How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours Read online

“Helping? That’s funny. I’m no good Samaritan.” I don’t want her thanks or to prolong this litany of mind-numbing chitchat. “All I did was prevent her from toppling the display rack. She’s short as shit.”

  “Well th-thank you nonetheless.” Another quick squeeze around the little kid’s shoulders and the young woman stands.

  Petite, I gauge her height at around five foot five—tiny compared to my six feet. Wide hazel eyes. Thick blonde hair so pale it looks white, falling down over her shoulder in an intricate, wholesome braid. My gaze immediately falls to the neckline of her well-worn Iowa sweatshirt for an appraisal of her chest.

  Flat.

  Bummer, must suck.

  I study her flushed face through narrowed, dubious eyes. “Do I know you?”

  She swallows, glancing to the right. “I-I don’t think so?”

  I can’t stand liars.

  “I do know you. You live at the library.”

  An errant strand of hair that’s not even in her face gets brushed aside. “I-I work at the library, yes. I also do some babysitting for enrolled students with daycare-aged ch-children and in Student Services.”

  She’s fidgety as fuck and I wonder what her problem is.

  Maybe she’s flustered.

  Or maybe she’s on drugs.

  I lean in closer to get a good look at her pupils—checking to see if they’re dilated—and catch a whiff; she smells like virgin and what I imagine baby powder would if I knew what the hell it smelled like.

  Lean closer still. “You should tell the fucking tutors there to show up for their jobs.”

  If it is possible for a human to turn a violent shade of pink from fingers to the roots of her blonde hair, this girl has managed it. Her hands fly to her face, palms pressed flat against her cheeks.

  Takes a deep breath, clutches the little girl’s hand. “I-I’ll pass along the message.” Pause. “We should get going.”

  “Yeah, you should go, because you’re totally in my way.” I give my cart a jostle, jerking it forward so they move and I can skirt around in what little room they’re not taking up. Before I round the next aisle, I stab an accusing finger their way. “For the record, Shitty Nanny, that kid shouldn’t be out in public; it should be in bed.”

  I’m dumping the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter after the afternoon from hell, unceremoniously unloading the contents and tossing the brown paper bags. I rearrange the contents of a few cabinets to make room for the new shit and crack open a bottle of water while debating about dinner.

  Lean chicken breast and broccoli. Vegetable stir-fry on brown rice. Choke down a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and berries.

  Nothing sounds good.

  Not after the piss afternoon I’ve had.

  In the recesses of the hallway, I hear a door open and close, followed by silence. Moments later, the toilet flushes.

  Jameson Clark, the girl my roommate Oz just started dating, saunters into the room. She’s wearing tailored jeans, a fuzzy baby blue sweater. Glasses. The satisfied grin widening her lips is quickly replaced with a startled expression when she sees me scowling at her from the sink.

  She doesn’t like me.

  Not that I give two shits, because I don’t like her either.

  Cautiously, James makes her way to the fridge, but hesitates before pulling it open.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” She tries to make small talk.

  “Fine.”

  She gestures toward the fridge. “Do you mind if I…”

  I grunt. “Oh, by all means, please help yourself to our food and make yourself at home. You always do.”

  Instead of pulling open the fridge, she leans against the counter, studying me quizzically, like a puzzle she’s been trying to piece together for months.

  “You know I’m not the enemy, right?”

  Bullshit.

  “I don’t know why you’re trying to have a conversation with me right now. I’m not in the mood,” I grit out between my teeth.

  “Big shocker. You’re such a grouch.” James plucks an apple—one of my apples—out of the big bowl on the counter, and bites down, chewing. Swallows the first morsel. Takes another bite, filling the silence with the sound of her munching.

  “I can tell something’s bothering you, Zeke, and for all the growling you do around here, I know it can’t be because of me.”

  James pops a leg out jauntily, propping it against the cabinet. My eyes are cast downward, drawn to the colorful blue toenails on her feet. They match her blue cardigan sweater.

