The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

And he’d be right—the figure that just disappeared into the library stacks? He wouldn’t want to date me. Wouldn’t look at me twice given the chance.

Have sex with me? Maybe.

Date me? No.

But guess what? I wouldn’t want him either. Because I can tell just by looking at him that he’s probably a douchebag, just like his creepy friend.

And I’d want nothing to do with a guy like that.

Sebastian

“Dude. Do me a solid and see if that’s her.”

I ignore his entreaty, determined to start this essay for a class I have first thing tomorrow morning, a class I need for graduation. I thought coming to the quiet library would give me the solace I need to get the assignment done, but apparently I was wrong.

So wrong.

“Are you listening to me? I need you to walk over there and see if that chick staring over here is my tutor. Please, I’m shy.”

I pause. “Zeke, I’m not walking all the way over there just to see if she’s your tutor. Do it yourself.”

My head lowers and I go back to my paper.

“I’m the captain of the wrestling team, asshole.”

My pen stops for the second time. “No, I’m the captain, asshole—or have you already forgotten? Doing your dirty work isn’t part of my job description.”

Whining but undeterred, my friend tries again. “What if I ask you nice?”

“Nope. You’ve already been a dick too many times today.”

This perks him up considerably. “Speaking of dicks, what if I give you a blowjob?” he purrs. “Then would you do it?”

“I’ll do it for a blowjob,” our friend Dylan interrupts from across the table—the table that appeared large enough to accommodate all of us when we sat down but now feels like the size of a maxi pad.

“Shut the fuck up, Landers. No one asked you.” Zeke sneers. “Osborne, go see if that’s my tutor.”

Jesus Christ he’s relentless. “She’s not your tutor.”

He twists his torso to glance at her, dubious. “How do you know?”

We all crane our necks to get a good look at the girl in question, sitting across the dimly lit library commons. My dark eyes settle on the unassuming girl hunched over a stack of books and wielding a pencil, furiously writing away.

Intense and serious, this girl means business.

She’s not here to fuck around.

I’ve noticed her in passing a few times myself, but have never spared her a second thought until now, chalking her up as just another warm body taking up an entire table my friends and I could have used.

Academic. Unadventurous. Probably a fucking prude if the pearl necklace circling her neck is any indication.

She barely batted an eye when I passed her with Cindy—or Mindy or whatever her name is that rhymes with ‘Indy’—and hauled her to the storage room to get my dick wet.

“How do I know she’s not your tutor?” I repeat. “First off, her face is buried in those books—she hasn’t looked around once the entire time we’ve been here.”

Zeke’s dark eyebrows raise. “Bullshit. She’s been watching us this entire time.”

I ignore his expression and power on. “Secondly, she doesn’t look like she needs a job. I mean, did you not see the fucking pearls around her neck? No way she needs the money.”

“Maybe she likes helping those in need,” Dylan jokes.

“I’ll give her a need: I need a good grade in biology.” Zeke ridicules us, studying her intently. “Virgin Mary over there looks like the fucking librarian. A girl like that is going to be single forever.”

“Yeah but look at her: she’s undeniably not waiting for anyone,” Dylan observes.

Zeke shoots him an irritated scowl. “Did you just use the word undeniably?”

Our friend ignores him. “Or maybe she took one look at your pissed-off face and decided the job wasn’t worth the forty bucks you’re going to pay her. And what’s up with her sweater set? I bet she could use a good, stiff dicking.” Dylan’s booming voice cuts through the din, the rasp of it slicing through the peaceful university library in the most unquiet way. “She does look like a total bitch.”

Zeke’s laugh is crude. “Maybe that’s the problem—she’s had a dicking and it’s still stuck up her ass.” He checks his phone for the fifth time. “If she’s not my tutor, then mine is a no-show. Would you please just go over there for me? I’m too lazy to haul my ass out of this chair.”

I stare him down, shaking my head at his presumption before bracing my hands against the wooden table and rising to stand. “Fine. What’s your tutor’s name?”

He unfolds the scrap of paper resting on his pile of books and reads out loud. “Violet.”

“Aww, how pretty.” I shuffle leisurely across the library, weaving through the intricate labyrinth of tables, crosshairs on the black cardigan sweater set. “Violet.”

Her smooth, classic ponytail is pulled high, not a hair out of place, and black glasses are propped on her head. Wearing a simple white tee shirt and a black cardigan, a single strand of gleaming ivory pearls circle her neck.

That’s right, I said it—fucking pearls.

Hot pink earbud cords dangle down her neck.

I saunter closer, approaching her cautiously, much like you’d approach a stray dog, or a girl you know is on her period—warily, guardedly.