The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

“You know what I mean.” She smacks me on the bicep, her hand resting there. Palm flattening on my upper arm. I look down at her hand, fingers long and delicate as they tap my arm while she talks.

A thin gold ring encircles her forefinger, and I stare at it for a beat. “He’s probably texting all his friends right now. Can you actually get tickets? I bet it would make his whole year.”

One more glance down at the hand she’s forgotten to remove, her feather-light touch doing some really weird, fucked up shit to my insides—things that have nothing to do with sex.

I almost cover her hand with mine. Almost.

Instead, I involuntarily give my bicep a quick flex.

Damn—her hand flies off my sleeve, the spot instantly cold.

“Uh, yeah, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll ask Coach tonight at dinner. If not, I’ll just bu—”

I clamp my mouth shut.

“Buy some?” she supplies.

My lips form a tight, straight line.

She tips her head at me, confused. “You’d do that if Coach can’t get him tickets, wouldn’t you? You’d buy them?”

I reach up, loosening my necktie. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.” My nostrils flare impatiently; I’m over this entire conversation. “They’re ten bucks.”

Her eyes—those freaking doe eyes—do this odd upturned thing, her lashes pitch black against her snowy white skin, fluttering and brushing against her eyelids.

They look huge.

They look euphoric. Like my generous deeds are her crack, like the kind words have the ability to make her high.

Violet’s lips twitch, a tiny dimple appearing in the corner of her mouth as they form the words, “Right. Okay.”

“Don’t make this more than it is,” I deadpan.

“I’m not,” she lies.

“Yes you are. Don’t romanticize me as someone who cares. Because I don’t.”

“I know, I’m not.”

I give her a sidelong glance as we weave our way through the throng amongst the banquet tables, my hand finding the small of her back as I guide her along.

My gaze trails down to her perky ass.

“Yes you fucking are,” I argue, fingertips lingering on the velvety material of her dress. “There’s nothing noble about me buying some strange kid tickets to watch a few wrestling matches.”

“Got it. No need to convince me.” Violet gives her hair a flip so it falls down her back like a waterfall.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” I maintain.

“I’m not arguing. You are.” Her lilty laugh floats toward me, cheerful, like she’s not afraid to make me mad by continuing to disagree.

Why can’t I let this subject go? “You’re being really unreasonable.”

We’ve reached the table and before she can do it herself, I locate a chair for her and pull it out. She peeks up at me from under her lashes, sweetly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I grumble.

Violet

I’m finally beginning to understand what makes him tick.

Zeke Daniels is an enigma, hard with sharp edges and a compassionate interior he keeps so well hidden, no one would believe it existed if they weren’t seeing it for themselves.

Well I’m seeing it now. I watch him at the table, listen as he begrudgingly beseeches his wrestling coach for a favor—not because he wants to, but because he promised Brandon he would try.

And he’s doing it; he’s actually following through.

“So, I didn’t guarantee him anything,” he’s saying. “But if I could get my hands on a few—some for his, uh, friends. That would be good.” His halted statements are amusing his coach, if the grin on his face is any indication.

He’s enjoying Zeke’s discomfort.

“I agree; getting them some tickets would be nice. Where does he attend school?”

Zeke shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, I didn’t ask.”

Coach sits back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest and taking Zeke’s measure. I notice he does that a lot—observes and calculates before responding to anything.

There is nothing impulsive about Coach.

Both men continuously fiddle with their neckties. Zeke has loosened his three times since we sat down. His coach? Twice.

“Hmm,” the man says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “It would have been nice to get the name of his school—we could invite the whole team to a meet.”

“W-Why can’t you?” I interrupt with a stutter.

Crap!

“Brandon is r-right over there. Why don’t you just walk back over there and ask him where he goes to school?”

The kid is literally fifty feet away, watching our table like a hawk, like Zeke and Coach are demigods. In his circle, they probably are.

“Just go do it,” I whisper, impatiently hissing through my lips.

Zeke stares me down. Practically growls my name. “Violet.”

It’s obvious he doesn’t want to get up from the chair; he hates any kind of conversation. Hates talking to people.

Out of the corner of my eye, Coach watches us, eyes volleying back and forth between Zeke and me as our pseudo power struggle develops.

Zeke regards me warily. I see the conflict warring within him—not wanting to give in, but knowing he damn well should walk back over to Brandon and find out where he goes to school.

“Ugh,” he rumbles loudly, pushing away from the table, shoving back his chair. “Christ!”