The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

A silver necklace gets clasped around my throat, its delicate V dangling from a thin metal chain. Slide a few bangles on my wrist. Then I dash to the bathroom to check my reflection. Comb through my long, silky hair and decide to leave it the way it is. Add a few coats of black mascara. Pink lip gloss.

Eight minutes from start to finish, and I’m locking the door behind me, trudging down the front sidewalk toward Zeke’s waiting figure.

Four seconds later I’m sliding in beside him. Toasty warm.

“Where are we going?”

He taps the steering wheel. “Where do you want to go? It’s totally up to you.”

I bite down on my lower lip, undecided. I remember giving him a list once before, remember him shooting down everything when trying to figure out which play dates would be fun for Summer and Kyle.

Nonetheless, there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to do…and maybe he’d be willing to do it with me tonight, since this was his idea in the first place.

And he did tell me I could choose.

So I go for it.

“You know what would be really fun?”

His engine revs, obviously waiting for me to buckle up. “What?”

“I want to paint pottery.”

Zeke’s head hits the back of his seat, big palm combing through his wet onyx hair. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Giggle. “It’s not going to be horrible. Besides, you said it was totally up to me, and this is what I chose—to paint pottery.”

“Fine.”

“Do you know where it is?” He’s taking a left at the stop sign, toward downtown.

“Yeah, I know where it is.”

“You do? How?”

“My idiot roommate and his girlfriend came to this place for one of their dates. I had to pick shit up for them.”

“Oh! That’s nice of you.”

“If you want to call it nice, knock yourself out.”

“I’ve never done this before, so I’m pretty excited. I figure I have about twenty bucks to spend, so—”

“No.”

“No?”

“This is my treat.”

“Are you sure?”

Great, now he’s irritated. “I invited you out, it’s my treat.”

“All right, but only if—”

“Violet, my mom might be absentee, but she always makes sure I act like a gentleman when she’s around.”

There’s nothing else to say I guess, except, “Thank you Zeke.”

It means a lot to me, more than he knows.

He might think this is a simple night out, at a place he can afford to take me, but to me, it’s more. I hardly ever get to indulge in anything frivolous—every penny I earn goes toward books, tuition, and housing.

There just simply isn’t ever enough to blow on…stuff. I don’t go to the bars often because spending ten dollars on drinks is ten dollars I don’t have to make rent or buy groceries.

Of course, I don’t say this, because a guy like that wouldn’t understand. Zeke Daniels doesn’t look like he’s seen struggle a single day in his privileged life. I don’t fault him for this; it’s merely an observation. He can’t help having parents with the means to support him any more than I can help…not.

I shift in my seat.

“Crap.” His gaze darkens, moves up and down over my torso. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“No, but…I think you can eat food at this place. Sandwiches maybe?”

He grunts.

I stifle a smile, hiding it in the collar of my winter jacket. Watch out the window the rest of the way to the pottery place so he doesn’t catch my grin.

“For the damn record,” Zeke is saying as we walk into the place, “we are not painting matching anything. No mugs with hearts and shit, got it?”

Mugs with hearts and shit? What on earth is he talking about?

“Got it.”

“And none of that holiday bullshit. No way are you getting me to paint a pumpkin plate or a holly jolly Santa Claus.”

“What am I not getting you to paint?”

“A holly jolly San—” He sees me smirking. “Dammit Violet!”

“Paint whatever you want. I’m going to check out the plates and cups.”

He trails along after me.

I remove a ceramic pitcher from the wooden shelf and hold it up. “Now what would I do with this?”

“Nothing.”

“I could put flowers in it, or juice if I had people over.” I set it back down. “Hmmm.”

A few feet down, Zeke takes a shot glass off the shelf. “What about this?”

My brows shoot up. “Do you do a lot of shots?”

His shoulders sag and he huffs, “No. Not really.”

He puts the shot glass back. Takes down a flat paddle with a slight curve at the end. “What the hell is this thing?”

I glance over. “I think that’s a spoon rest. For the stove.”

“That’s fucking dumb.”

Ignoring him, I meander over to the glasses and goblets. “Hey, what about this mug? This is fun.” It’s huge and has plenty of surface for painting.

Zeke makes his way over. “I said I didn’t want to paint matching mugs.”

“So go paint something else.” I flip the heavy cup over to check the price. Eighteen dollars, plus the studio fee.

Ouch.

I bite my lower lip, debating, not wanting to spend twenty-five dollars of his money.