You don't really get a choice.

As you come to your senses, feeling like a drunk thrown into a vat of ice cold water to sober up, you hear your phone ring. And it rings again... and again. You clean your face up with your tee, moping the cum away, and go get the damned thing.

It's Jake. And he's written you a torrent of messages. Starting with a picture, captioned with "I can't believe this. How could you? And who sent this?" The picture is a nightmare. It's you. Of course it is. In your bed. Covered in cum. Minutes ago.

Brad, you son of a bitch. YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH.