The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

Walking to his table feels like some weird, reverse walk of shame, my gaze trained on that pushed out wooden chair.

Act casual, I remind myself, he is just a guy…

An insensitive guy.

Intimidating. Cold. Callous. Complicated. The moodiest, broodiest, douchebaggiest guy I have ever met.

From the looks of it, he wants for nothing; I’ve noticed his expensive clothing. Seen his current model pick-up truck, one with shiny silver chrome, kick plates, and detailing. Everything about him reeks of wealth and privilege, and yet, I sense that’s not where his arrogance comes from.

I wouldn’t even call it arrogance; it’s more like resentment. He resents everyone that’s happy .

When I join him, I see that he’s cleared a space for me, and I set my things down. Stand next to the chair, unsure.

His dark head is bent, gray moody eyes shielded by the brim of his black ball cap. While his pen scratches across his paper in bold, hard strokes, my eyes do a quick scan of his broad shoulders and thick biceps.

His arms, bared from his short-sleeved tee, are peppered with a smattering of dark hair. For a brief moment, I allow my mind to wander, wondering what else on Zeke Daniels’ body is covered with hair. What else on him is hard and solid and—

His head shoots up. “Where you just checking me out?”

“No!” Oh god.

“Good.” He smirks. “Because as my tutor and official play date partner, that would be highly unprofessional, and I know how you like to put up boundaries.”

Me? Put up boundaries? Hardly.

In fact, I have the opposite problem.

“I’m fucking with you Violet. You’re the least closed-off person I know—well, besides Oz’s new girlfriend, who can’t seem to mind her own business.”

Wow, he’s uncharacteristically chatty today.

Uncharacteristically pleasant.

“Sit, please, you’re making me nervous.” He smiles, a quick flash of white making a brief appearance in the small space between his lips. My stare is rooted to that spot—those teeth—until he clears his throat and breaks my trance.

Once seated, I’m determined to get actual studying done. If Zeke wants to talk, he’s going to be the one to broach the subject. Pry information out of me.

We only study in silence for six minutes before I glance up to find him wordlessly watching me, his piercing gray eyes straying when I reach up, push back a wavy lock of hair that’s sticking to my lip gloss, and oh lord, he’s staring at my mouth…my lips.

I swallow.

He looks away before I do.

“Tell me something,” he utters, surprising me.

“Tell you what?” I set down my pen, leaning back in my chair. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your major?” He throws his hands up before I can answer. “Wait, don’t tell me. Elementary ed.”

“Nope. Take another guess.”

“Early childhood development.”

“No.” But I’m surprised he actually knows what that is.

“Hmmm.” That mammoth hand rubs the stubble on his chiseled chin. “Pediatric nursing.”

“Nope.” My head lilts to the side on its own accord, and I narrow my eyes, staring him down, measuring his sincerity. Stare into those unsettlingly light, somber eyes.

“What makes you so sure my major is child related?”

“Well,” he drawls out slowly. “Isn’t it?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

He leans back in his chair, a smug, satisfied set to his face. “I knew it.”

“N-No need to get cocky,” I say on a laugh. “You still haven’t guessed.”

“There’s always a reason to get cocky. For me it’s getting out of bed in the morning.”

We’re both quiet after that comment, neither of us really knowing what to say. I don’t trust myself to speak; I feel like I’m betraying myself by not asking about the other night, when he ran me out of his house and embarrassed me.

I know I should ask—it’s been weighing on my mind since—but I’m not sure how, even after four days and three nights with nothing to do but think about it.

The thing is, I’m not sure he cares how it made me feel to be shuffled out of his house. How embarrassed I was.

How I cried all the way home.

“Hey Violet.” Zeke taps the table with a pencil to get my attention.

“Hmmm?”

“Are we friends?” The yellow pencil is perched above his notebook and he goes back to scrawling in it, not making eye contact. The question slips out of his beautiful mouth so causally, like he’s just asked me to pass the salt at the dinner table.

“Excuse me?”

“Are. We. Friends.”

This is it. This is my opportunity.

Say it, Violet. Say the words: my real friends would never have shamed me the way you did.

Say them, Violet, say the words.

“Are we?” I ask quietly, hating myself for being such a coward, unable to say what I so desperately need to.

“You tell me.” His low baritone is soft, cautious.

“I-I thought we were starting to become friends.”

There. I said it.

“You thought?” I can see him getting cagey, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He’s knows there’s more to it than that, he just can’t fill in the blanks by himself.

I set down my pen, clasping my hands on the tabletop in front of me. “Y-Yes. I thought we were friends, Zeke, but then when your real friends got home on Thursday night, you didn’t want me around anymore. It made me feel…”