfy, and you were zonked out for like, six hours.” He turns his phone around and shows me the same broadcast I was watching. “Did you see this load of shit? They think I’m some dude in my fucking forties from an upperclass family.”

The phone flips back around. “I’m offended. I’d be way hotter in my forties.”

His muscles clench around my dick so hard I stop breathing. I press my hands into my eyes until I see white splotches, reminding myself there’s something a little more important than whatever Ira’s doing.

I clear my throat. “They have a sketch?”

“Yeah. It’s not you, and it’s not me. This dude looks like he forgets to shower unless his mommy tells him to, and only crawls out of his basement to drink pond scum.”

“One sketch or two?”

“Just the one… uh…” He chews on his lip, flicking his finger up the screen. His eyes bounce up and down as it moves, bright colors washing over his skin. “Here it is.”

Even if the black-and-white sketch is hyper-realistic, it’s not anyone I’ve seen. The man looks like the person everyone warns you about growing up; the whole reason we were taught real stranger danger in elementary school. Slicked-back black hair, black eyes so deep the shading makes them look like they’re disappearing.

“Who the hell is this?” I mumble, pinching the screen to get a better look.

“They’re refusing to give out nicknames because they think it romanticizes us, or whatever.”

“Since when? They’ve been calling me the Strangler for months.”

Ira laughs, and it vibrates every single nerve down my body. My eyes threaten to close.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Do you check social media, Beckett? You’ve got a cult following. There are some horny dudes, chicks, and thems posting about you.” He eyes me around the phone. “Imagine the explosion if they saw your face.”

Concentrating is getting harder by the second. I need him to move before we end up fucking for the next two hours and he gets emotional again.

I really hated seeing him cry.

“We never took a picture at the iron-house,” he says, back to scrolling. “That needs to be fixed ASAP.”

My hands find their way to his hips anyway, grinding his ass down against me until his finger stops moving.

“With the curfew? We’ll get caught.”