  She catches me looking at her toes and wiggles them with a smirk.

  Dammit.

  “I know we didn’t get off to the best start, but I’d like you to feel comfortable around me. Maybe you could even consider me a friend.”

  Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

  I smile. “I know you think you’re hot shit because you’re fucking Sebastian Osborne, but believe me, you’re not. I tolerate you because I have to, so you can cut the bullshit.”

  Her mouth falls open and my shoulders relax, having successfully squashed her interest in getting inside my head.

  “Why are you so pissed?” she murmurs into the kitchen, more to herself than to me, wonderment tingeing her voice.

  “Jesus Christ, why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  It pisses me off even more.

  “Zeke, even if nothing is bothering you, maybe you’d feel better talking to Sebastian—”

  “You’ve been dating Oz for all of five minutes. Do us both a favor and stop trying to analyze me. I might be his friend, but I will never be yours.” I stride to the door, grab my shit, and hike my backpack up onto my shoulders.

  Jameson stares at my wake, wide-eyed and looking…

  A little hurt.

  Well tough shit, I don’t have time for this.

  “I have an appointment at the library. I don’t have time to girl talk with you right now, so please spare whatever delusions you have about us being buddies for someone else.”

  I yank open the door and don’t give her a second look.

  “You kids don’t wait up.”

  Violet

  I cannot calm my racing heart.

  As soon as I stepped over the threshold of the library for my shift, it started wildly beating. I know there’s a chance I’ll see Ezekiel Daniels tonight; he’s been coming around lately, and now that I know he needs help with a bio class, it seems my luck avoiding him is about to run out.

  With a sigh, I make a show of busying myself with the Student Services log-in binder, signing off on which students have come and gone, and enter staffer tutoring hours into the computer.

  There’s a hastily scribbled note stuck to the computer monitor in the back room that shouts:

  VIOLET!!!!! ZEKE DANIELS WILL BE BACK TONIGHT. PLEASE DO NOT MISS THIS APPOINTMENT!! ANY PROBLEMS PLEASE TELL TRUDY ASAP!!!!

  The shouty note is written in all caps in thick black marker.

  Okay, messaged received: do not miss this appointment.

  Got it.

  I pluck the note from the desk to study the name almost illegibly scrawled there; it’s the first time I’ve seen his nickname in writing.

  Zeke.

  “Zeke,” I say. Roll it around in my mouth a few more times, testing out the Z on my tongue. Practicing so I don’t trip on it. “Zeke or Ezekiel…I can’t decide which is worse,” I mutter to the empty room.

  I’m nervous to see him again, afraid of what he’ll say when he sees me and finds out I’m the tutor who stood him up, then pretended not to know who he was at the grocery store.

  With anyone else, I’d be honest. With anyone else, the truth would be easy.

  But everyone else? They’re usually nice.

  The truth is, Zeke Daniels intimidates me. The truth is, I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate while I’m working next to him, side by side. I’ll be too worried about what he’s thinking, what’s going on behind that angry set of eyes. Worried about what
sharp, biting comments are going to come out of his snarl.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Twenty minutes with nowhere to hide.

  The clock on the wall counts the seconds, steady as the rhythm of my beating heart, which thumps wildly within my chest until the glass door to the library opens, propelled by a gust of wind.

  Some new fallen leaves flutter in, the heavy doors slamming from the draft.

  Along with them? Zeke Daniels.

  He shuffles in, dark gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, black Iowa Wrestling hoodie pulled up over his head, the university’s bright yellow mascot screen-printed across the chest. Backpack slung over one shoulder, black athletic flip-flops, and a pair of black sunglasses perched on the bridge of his strong nose complete the overall ensemble.

  He is utterly…ridiculous.

  Unapproachable.

  Daunting.

  His arrogance knows no bounds; I can see it in his loose gait, the exaggerated swagger, and the too-casual way he’s dragging his flip-flops across the cold, marble tile floor. It’s noisy, irritating, and completely uncalled for.

