How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours Read online

  I don’t mean to sound so annoyed, but this odd silent treatment coupled with those dark eyes boring into me is making me mental.

  “Would you please say something?” Once again, I set down my highlighter. “I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but I’m over here not getting anything done. You and your heavy breathing are weirding me out and driving me loco.”

  He tears his gaze away and looks to the opposite side of the room before responding.

  “Nothing is going on.” He removes his hat to run the tips of his fingers through his glorious hair. It sticks up on end, disheveled. “It’s just been a rough few nights, that’s all.”

  Ahhh, a rough few nights; that information I can work with.

  “How so?”

  “I…haven’t been sleeping the greatest.” He sounds reluctant to admit it, but I press on.

  “Why?”

  Oz shifts uncomfortably. “Just some fucked up dreams. No big deal, but it’s the same one every night.”

  I pause. “What are the dreams about?”

  Oz shifts again. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I ask skeptically. “Dreams about nothing don’t keep you awake every night, Sebastian.”

  “These dreams about nothing do.” He winces.

  “So they’re not about nothing—they’re about something.”

  His nose scrunches up. “Are you purposely trying to confuse me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ll tell me what they’re about?”

  “Sure, why the hell not.”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I put my hand up. “Stop! Before you blurt it out, let me guess; are they about the zombie apocalypse coming to melt your face off and you can’t escape no matter how fast you run?”

  His mouth tics. “Nope.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your parents or your sister?”

  “Nope.”

  Tapping my chin with my highlighter, I pretend to think long and hard. “You’re falling into a dark hole, a place with no Netflix and chill, no wrestling, and you can’t get a single girl to shag you.”

  “You’re a smartass, do you know that?”

  “I’m right though, aren’t I? This somehow involves sex.”

  His heavy brow lifts a tad. “You’re getting warmer. Yup. I’d say you were warm.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course it involves sex. How predictable of you.” A sigh escapes my lips. “Did someone use too much teeth giving you a blowjob?” I ponder before instantaneously slapping a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, did I just say that out loud?”

  He’s turning me into a pervert.

  “You sure did, but no worries; no blowjobs were harmed in the making of my dream.”

  “So it wasn’t a nightmare?”

  “Oh no, it was—it definitely was.”

  “I wasn’t in it, was I?” I joke. “Star of the show, that’s me! Ha ha.”

  He doesn’t reply. Just sits there, and…

  “Oz.” My eyes close momentarily and I speak slowly. “Please tell me I’m not in your pervy sex dream.”

  “Tsk, tsk—I just said it was a nightmare,” he clarifies. “Not a dream.”

  “Semantics.” I wave him off. “Please tell me I wasn’t the star your perverted sex nightmare.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell you.” Oz rolls his eyes skyward really dramatically; it’s overdone because that sorry bastard is lying and we both know it.

  I clear my throat. “This wasn’t a…um…fantasy, was it?” I struggle to get the words out, cheeks flaming.

  “Hell no. It was definitely a nightmare. How many times do I have to say it?” He downs some of his water bottle and I watch the thick column of his neck raptly when he tips his head back to swallow.

  “But,” Oz begins, sagging his shoulders and casually studying his fingernails. “Would it be so bad if it was?”

  Would it be so bad if I was his fantasy? No, it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be bad at all.

  In fact, I bet it would be stupid good.

  And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? The goodness. Earth-shattering, life-altering sex with Sebastian would be good. Great. Phenomenal. Those pecs, those hips, those thighs. That incredible dick he has snugly tucked into his jeans.

  But at what cost? Am I willing to give up a small chunk of my heart that I may never get back? I’m not a commitment-phobe by any means; I’ve never had my heart broken. I’ve never been cheated on. I’ve never been in love.

  So what is my damn problem?

  Fear of the unknown. The intensity I feel when I’m with him. The uncertainty of what he feels for me besides physical attraction. Falling in love with him. Him not falling in love with me. Unrequited love. Infidelity.

  Embarking on something he may start but never want to finish.

  I’ve never wanted to pursue more of something before.

  And now maybe I do.

  See there?

  I just figured out my own problem.

  Now what?

  Jameson

  Oz: On the bus to Ohio.

  Jameson: Really? I didn’t realize you had games—I mean, matches—in the middle of the school week.

  Oz: Yeah. Midweek, weekend. This match is against Ohio State. I can get you a printed schedule if you want one?

  I stare at the phone, not sure how to respond. He’ll get me a schedule? For what? Doe he seriously want me keeping tabs on him? For me to know where he is?

  Kind of like a girlfriend, and we both know he doesn’t want one of those.

  Jameson: Um, okay. Sure. A schedule would be cool. For my fridge? LOL

  Oz: Yeah, for your fridge. Or desk. We have a match at home next week against Indiana. You could come if you wanted. The action is slightly better than a single light bulb in the middle of a gym floor.

  Jameson: That one light dangling above the mats was super creepy. It had a decidedly rapey vibe.

  Oz: That wasn’t a RAPEY VIBE—that was mood lighting; I was trying to be romantic.

  Jameson: YOU WERE NOT. STOP IT

  Oz: Lol. So you’re saying the romance was a fail?

  Jameson: I doubt that’s what you were doing, but in any case, it was a fail. LOL

  Jameson: I mean, you had me by the crotch and flipped on my back onto a dirty, plastic mat.

  Oz: I’ll have you know, those mats are brand new and get wiped down daily…

  Jameson: *throws hands in air* I stand corrected

  The phone sits silent for a few moments before it pings with a new notification. My heart races uncontrollably as I sit on the edge of my bed to open the new message.

  Oz: Hey Jameson?

  Sitting up straighter, I’m instantly on alert, because when a guy uses your full name in a text message, shit is about to get serious. Even I, who hasn’t had a date in months, know this as fact.

  Me: Yes Sebastian?

  In my mind, that yes is breathy and wistful, and comes out on a sigh. Too bad it doesn’t translate via text.

  Oz: When I get back in three days, I think we should

  The message is cut off, and nothing follows.

  I think we should.

  I think we should…

  What!

  What do you think we should do?

  Dying a slow death, I wait impatiently for the second part to come through. I think we should…what? I think we should make out again? I think we should meet in the library? I think we should date?

  What. What for the love of god should we do!

  “Sweet Jesus, where’s the rest of the text? Where is it!” I shout to the walls of my bedroom, shaking the crap out of my cell and thanking God my roommates aren’t home to witness my incessant grumbling as I jiggle the phone back to life.

  I wait, and wait—then wait some more—for him to finish that short sentence, for the little blue light in the upper left hand corner to blink.

  Finally, sick of the torture, I grow a pair of lady balls and text
him back: What should we do?

  Two minutes pass.

  Then three.

  Then eighteen.

  Then two hours.

  Then ten.

  And still, nothing. I get nothing.

  It’s agony.

  Sebastian

  “I thought I asked you not to wear that tank top to bed, especially when I’m not allowed to touch you.” I watch Jameson from across the hotel room from the center of the bed.

  She pulls the fabric away from her form, glancing down at the sheer white garment. “What is your obsession with this shirt?”

  “I’m not obsessed with it. I just don’t want you wearing it.”

  “That makes no sense. My boyfriend loves this shirt; when I wear it, it reminds me of him.”

  “Boyfriend?” Since when does James have a boyfriend who’s not me, and why am I just finding out about it?

  I watch her cross the room to stand in front of the large sliding glass door; heavy snow falls in sheets across the windows, our Utah snowboarding trip blessed with several inches of fresh powder.

  “Yes, my boyfriend.” Jameson rolls her eyes. “Elliot? Remember him? Your roommate and the love of my life?”

  The love of her life?

