The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

Like I said: strange.

Across the table, I let him look his fill an entire ten minutes before I can’t take it any more. I raise my head slowly. Meet his intense gaze. Push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, perch them atop my head.

Set my highlighter down and cross my hands primly in front of me on the table.

“What.” No beating around the bush for this girl.

“What?” he parrots, playing dumb.

“I know you have something to say. So say it.”

He gives his head a stubborn shake, lips pursed. “Nope. We’re good, Jimbo.”

Liar.

But if that’s how he wants to play it… “Fine. Never mind then.”

He frowns, lines etched across his angry, handsome face when I unfold my hands, grab my highlighter, and resume reading.

Pretend to anyway.

Oz continues to gape, silently taking inventory of my movements. Sullen eyes trail the long strokes of fresh pink marker ink across my paper. Follow my hand when I slip the glasses back down onto my face. Skim over my shoulders when I brush away a strand of hair.

He’s done this all before, gawked at me—many times in fact—but somehow this is different. His gaze is more thoughtful. More penetrating. More engrossed.

I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure when, but something has changed. The air between us has shifted. It’s thick. Heated.

Serious.

I try again, eyes still locked on my textbook. “What. Out with it.”

I don’t mean to sound so annoyed, but this odd silent treatment coupled with those dark eyes boring into me is making me mental.

“Would you please say something?” Once again, I set down my highlighter. “I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but I’m over here not getting anything done. You and your heavy breathing are weirding me out and driving me loco.”

He tears his gaze away and looks to the opposite side of the room before responding.

“Nothing is going on.” He removes his hat to run the tips of his fingers through his glorious hair. It sticks up on end, disheveled. “It’s just been a rough few nights, that’s all.”

Ahhh, a rough few nights; that information I can work with.

“How so?”

“I…haven’t been sleeping the greatest.” He sounds reluctant to admit it, but I press on.

“Why?”

Oz shifts uncomfortably. “Just some fucked up dreams. No big deal, but it’s the same one every night.”

I pause. “What are the dreams about?”

Oz shifts again. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I ask skeptically. “Dreams about nothing don’t keep you awake every night, Sebastian.”

“These dreams about nothing do.” He winces.

“So they’re not about nothing—they’re about something.”

His nose scrunches up. “Are you purposely trying to confuse me?”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll tell me what they’re about?”

“Sure, why the hell not.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” I put my hand up. “Stop! Before you blurt it out, let me guess; are they about the zombie apocalypse coming to melt your face off and you can’t escape no matter how fast you run?”

His mouth tics. “Nope.”

“Does this have anything to do with your parents or your sister?”

“Nope.”

Tapping my chin with my highlighter, I pretend to think long and hard. “You’re falling into a dark hole, a place with no Netflix and chill, no wrestling, and you can’t get a single girl to shag you.”

“You’re a smartass, do you know that?”

“I’m right though, aren’t I? This somehow involves sex.”

His heavy brow lifts a tad. “You’re getting warmer. Yup. I’d say you were warm.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course it involves sex. How predictable of you.” A sigh escapes my lips. “Did someone use too much teeth giving you a blowjob?” I ponder before instantaneously slapping a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, did I just say that out loud?”

He’s turning me into a pervert.

“You sure did, but no worries; no blowjobs were harmed in the making of my dream.”

“So it wasn’t a nightmare?”

“Oh no, it was—it definitely was.”

“I wasn’t in it, was I?” I joke. “Star of the show, that’s me! Ha ha.”

He doesn’t reply. Just sits there, and…

“Oz.” My eyes close momentarily and I speak slowly. “Please tell me I’m not in your pervy sex dream.”

“Tsk, tsk—I just said it was a nightmare,” he clarifies. “Not a dream.”

“Semantics.” I wave him off. “Please tell me I wasn’t the star your perverted sex nightmare.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you.” Oz rolls his eyes skyward really dramatically; it’s overdone because that sorry bastard is lying and we both know it.

I clear my throat. “This wasn’t a…um…fantasy, was it?” I struggle to get the words out, cheeks flaming.

“Hell no. It was definitely a nightmare. How many times do I have to say it?” He downs some of his water bottle and I watch the thick column of his neck raptly when he tips his head back to swallow.

“But,” Oz begins, sagging his shoulders and casually studying his fingernails. “Would it be so bad if it was?”