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I groaned and leaned into the cushion, running shaking fingers through my hair. Sleep deprivation was a torture tool for a reason. I knew that now.

“I tried apologizing. No dice. Besides, I told you what happened. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Marcus shrugged. “I mean, you did hit a guy, right? Knocked him out?”

“Well, yeah.” I frowned. “But⁠—”

“I know you were trying to help someone or whatever.” He waved a hand. “I’m just saying, it’s not that weird if your dad doesn’t want you getting in bar fights, right? So maybe he thinks living in the dorm will be good for you. Like, slumming it with poor kids builds character or some shit.”

I shot him an are you serious look, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Garrett snorted and turned back to the TV, selecting a new game on the screen with a few noisy button clicks. “Vaughn’s sure as fuck not poor. That garage he works at is more like a chop shop. And he’s gotta rake in money, fighting at the Pit.”

I knew what he was talking about, of course. I figured most people on campus did. The Pit was a shitty old biker bar that now hosted probably illegal cage fights on Friday nights.

Not that I’d ever been, myself. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that kind of place for fear of getting arrested in a police raid or, worse, photographed.

“Huh. I heard Vaughn was more of a promoter than a fighter these days.” Marcus grabbed a second controller and raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you know?”

“If I wasn’t clear, we’re not sitting around discussing our days,” I said tightly. “He’s always in the room at night, though.”

Seemed all Vaughn did was go to class and fuck people. Surely, if he were a fight promoter, he’d have to be social. Go to parties and talk that shit up or something.

Then again… maybe that was why he didn’t get back to our room until late. I’d just assumed he was somewhere pulling since he always ended up bringing someone home.

“I think he fights less now. Maybe it’s hard to find people to fight him.” Garrett didn’t turn his attention from the television. “Way I hear it, Vaughn goes into the cage once a month or so, and those fights make bank. He’s been undefeated the last two years, but people still bet against him. I guess they figure he has to lose sometime. Law of averages, right?”

“True. Except for this guy right here.” Marcus leaned over to push my shoulder before choosing his character from the list of options on the screen. “Never misses when it counts.”

I grunted noncommittally. “If I had enough money, I’d pay someone to fight Elliot Vaughn. Put a fist right in that fucking mouth.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and let myself picture it. The smirk falling away from those pink lips. His skin flushing red. His tattooed hands clenching. His hard eyes flaring hot in panic… then resignation as he realized he was going to lose.

It was a fucking glorious daydream.

I was so lost in my thoughts, it took me a second to realize Garrett and Marcus had gone quiet, the only sound in the room the music blasting from their game.

I opened my eyes again to find the pair having a wordless argument. Garrett had apparently lost.

“What?” I demanded.

Garrett smiled uncomfortably. “Nah, nothing, man. Just, uh, since you brought up money, I was thinking how we split up party costs this semester. Remember? I’m guessing you’re not gonna be good for yours, which is… whatever,” he hurried on, smile tilting just a little. “We’ll cover you.”

“Yeah, not a thing,” Marcus echoed. “Don’t stress.”

My stomach dropped. When I’d found this house and we’d started hyping up senior year—post-game parties, frat seniors-only parties, all that—we’d agreed we’d each bankroll one blowout per semester. I’d said yes without blinking because my allowance would’ve covered it easily.

Now, not so much.

I did some math in my head concerning my rapidly dwindling funds and decided I’d rather eat ramen forever than live on their charity.

“Nah,” I said, waving a hand. “I’m good. I had that sweet internship last summer, remember?”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” Garrett looked relieved. “Not like you’re broke-broke.”

“Exactly,” I said, though I was approaching it at record speed. “I’m good for it.”

“’Course you are,” Marcus agreed like he’d never doubted. “Our boy wouldn’t let us down. Besides, it’s not your turn until October. Your dad’s definitely gonna cave by then. Keep playing the good son.”