“Are you kidding me?!” I can barely breathe as he moves into the room, climbing on the edge of my bed, his weight indenting the mattress and our drawing our bodies closer together. “Get out of my room.” My voice is a bare whisper as Spencer leans in close to me.

“I was just trying to make sure your door was pick-proof. It's not, by the way.” He leans in just a bit closer, and I smell his cedar and hyssop scent, sending shivers across my arms and legs. “I could fix that for you …”

“Then fix it,” I snap, but I'm trembling now, and I swear, if he doesn't kiss me, I'll die.

“Anything else you'd like me to do while I'm here?” he whispers, his full lips enticing me. Before I can think better of it, I lean in and brush our mouths together.

Spencer makes this low, dirty animal growl and then presses forward, sliding his tongue between my lips, his right hand caressing my thigh. It's not immediately obvious what he's doing until he cups my fake junk through the blankets, and I accidentally laugh.

“What?” he asks, leaning back slightly. I guess I passed the grab test because he doesn't seem to notice that my, um, bits aren't real. “You don't like it? Or maybe you're not into me?”

“Oh, I'm into you,” I whisper, but then I reach up and push him back a step. “It's just … complicated.” Tell him now! the logical part of me murmurs, but my cheeks flush, and well … with the way he's staring at me, and the hard bulge in his slacks, I just can't. If I do, we might end up … Ugh. “So … you broke into my room to protect me?”

“If I can do it, so can those freaks in the hoodies,” he says, moving over to the door and picking up a discarded bag that he must've dropped. I guess I was so busy worrying about my ass in the air that I didn't notice. “Let me shore this up.” He picks up the bag, curses, and then gets to work … with a giant boner in his pants.

“Does that hurt? Or like does it feel good when it rubs against your pants?” I ask, and he pauses, glancing over at me with those beautiful bright eyes of his, strands of silver hair falling across his forehead.

“Huh?” he asks, cocking his head slightly to one side. He's seriously looking at me like I'm an alien. Then I remember that I'm supposed to be a guy, and that's a pretty stupid question. That'd be like asking a girl if her period cramps hurt. Hah. Hahaha. Yeah. We all know they do.

“I mean, for me it feels good, so …” I hedge, knowing I'm totally fucking this up. I feel like Steve Carell in The 40-Year-Old Virgin when he tells the other guys that boobs feel like bags of sand.

“You like having a giant, useless boner?” Spencer chokes out. He pulls out a screwdriver, and starts undoing the current lock, glancing over his shoulder like he's trying to figure me out. “You really are a weirdo, aren't you, Chuck Carson?”

“Maybe,” I start, but at least he's 'seen' proof of my, erm, dick, so he won't be as apt to question things. Ranger's right though: I'll have to tell him eventually. Just not now. Not yet. “Could you maybe turn around, so I could put my pants back on?”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but does as I ask, waiting until I give him the all-clear before he turns around. He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks down at me with an expression that's half want, half frustration.

“I'm not sure I'll ever be able to clear that sight of you from my mind, ass up, tie in your mouth …” He sighs and reaches up to scrub a hand down his face. Leaving his palm over his lips and staring at me over the top of it. “Pretty sure that's the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life. I just … like, maybe I'll freak over the dick, but I won't know until I've tried, I guess.”

My lips quirk into a little smile.

“You're too cute,” I murmur, grinning and tucking some hair behind my ear. My glasses drift down my nose and Spencer reaches up to fix them for me.

“How so?” he asks, sounding a tad suspicious.

“You're willing to go outside your comfort zone. A lot of guys would probably lash out at me because they were uncomfortable with their own feelings. Not you though.” Spencer listens to me talk, and then his mouth curves up in a sly half-smile.

“I guess. Does that mean you're willing to go on a date with me?”

I bite my lower lip, and slide my eyes to the side, looking everywhere but at him.

“I … ask me next week,” I say, turning back to him and exhaling. Fuck it. I'll just pick a day at random and tell him. But somewhere public. Spencer gives me a raised brow, but he turns back and finishes his work on the door as I sit on the bed and watch.

“I'm going to hold you to that, Carson,” he murmurs, and I grin. Good. I hope he does.

I steer the conversation to safer waters—like spring break plans—until Spencer's declared his work done. He's installed a metal kick plate, dead bolt, chain, and brand-new locks, as well as a door stopper.

“Even the best thief will have to cut a hole in this door to get in,” he tells me, checking the window next, and adding a few locks to that, too. It's not as important as we're on the seventh floor, but it makes me feel better anyway. “If you need to go to the bathroom, text one of us. We'll take it in shifts.”

“Thank you,” I say as Spencer picks up his bag and gives me a look.

“For what?” he asks, pausing on his way out the door.

“For protecting me,” I tell him, pushing him out and closing the door most of the way. “And for … waiting to ask me out.” We exchange a long, lingering look before I close and lock the door, listening as Spencer fiddles with it from the outside.

I almost call him back.

But if I did … I'm not sure what would happen between us, only that it'd be racy and wild, and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. Not yet.

The next few weeks are pretty uneventful, to the point where it all sort of becomes this big game. Sometimes we trudge around campus, exploring hidden areas that only Spencer seems to know about, and trying the gold key on any lock we can find.

There are no more notes, no more chases, just Culinary Club meetings and hang-outs with the Student Council. They're actually … not so bad. I think I might like them.

A few weeks into March, I actually get a response back from one of Jenica's classmates.

“Guys,” I whisper, standing up suddenly from the chair in the corner of the culinary classroom. “We've got a hit!” Ranger's across the room in a white apron with a vintage strawberry print, snatching the phone from my hand and scanning the message. It's pretty simple: yeah, I knew Jenica. And sure, I have the yearbook. What do you need?

Ranger looks up, licking his lips.

“Text them back?” he asks, and I nod. It's not long before the pictures start coming in, all these photos of the old yearbook pages. Jenica's in a lot of them. A lot.

“Your sister was pretty popular, huh?” I ask as I look at her smiling face, her eyes and hair so similar to Ranger's it'd be impossible to miss the family resemblance. This one's a group shot of the Culinary Club, with Jenica as their president. Around her neck … there's a key.