  In the moment, my mind drifts to his personal life, and I theorize that he listens to heavy metal music to sooth his foul temperament, drinks his coffee black—as black as his soul—and his liquor straight up. I imagine once he’s had sex with someone, they’re never invited back. I go one step further and theorize that they’re never invited to spend the night at his place, either.

  Zeke Daniels makes his way to a table at the far end of the room, near the periodicals, one out of the way with plenty of privacy.

  Sets his bag down in one of the four wooden chairs. Flicks on the small study lamp. Plugs his laptop cord into the base and stands.

  Turns.

  Our eyes would have met then were it not for those ludicrous sunglasses. I choose the exact moment he lifts his gaze to look down at the ground. Busy myself with shuffling papers on the counter. Count to ten instead of chanting, Please don’t come over, please don’t come over, please don’t come over…

  But luck isn’t on my side because he most decidedly does.

  Makes his way over like a predator at a pace so deliberate, I’m convinced he’s doing it on purpose. As if he suspects I’m watching from under my long lashes, dreading his imminent arrival.

  He basks in my discomfort.

  The distance between us closes, his strides purposeful.

  Twenty feet.

  Fifteen.

  Ten.

  Eight.

  Three.

  His large hand reaches up, pushing down the hood of his sweatshirt, his fingertips pinching the earpiece of his sunglasses and pulling them off his face. My eyes follow the movements as he folds them closed, hanging them on the neckline of his hoodie.

  His gaze lingers—those clear gray eyes famous around campus—and finds the shiny silver bellhop bell perched on the counter with the sign next to it that reads, Ring for help.

  Ding.

  The tip of his forefinger presses down on the small bell.

  Ding.

  He hits it again, despite me standing not three feet in front of him.

  What an ass.

  I conjure up a pleasant smile because it’s my job, and what else is there to say but, “C-Can I help you?”

  “Shitty Nanny,” he deadpans by way of greeting, voice low and controlled. Humorless. “I’m here for a tutoring session with…shit. What was her name?” He pretends to think about it, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

  Snaps his meaty fingers.

  “Violet.”

  No salutation. No polite small talk. No direct mention of our run-in at the grocery store, although he does allude it with the lovely nickname he bestowed upon me.

  I swallow, take a deep breath, and say, “I’m Violet.”

  The slashes above his eyes get severe. “You’re Violet?”

  “Yes.”

  Disbelief takes over his entire face before he schools his features. “You’re my tutor?”

  I stand a tad straighter behind the counter, bracing my hands on the Formica countertop, grateful for the support. My knees weaken. “Yes.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “I can’t?”

  “Noooo,” he drawls out. “Because I’ve seen you, what—how many times already?”

  There’s no use in denying it, so I simply say, “Two.”

  “Mother. Fucker.” I flinch at his tone. “You were here the day I came looking for you. I saw you watching me.” His eyes are accusing gray slits, deep voice rising, and I glance around, meeting several curious gazes. “Were you hiding from me?”

  Yes.

  My chin tilts. “I-I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down, please. People are staring.”

  “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. Let them look.” He leans in, upper torso bending over the countertop. “You stood me up.”

  My lips part, but no sound comes out. Not even a squeak. There’s no good excuse for me having failed to do my job, and we both know it. Plus, I have a feeling he’s not going to believe anything but the truth.

  I pray Barbara doesn’t come out of the back room to see what the fuss is, because then Mr. Daniels will tell her I bailed on him, which will look terrible since they’re paying me to tutor him. I can’t afford to get written up for standing up a student. It’s part of my job, and my courage failed to help me do it.

  “I know I stood you up, and I’m sorry.”

  Zeke runs his fingers through his short shorn hair. It’s black as the night and glossy. “You knew my name when you ran into me at the grocery store, didn’t you? You knew it was me.” His sharp laugh is far from friendly. “No fucking wonder you looked like you were going to piss yourself that day.”