  I laugh, frowning when it sounds foreign and forced. “Since when?”

  “Since you’re too busy for a girlfriend, that’s when. Wrestling, friends, studying, your job—remember when you told me you weren’t ready to be tied down? Well we all have our priorities, Sebastian.” Her smooth, delicate hands find the hem of her threadbare tank top and she tugs it up past her flat stomach. “I’m not yours.”

  Up and over her bare, taut breasts.

  My mouth waters and my hand flies to the burgeoning bulge in my gym shorts, stroking.

  “No touching. No looking. All this is just for Elliot.” She pushes down the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “You won’t be tied down to one person, remember?”

  Remember? “I never said that.”

  I would never say that. Would I?

  Did I?

  “You did. And now you’re going to lose me.”

  Jameson pushes the sliding glass door open and the curtains billow like clouds around her ankles. A gust of wind carries in thousands of cold, shimmering snowflakes; they stick to her hair, glistening before melting into her warm skin.

  She turns her back, stepping out into the frigid winter storm.

  “Where are you going? James, come back!”

  “You’re losing me, Sebastian,” her voice whispers. You’re losing me. You’re losing me.

  Gasping, I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

  Somewhere in the hotel a door slams. Water from a faucet. Light streaming in from the bathroom on the far side of the room.

  “Wake up, fuck stick. Time for warm ups.”

  Huh?

  “I’m not covering for your ass if you’re not outside by five.”

  I crack an eye open and peer over at one of my teammates—my roommate for this trip to Ohio—who’s lacing up his running shoes.

  “Did you hear me?” he asks. “Get moving.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.” I roll with a moan toward my cell. “Jeez, what time is it?”

  “Four forty-five. Time to grease the tires.” He lobs a damp bath towel toward the bed but misses. “You look like shit, by the way. Get any sleep last night? You were mumbling all night, whining like a little bitch.”

  “No.” No, I didn’t sleep, because I did nothing but toss and turn, sweat and moan, and talk in my sleep.

  “What was I saying?”

  My teammate laughs. “You were calling out some dude’s name and begging him not to leave you. When you started to cry, I had to put a pillow over my head.”

  Shit. “Sorry man.”

  “Whatever. You’re lucky I didn’t put the pillow over your head instead.” He grabs a pair of dirty shorts from the floor, tossing them at my head. “Time to hustle.”

  “Stop throwing shit, I’m up, I’m up.”

  I rise from the bed to quickly move through my morning ritual—piss, brush my teeth, get dressed—mind on one thing, and one thing alone: Jameson Clark.

  Jameson

  Something is ringing.

  One eye pries open, head flops to the side, and fuzzily I ogle my nightstand. My phone buzzes and rings, doing a happy little samba across the flat wooden surface. It’s loud, obnoxious, and annoying—exactly like it’s supposed to be.

  I slap at my phone and snatch it up with a groan when it’s in the palm of my hand.

  I blink at the unidentified number calling, but nonetheless swipe to accept, letting the call connect.

  “Hello,” I rasp groggily.

  5:37 is not a good look for me.

  “James?” The voice is vaguely familiar. Masculine. Deep and sexy and familiar.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s me.”

  God I’m tired. Am I even awake? What day is it? “Me who?”

  Deep chortle. “Sebastian.”

  My eyes pop open in a panic, because why on earth would he be calling this early unless there was an emergency? I struggle to sit up. “Oz? Sebastian! Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, no—everything is great.”

  I am literally going to kill this guy when he gets back.

  “You’re calling me at five in the morning cause everything is great?”

  “Yes and no. It took me this long to find a phone to use.”

  “But it’s still dark outside.”

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I gaze down at the number, dazed and confused. Not his number. Not his phone. “Wait. Whose phone is this?”

  “I borrowed one from the team manager. Mine died last night and I don’t have a charger.”

  He borrowed a phone to call me? “You have my cell phone number memorized?”

  “Mind like a steel trap, Clark, remember? Three. Point. Seven.” He’s breathing hard and it sounds like he’s pacing.

  “Are you out for a run?”

  “Yeah. Sorry it’s so early but I felt like a huge dick leaving you hanging last night. None of my teammates would let me borrow me their fucking phones, and I couldn’t charge a phone call to the hotel room.”

  Assholes.

  “Oh,” I respond dumbly, still unable to form an articulate sentence.

  “Yeah, so sorry bout this—I know you’re still in bed—but I won’t have a phone until Friday when we get back. Left my charger at home and no one will let me borrow theirs.”

  “Assholes.”

  He chuckles through the line, low and good. Good and oh my god, I’m so tired I want to smush his adorable face. The sound of his delicious laughter sends a hum of pleasure careening down my spine…rocketing through my pelvis…and tingling my ovaries.

  I snuggle down into my sheets and imagine that smooth, silky breath of his trailing across my stomach.

  “You weren’t dreaming about me again last night, were you?” I joke, the early morning light just now beginning to peek through my drawn curtains.

  “Maybe.” I can hear him smiling.

  “Mmm, that’s weird.” My voice drawls. “Before I was rudely interrupted from my deep slumber, I was dreaming about dipping my toes into the warm Caribbean sand on a beach somewhere. A cabana boy was about to bring me a sippy sippy.” I yawn, stretch like a feral cat, and make a mewing sound. “Mmmmm.”

  “Wait.” It sounds like he’s stopped in his tracks. “Are you wearing that white tank top?”

  Disoriented, I mumble, “Huh?”

  “The white see-through tank top you had on in Utah. It’s what you were wearing in my dream last night—this morning.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early for this line of questioning?” Careful to keep the vibe flirtatious and not a prelude to phone sex, I tease, “I can’t even form a cohesive sentence.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “No.” I flop down on my back to stare at the ceiling as he grunts, disappointed.

&
nbsp; “Bummer. That visual was the only thing getting me through this run. I’m freezing my balls off here, picturing you in that shirt, but it’s worth it.”

  “Um…”

  He grunts again, this time frustrated. “Shit, babe, I thought I’d have more time to talk but Coach just walked outside. Gotta go. Let’s do something when I get back. I’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?”

  Babe? Did he just babe me? What on earth is happening right now?

  Isn’t it a little early to be drinking the Kool-Aid?

  “Um, okay.”

  I hear his decisive nod. “Tomorrow.”

  Sebastian

  Oz: You there?

  Jameson: Of course ;)

  Oz: I charged my phone.

  Jameson: I can see that! Who lent you a charger?

  Oz: No one. I broke down and bought one at the Walgreens across from the hotel. Dodged traffic to cross the intersection, I’ll have you know. Didn’t realize how fast I could sprint until last night.

  Oz: There was one point I thought I was going to be hit by a car. Just sayin.

  Jameson: WHAT?! Why would you DO THAT?!

  Oz: Because I was sick of waiting.

  Jameson: Sick of waiting for…?

  Oz: It’s a 9-hour bus ride home—do you really think I wanted to wait any longer to text you?

  Oz: James? You there?

  Jameson: I’m here.

  Oz: Does it bother you to hear that?

  Jameson: To hear that you…

  Oz: Miss your sarcastic mouth? Yeah. I do. Is that some freaky shit or what?

  Jameson: Where is this all coming from?

  Oz: It’s a long story, but I think we should talk when I get home.

  Jameson: “We should talk.” Cause that always ends well.

  Oz: I just pulled a Jameson and rolled my eyes—don’t be so dramatic.

  Jameson: Me? DRAMATIC?!

  Oz: Me, Oz, you, Dramatic.

  Jameson: Cute. Very cute. Where are you right now?

  Oz: Seat 12D, driving past some very picturesque cornfields somewhere between Ohio and Iowa. You?

  Jameson: You know—the library, at my usual table.