How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours Read online

  How to Date a Douchebag

  The Failing Hours

  Copyright © 2017 by Sara Ney

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Thank you, Internet, for providing the inspiration

  for the dating quotes at the beginning of each chapter.

  They’re all based on real conversations, pick-up lines, come-ons,

  and texts between actual people.

  The douchebag is still single.

  Go figure.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Violet

  He isn’t hard to spot.

  Big, solid, and imposing, Ezekiel Daniels might be sharing a library table with his friends, but his presence overwhelms the entire space like I imagine a tank in a driveway full of minivans would. Too big and out of place.

  My attention is drawn straight to him.

  I glance down at the tutoring schedule in my hand, cringing at the name printed in bold letters.

  Ezekiel Daniels

  Library, Student Services Center

  9:30PM

  The pit in my stomach clenches tighter and I glance at the guy again; that has to be him. It’s obvious by the way he’s impatiently staring around the room that he’s waiting for someone. As if somehow sensing my scrutiny, the devil himself looks up, his moody, broody, menacing gaze scanning the perimeter of the room.

  Searching.

  Hunting.

  His regard flickers over me, staring, expression completely unreadable. Void of any emotion, really, as he takes my full measure behind the library’s circulation desk, the bookshelves offering me no shelter from his critical perusal.

  He’s so handsome I almost forget to breathe.

  Black hair disheveled. Black brows drawn into angry slashes above remarkably light eyes, he’s in desperate need of a shave.

  And a tutor.

  He slides a sheet of paper off the table and pinches it between two titan fingers; I know what’s on it because it’s identical to the one I’m holding. They should, but my feet don’t propel me toward him to introduce myself, even though I know he’s here for a tutoring session.

  With me.

  Nerves root me to the spot.

  I watch as Ezekiel Daniels gestures wildly to his friends with dark furrowed brows, his lips forming angry words I cannot hear from here. One of his friends laughs, another shakes his head and leans back in his chair, bulky tattooed arms crossed, amused. The entire group has a palpable restlessness and air of boredom I wonder about, and horrified, I watch Ezekiel make a crude motion with his hands, miming a blow job with his mouth.

  The entire table erupts into raucous laugher. Now they’re so loud I can make out everything they’re saying, and I strain, pretending to work while I listen. Watch when the friend hefts his big body out of that small chair and saunters across the room.

  “What’s your tutors name?” I hear the friend ask.

  “Violet.”

  “Aww, how pretty.”

  So begins his leisurely shuffle across the library, weaving through the intricate labyrinth of tables, crosshairs set on a girl wearing a conservative black cardigan, pearls, and black glasses perched atop her brown, shiny hair.

  She’s studying, head bent, nose buried in a text book. I secretly applaud when moments later, she rebuffs him, sending him stalking back to his friends.

  The behemoth with the tattooed arms tosses the paper at Ezekiel Daniels with a smirk, plopping down in stiff, desk chair.

  “That’s not her?” Ezekiel’s booming voice carries over.

  “Nope.” His friend flips open a text book.

  The unfeeling glower intensifies, and I watch a pair of full lips form another sentence, spouting my name, over and over, the low timber of his furious voice resonating across the cavernous room.

  He does another scan of the library.

  “It says her name is Violet. Where the fuck is she?”

  He lifts himself to a stand. Catches my eye across the room.

  When he raises his black brows and the corner of his mouth arrogantly, I back up until my butt hits the table behind me.

  Ezekiel Daniels starts his own slow saunter toward the circulation desk—toward me—dragging his feet lazily along the hardwood floors, his lazy gate a thing of beauty.

  Demands attention.

  And it works, because I can’t take my eyes off him.

  Can’t look away, not until he’s finally standing in front of me, eyes blazing with ill humor. Cynicism.

  “Is this where I find the tutor that was assigned to me?” he asks without preface, slapping his sheet of paper loudly on the counter with a smack. “I can’t find her.”

  My eyes flicker down. See my name printed in bold, black letters.

  “Y-Yes.”

  His eyebrows quirk again when I stutter, pleased with himself. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I fold my hands in front of me, resting them on the smooth wood, and ignore his question to ask one of my own, using my most authoritative tone.

  “I-Is there something I-I can help you with?”

  He scrutinizes me a few uncomfortable moments, unfriendly gaze sweeping up and down my torso before his beautifully sculpted lips part. “Is there a Violet available?”

  Am I?

  Am I available to this guy?

  This is it, the moment I must make up my mind. Am I going to subject myself to him for the sake of my job? Let him chip away at my self-respect for what little money tutoring him will bring me? Am I going to force myself to sit the countless hours it may take to help him pass a class?

