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stuff to see if he could find at the thrift store.
    He rolled over and punched his pillow down, but it wasn’t any use. Giving up, he tossed the covers off and stretched his arms over his head, then scrubbed his hand across his face, rubbing at the crud in his eyes. For a long minute, he stared up at the ceiling without really seeing anything.
    This wasn’t where he’d been planning to wake up. He was supposed to—
    —Fuck, fuck, fuck , he wasn’t going there. Because, sure, maybe he’d finally made a move, and maybe he’d even gotten what he wanted, and maybe he’d gotten kicked out on his ass before he could even get up the guts to ask if he could stay, but whatever. It was done. He’d gotten laid. He knew what was between Greg London’s legs now, and it had been awesome, and he wasn’t going to sit here stewing and feeling like shit about it all day.
    Who was he kidding? Of course he was.
    He groaned into his arm. That was it. He had to get out of here.
    Decided, he rolled his carcass out of bed and stomped over to his closet. He found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that didn’t look too bad and crammed a fresh-ish undershirt and boxers into his backpack, shoving down whatever papers and books he’d hauled home from campus the day before. Everything he needed for practice later that afternoon was already in his locker at school. Shoes and a baseball cap, and he figured he was good to go.
    Before opening his bedroom door, he checked himself, though, listening with one ear to the wood. It didn’t sound like there was anyone out there, but you never knew. He really didn’t need to run into anyone right now. Preferably not Jason—who knew what he’d heard last night. Definitely not Greg.
    “Goddammit,” he swore at himself. He might prefer to avoid things that were destined to put him in a shitty mood, but he wasn’t a coward. He pulled the door open and stole out.
    No point chancing the kitchen. He’d just pick something up on the way.
    As it turned out, all his concern was for nothing, anyway. There wasn’t anyone in the hall or in the living room. Half a dozen strides and he was out the door and off the porch and onto the sidewalk. Just that had him feeling easier. Head down, he made it to the corner without looking up at Greg’s bedroom window and without looking to see if his car was parked in its usual spot at the end of the block.
    One quick stop at the bodega on the corner for coffee and a packet of crappy donuts. He even got lucky, and the number twelve bus was coming down the street just as he was coming out. He flagged it down, flashed his student ID and climbed inside, then threw himself down in a seat.
    Christ, Marsh hated buses. Finally, twenty dull, jerky minutes later, he pulled the cord to signal his stop. When the bus lurched to a halt, he hopped up and pushed out the rear door, then humped it the half-block down the street.
    Yulia’s apartment was in the back corner of a crumbling three-story walk-up with a broken front door that never managed to latch right. He pushed through it with his usual grumble of annoyance at the shitty job it was doing keeping creepers out, then made his way down the hall. At her door, he knocked out three short raps before fumbling for his keys. He’d just gotten them out when the door swung open in front of him, the chain going taut.
    “What happened to you?” Yulia asked, standing there in a tank top and baggy flannel pants.
    Marsh scrunched up his nose. “What happened to your hair?”
    Running her hand through the tangled now-blue strands, she rolled her eyes and closed the door. The chain made a scraping sound as she slid it aside. He pushed the door open and strode on through.
    “You don’t like it?” she asked to his back.
    He set his bag down on the floor beside her couch and dug out the spare shirt and boxers. “Gonna borrow a towel.”
    “You know where they are.” She followed him through the space, leaning up against the wall as he