Christ, he had to find Erin. He hoped she hadn't come in in the middle of the night and seen him like this and decided to leave him, though he imagined she would've woken him up to kick his ass, or at least take some of her clothes. There seemed to be no struggle. No blood anywhere, nothing out of order, save for the way he'd messed up the sheets when he'd fallen out of the bed.
When the guy cleared a space out in front of his dresser, Callan once again cupped his junk and marched over to it, promptly beginning to dig for the sweatpants one of his father's girlfriends had given him for Christmas last year. He didn't wear sweatpants. Hell, the tag was still hanging on the damned things, and as far as he was concerned, if it'd get the big, burly, naked motherfucker out of his apartment, he was welcome to them.
"I sure as fuck didn't bring ya up here," Callan said, throwing the pants so they hit the fella square in the chest. "There's ya some goddamn pants. Get them on and get the fuck outta here before my girlfriend comes home. Christ."