  It’s true that I need this job—but I don’t know if I can bring myself to tutor Ezekiel Daniels.

  Anyone can tell by looking at him that he isn’t nice.

  “Well?” he demands, pushing the sheet toward me. “Is she available?”

  I raise my eyes, staring the devil i
n the eye.

  “No. She’s not.”

  Zeke

  “Are you listening to me, Mr. Daniels?”

  I jerk my head toward the sound of my coach’s voice, already aggravated to the point of distraction because he’s determined to waste my time. His office is small, but so is he, and the cinderblock walls have faded to a dull blue, casting an eerie pallor over his skin.

  The veins in Coach’s neck strain as he fights to gain control of the impromptu meeting he’s called me into. I’m not in the mood to listen.

  With nothing to add, I keep my damn mouth shut, instead giving a terse nod.

  “I said, are you listening to me, son?”

  I want to remind him that I’m not his son—not even close. My own father doesn’t even call me son.

  Not that I’d want him to.

  Jaw locked, teeth clenched. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I don’t know where that chip on your shoulder comes from, and I’m not going to pretend to give a crap about what goes on when you leave here, but I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch one of my boys self-destruct in my gym.” His weathered skin stretches along with the grimly set line of his mouth.

  He continues. “You think you’re the first prick to come through this program thinking his shit don’t stink? You’re not, but you are the first prick to come with an attitude I can’t seem to quit. You’re also one sarcastic wisecrack away from getting a fist slammed through your pretty face. Even your own teammates don’t like you. I can’t have discord on my team.”

  My jaw ticks when I clench it, but having nothing to say in defense, I clamp my mouth shut.

  He rankles on.

  “What’s it going to take to get through to you, Mr. Daniels?”

  Nothing. You’ve got nothing that will fucking get through to me, old man.

  He tips back in his old wooden desk chair and studies me, fingers clasped into a steeple. Balancing on the legs, Coach taps his chin with the tips.

  It’s on the verge of my tongue to tell him if he wants to get through to me, he can stop calling me Mister Daniels. Second, he can cut the bullshit and tell me the reason he pulled me into his office after practice.

  After a long stretch of silence, he leans forward, the springs on his chair emitting a loud, scraping metallic sound, his arms coming to rest on the desktop. His hands glide over a sheaf of paper and he plucks one off the top.

  “Tell ya what we’re going to do.” He pushes the paper toward me across the desk. “The director of Big Brothers Mentorship Program owes me a favor. You have any experience with kids, Daniels?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Do you know what Big Brothers is?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me,” I retort, unable to stop myself. Crossing my arms, I adopt a defensive pose most people find intimidating.

  Not Coach.

  “Allow me to educate you, Mr. Daniels. It’s a program designed to match a youngster with an older volunteer—such as yourself—that acts as a mentor. Hang out with the kid. Show him he’s not alone. Be someone dependable that isn’t going to bail. Typically, they’re good kids from single-parent households, but not always. Sometimes the kids are left alone, deadbeat dads, that sort of thing. Sometimes their parents just don’t care and they’re left to fend for themselves. Know what that’s like that, son?”

  Yes. “No.”

  The sadist drones on, shuffling the stack on his desk. “There’s an interview process I think you’d fail with flying colors, so we’re cutting through the red tape and pulling some strings. You know why? Because you have potential to be successful and you’re pissing it away by being a callous little asshole.”

  His chair creeks in the cellblock of an office. “Maybe what you need is to give a shit about someone other than yourself for a change. Maybe what you need is to meet a kid whose life is shittier than yours. Your pity party is over.”

  “I don’t have time to volunteer, Coach,” I grit out.

  Coach grins up at me from his desk, the overhead lights reflecting off his thick glasses. “Too goddamn bad then, ain’t it? You either take the volunteer hours, or you’re off the team. I don’t need a smoking gun on my hands. Trust me, we’d find a way to carry on without you.”

  He waits for my answer, and when I don’t immediately respond, he presses. “Think you can handle that? Say, Yes, Coach.”

  I nod tersely. “Yes, Coach.”

  “Good.” Satisfied, he grabs a yellow No. 2 pencil and tosses it at me. “Fill that sheet out and take it with you. You meet your Little Brother tomorrow at their downtown office. Address is on the form.”

  Reluctantly, I snatch the pencil and paper off the desk but don’t look at it.

  “Don’t be late. Don’t fuck this up. Tomorrow afternoon you’re going to see how the other half lives, got it son?” I nod. “Good. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  I glower down at him.

