The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“You’re a dick.”

He laughs, almost maniacally. “Never said I wasn’t.”

A loud, roaring shout carries over the locker room, echoing from the office. “Osborne. Daniels. This isn’t a pissing match. Get your goddamn asses dressed and on the bus. You have eight minutes.”

Zeke grunts out his disappointment, leveling me with an icy glower before going to his own cubby. He yanks out his duffle bag, calling out over his shoulder, “This isn’t over Osborne. Far from it.”

Sebastian

I stumble into the house, exhausted from the long bus ride and Zeke’s continued badgering during the five hours it took to get us home. He criticized. He fumed. He bitched until my head rolled to the side and I popped on my Beats to drown out the sound with music.

I’m tired.

I’m starving.

I’m ready for warm food and a soft bed.

It’s quiet when I drop my bags in the laundry room, first one back at the house. Hanging my duffle and removing my jacket, I make quick work of taking my shoes off and setting them aside.

I flip on the kitchen light and pad, sock footed, to the fridge. Yanking it open, I stare into it, blinded by the bright light, contemplating the slim pickings: three-day-old spaghetti sauce, a half-eaten hamburger, yogurt. There’s a gallon of orange juice left, some filtered water, and an open bottle of Dr. Pepper.

My choices suck dick.

Bemoaning the fact that I didn’t stop and grab something fast on my way home, I grab the leftover Malone’s hamburger and yogurt, slap them both on a plate, and lean against the counter.

Where the hell is everyone? I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to my roommate.

Oz: Where are you?

Zeke: Stopped for food.

Shit.

Oz: Grab me something would ya. Starving.

Zeke: Yup. Back in thirty.

He might be a total dick, but he’s a dick that’s going to feed my hungry ass.

Satisfied that a meal is on its way, I dump the burger and yogurt in the trash, grab my bag, and head down the hallway for a hasty shower.

It takes me a total of six minutes, beginning to end.

Throwing on mesh shorts and a ratty old tee shirt, I head to my room and down the carpeted hall, pausing in front of my roommate’s door. Giving it a few short raps of my knuckle, I don’t hesitate to turn the handle.

Not wanting to wake him if he’s sleeping, I push the door open slowly, the dim light from within an indication that he’s home and awake.

“Hey, Elliot?”

My eyes stray to the bed, lingering on two entwined figures, namely my roommate humping the shit out of some girl, humping her into his mattress like it’s his last chance at a lay.

Their moaning fills the air.

Momentarily stunned, it takes me a moment to recover. “Oh shit! Sorry man.”

I should have shut the door then, should have backed away and gone to my room, but the sight of my roommate’s white thighs driving fervently into whatever chick he’s railing has me staring incredulously.

Conservative Elliot never brings girls home. Never.

Not once.

Well, I shouldn’t say never, but the occasions are so rare I can’t remember the last time it happened. It’s not his style, so I’m going to assume this isn’t some fling.

This must be a girl he’s been seeing but hasn’t introduced us to.

Someone he probably really likes.

So I should shut the door and walk away, be happy he’s getting his rocks off.

But I don’t.

Shame on me.

My eyes stray to the floor, to the discarded undergarments. The sheer lace bra. Lavender satin thong (nice choice). Jeans. Black patent leather ballet flats. White car—

Wait.

Black ballet flats?

White cardigan.

White fucking cardigan?

My eyes shoot to the bed, the tangle of sheets. Male moaning. A female gasp I’m all too familiar with.

Long, glossy hair spills over Elliot’s navy pillow, his arms braced on the sides of the brunette’s face as he frantically pumps and pumps and rails his hips into her while she gasps in pleasure.

Fucks her.

Fucks fucking Jameson.

It’s her, I just know it.

In a rage, my mouth opens and I take a few steps toward them, intending to—to what? Pull him off her mid-thrust? Start a fight? Fuck! My squeak of outrage must alert them because Jameson opens her eyes, lifting her head listlessly off the pillow in a groggy, sex-induced haze.

Elliot’s fingers cup her ass, digging in near her crack, and I see red when he squeezes. See red when she giggles and moans.

“You’re so amazing,” she whimpers, and I watch in stunned horror as she licks my name off her lips. “You’re the best, the best…right there…yes!”

I watch, speechless, as she pants. Coming.

Coming.

Our eyes meet, hers glassy with ecstasy and she smiles, head rolling back in a sated, drunken state. Elliot sucks her neck, his dirty tongue running up the length of her throat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck me hard.

I smash his door shut so hard it cracks, shuddering on its hinges, and thunder down the hallway. Throw open my door. It bangs against the wall, bouncing back from the force. Pacing, I walk back and forth in the confinement of my room like a goddamn caged tiger, counting to regain my composure.

One, two, five. Ten.

I stalk back out into the hall, breathless like I’ve just sprinted eight miles, and fight the urge to punch the fucking wall separating Elliot’s room from the hall.