The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

“Technically I own this house, so I can kick you out if I want,” I argue futilely.

Another annoying laugh in the dimly lit room as she crosses her arms, studying me. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh really? And why is that?”

She ignores the question.

“Look, I didn’t come in here to talk about me. We both know you and I have our own issues. I’m here to talk to you about why you just kicked Violet out of the house.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“I’m the one who followed her out into the cold. She didn’t even have her jacket on when she left, so yeah, you kicked her out.”

I don’t have to sit and listen to this bullshit. “Kicked her out? For the fucking record, Miss Know-it-All, I didn’t make Violet leave, I said she was about to leave. She made the choice to go.”

“Give me a break.”

“Everyone being here freaked her out—I was doing her a favor.”

“You announced that she was leaving. That’s making her leave.” Suddenly she gets serious. “You know what Zeke, all this time, I keep waiting for you to want more for yourself.”

Jameson, oblivious to my nonverbal cues to get the hell out my room, lowers her voice and steps closer.

“What were you doing with her here, Zeke? What are you doing with that girl? She’s seems really kind, and giving and gentle and—”

“Everything I’m not? Yeah, yeah, I get it. If that’s what you were going to say, fucking say it.”

Jameson slowly nods. “That’s what I was going to say.”

“Don’t you think I know what I’m doing? Please.”

James shakes her head. “No Zeke, I honestly don’t think you do.”

“Nothing. I am doing nothing with that girl.” I snort, voice raising an octave. “Why do you even care?”

Jameson hasn’t been around long, but she’s already started meddling; every now and again she gets in our household business. Manages to insert herself where she’s not wanted and raises my hackles, gets me riled up.

This is one of those moments; she’s in my bedroom and in my business.

All up in my shit.

The last place I want anyone to be.

The worst part? She’s not letting up. Won’t stop talking and won’t walk away. Jameson Clark is holding me hostage in my own freaking bedroom.

“If you like Violet even a little—and I suspect you do, because otherwise you never would have brought her here…” Her voice is low. “If you like her even a teensy weensy bit Zeke, don’t play games with her. She seems so sweet, and if you string her along…I feel like it would ruin her.”

“Ruin her?” Why would I ruin her when I like her?

“I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t use the word ruin, it seems harsh—it’s just she’s bright and adorable and you tend to surround yourself with storm clouds.”

“Wow James. Don’t you think that’s a little melodramatic? Even for you?”

She laughs quietly. “Oh Zeke, I’ve only said half of what I wanted to say, but I’m going to bite my tongue for now.”

I look at her then, really look at her: earnest eyes, long shiny hair—she’s not as plain and boring as she looks. If Jameson Clark had a sign around her neck, it would read No bullshit. She studies me, always doing weird shit like that. Analyzing people. Watching them.

Assessing.

She walks to the door, hesitating.

“You and I both know pushing Violet out tonight was a huge mistake, so don’t bother denying it. In fact, I predict…” She bites down on her lower lip in concentration. “I predict you lie in bed tonight once your little buddy there is gone, and for once in your life, you’re going to feel shitty about the way you treated someone.”

I lean forward, hands braced on the armrest of my desk chair. Narrow my eyes.

“Oh yeah? And why would I do that?”

She smiles—one of those pitying, patronizing smiles that says she thinks she knows better.

I’ve seen her give that same smile to my roommate a hundred times.

“That’s an easy one.”

My brows go up; this oughta give me a good laugh.

“Because you like her. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Violet

“Got any homework?” His voice stops me from walking past his table. For once, Zeke Daniels is at the library of his own free will, not waiting be tutored, not with a group of his wrestling buddies.

Alone.

“Yes. I-I always have homework.” I’m stumbling on my own stupid words and I hate myself for it.

Nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal, Zeke leans back in his chair, arches his spine, extends his leg, and pushes out the chair across from him.

It slides two feet and stops.

I stare at it.

He stares at it. Raises a brow beneath the brim of his ball cap. Bends his neck and goes back to work.

“Sit. There’s plenty of room,” he rumbles. Offers me a tight smile. “We should probably talk.”

Talk? He wants to talk?

“All right. Give me a minute.”

I back away, mind working in overdrive, cataloging all the things he could possibly want to talk about, and I come up with the following: Kyle. Running me out of his house on Thursday. The fundraiser next week.

Taking a deep breath, I count to ten before gathering my backpack and laptop from the back office. Find my time sheet. Clock out.