  His raspy chuckle hits my back when I turn toward the door. “And Mr. Daniels?”

  I stop in my tracks but refuse to face him.

  “I know it will be hard, but try not to be total prick to the kid.”

  Coach is a total asshole.

  Not that I give a shit, because I’m an asshole, too. There isn’t much I care about these days, so why would he think I’d care about some fucking kid? Especially one being forced on me?

  My friends call me merciless; they claim cold blood runs through my veins, that I’m impossible to get close to.

  But I like it that way; I like creating distance. No one needs me, and I need them even less. Happiness is a myth. Who needs it? This anger brewing inside me is more tangible than any happiness I’ve forgotten how to feel, never having been anything but alone.

  It’s suited me fine for fifteen years.

  I’m still fuming when I waltz into the grocery store, grab a cart from the corral, and push it up and down each aisle with purpose, tossing food in without slowing my stride.

  Steel-cut oats. Agave nectar. Walnuts.

  I saunter to the nutrition and organics section, hands automatically reaching for the protein powder, gripping the black plastic container in one hand, and lobbing it in among the deli meat, bread, and bottles of water.

  Turning the aisle and pushing the cart on the right side of the aisle, I skid to a halt, almost plowing into a little girl on her tiptoes, reaching toward a shelf. Her black curly hair is pulled tightly into two pigtails, her string-bean arms straining toward a box she’ll never reach.

  Even on the balls of her feet.

  Plus, she’s in my way.

  “Dammit kid, I almost hit you,” I growl. “You might want to pay more attention.”

  She ignores my warning.

  “Can you get that down for me?” Her grubby little fingers wiggle toward a red box of sugar cones, forefinger pointing toward the top shelf. I note that her tiny digits are painted glittery blue, and there are bits of dirt encrusted under her nail beds.

  “Should you be talking to strangers?” I scold down at her but pluck the box off the shelf anyway, gruffly shoving it toward her grasping hands. Glance around. Notice for the first time that she’s unsupervised. “Jesus Christ kid, where are your parents?”

  “At school.”

  “At school?”

  “My dad works and my mom is in college.”

  “Who the hell are you with?”

  The little squirt ignores me, tilting her head, narrowing her unblinking beady brown eyes at me. “You’re saying bad words.”

  I’m not in the mood to play nice, so I narrow mine back. “I’m an adult. I can say whatever the hell I want.”

  “I’m telling.” Her little mouth puckers disapprovingly and I can feel her silently judging me; I bet she’s a real joy to have in class.

  “Yeah, okay kid—you do that.”

  “Summer?” calls a loud feminine voice from somewhere around a corner. In a flurry of gray and white, the owner of that voice comes sk
idding around the corner, gasping for breath when she sees us.

  “Oh my god, there you are!”

  She falls to her knees.

  Pulls the scrawny kid to her body in an embrace. “Oh my g-god,” the woman repeats, stuttering. “Sweetie, you cannot just walk off like that! You scared me half to d-death. Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

  The kid—Summer, apparently—holds her ground, trying to wiggle free. “I was getting ice cream cones and sprinkles.”

  “Summer.” The woman pulls the little girl into an embrace. Takes a shaky breath. “Summer, when I-I couldn’t find you, I thought someone had kidnapped you. I thought I was going to have a h-heart attack.”

  “I was right here, Vi,” the kid squeaks out into the woman’s jacket, fighting to breathe through the struggle cuddle. “This boy was getting my cones.”

  This boy?

  I put my hands up. “Whoa kid, do not drag me down into the gutter with you.”

  It’s then that the woman senses my presence and looks up. Up. Up, into my impassive, irritated eyes.

  Our eyes lock and I’m startled to realize she’s not as old as I thought; she’s a young woman, one that looks vaguely familiar.

  Her eyes are a brilliant shade of hazel, widening with a flash of panic and recognition at the sight of me, probably because I’m casting an unfriendly frown down at her. I intimidate most people and take pride in it.

  Her lips part but no sound comes out, nothing but a startled squeak. She recovers quickly, hugging the girl tighter and smoothing her hands down the girl’s weak little forearms.

  “W-Were y-you waiting with her long?”

  When I realize she’s speaking to me, a snort escapes my nose and I ignore her question, instead pointing out the obvious.

  “Lady, you make a shitty nanny. She could have been kidnapped.”

  Her head and shoulders dip, ashamed. “I know! B-Believe me, I know.”

  The young woman’s mouth clamps shut again, chin trembling. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she swallows nervously. “Thank you for helping her.”