  Oh god. He hates me.

  “I-I…”

  “I-I,” he stutters back at me, heatedly. “Spit it out V-V-Violet. Yes or no.”

  Wow. He goes for the jugular, doesn’t he? Taking no prisoners, he nails me with a piercing stare, a battle of wills I will never win.

  I don’t even try.

  Dropping my head, I’m unable to look into his angry, flashing eyes. “Yes. I knew who you were. Trust me, I-I feel terrible.”

  “Trust you.” He laughs then, the long column of his thick neck tipped back. “Whatever, dude. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “S-So you…still want to have our session?”

  Please say no, please say no, I silently plead.

  “You obviously have no backbone in that spine of yours.” He raises one dark, irritated brow in challenge. “Not up for it? Too bad. No fucking way am I letting you off the hook that easy.”

  I try not to cringe, but honestly? It’s hard; he’s sullen and broody and tenaciously confrontational.

  This is a man who enjoys making people uncomfortable.

  “Yes, of course I’m up for it. It’s my job.”

  He narrows his unsettling blue-gray eyes before pulling the sunglasses down onto his eyes. “Grab your shit, Nanny. Let’s go.”

  Stiffly, disappointed he’s not going to cancel, I nod. “Okay. I’ll get my stuff and meet you at your table.”

  In reply, he turns wordlessly on his heel, dodging and zigzagging slowly through the elaborate maze of library study tables, and I backtrack to Student Services to collect my things. Leaning back, I gape through the open doorway to survey his retreating form without being noticed.

  Zeke Daniels is huge, built like a football player, all wide shoulders and solid muscle. Rigid edges and unyielding lines. Black onyx hair and eyes the color of gray sea glass. Intense eyebrows. High cheekbones. Square jaw. Coarse five o’clock shadow surrounding delectably sculpted lips.

  He’s outwardly beautiful.

  It’s the inside of him that could use some work.

  “He is just a guy,” I whisper, collecting my notebook, pen, and laptop. “He is just a guy, and it’s only one session. It’s only one hour. I can do this.”
r />   I can do this.

  I tell myself again before heading over to meet him.

  And again.

  Until I almost believe it.

  Zeke

  I cannot believe this shit.

  Making my way back to the study table, I seethe. Feel like a fucking idiot. Weaving past student after student, I meet the nameless faces of curiosity and obvious interest and glare, pissed off and irritated that that little waif got the best of me.

  Made me look like a dumbass.

  I only glance back once before yanking my chair out and taking a seat; Violet is hunched over a desk in the Student Services office. From here I can see her lips moving, deep breaths in and out, palms flat and arms braced above the table. Her long, light blonde hair hangs in a sheet around her fair skin, veiling her eyes.

  As if she’s made a decision, she straightens to her full height—which still isn’t much, even on a tall day—squares her shoulders, and collects her things. Resolute.

  She’s cute, but that’s the last thing on my mind. My eyes hit the biology textbook in front of me, determined to get this shit-show over with and end up with a decent grade.

  When Violet joins me, her melodic voice carries. “Okay. So do you want to give me a little background on where you are in the class? I-I have most of the information but need a few details filled in for me…”

  I watch as her slender hands arrange the writing utensils before us. Her fingers are pale, donning three thin, shiny gold rings.

  She pushes the sleeves of her long-sleeved shirt to the elbows, revealing a wrist of matching bracelets. I quickly count four, each one with a small dangling charm, the metal tinging on the wooden tabletop when her wrist hits the surface.

  It’s annoying as fuck.

  I refocus and make a dig. “Are those things going to be making noise the entire time?”

  “What things?”

  I direct my cool gaze to her wrist and raise my brows.

  “My bracelets? Are they bothering you?”

  “Yes.”

  “S-sorry.” She pulls them off, one by one, and sets them aside, atop her small stack of books. They shine under the table lamp.

  I take another dig. “I can’t stand people who are unreliable, and that’s you. Do you realize that?”