The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag Book 5)

by Sara Ney

  Could she be any more dramatic? “Forty-three is not ancient.”

  “Puh-leaze. My dad is in his forties, Skylar.”

  “Your dad is fifty-one, Hannah. I was there for his birthday.”

  Her bubble bursts. “Oh.”

  “In any case, I feel like I would know if JB was a slime ball. I would have picked up on the vibe. We’ve been chatting for almost an entire week—don’t you think I would have picked up on it by now?”

  “Probably. But still—McGuillicudy’s? That place is so awful.” She makes her body shiver. “I was going to say we should talk about what you’re going to wear on your date, but it’s…in a seedy bar. Technically you could wear that.”

  Hannah points at my pajama bottoms with the tip of her spoon.

  “All right, stop being so dramatic—the place isn’t that bad.”

  “No. But you could legit wear that on your date and no one would bat an eye.”

  She makes a very valid point. “Maybe just jeans then, and a flirty top?”

  “Ratty t-shirt? I don’t want you to ruin anything—do you know how many airborne STDs are probably floating through the air in that place? Allll the herpes, yo, straight to your vajajay.”

  My roommate is certifiable.

  I can’t even argue with her—she’ll only keep going on and on, because if there is one thing she loves to do, it’s shock people.

  I pretend she’s not talking. “What about that blue shirt that’s cut a little lower? It’s not too revealing, kind of perfect?”

  She ponders my suggestion. “Yeah, that’s cute…what about wearing something red? You look so good in that color, and you can do red lips.”

  “You don’t think red lips are a bit much for a dive bar?”

  Hannah nods. “Good point.” Thinks a few seconds. “What about a black turtleneck? That sends the message that you’re not willing to fool around on the first date.”

  “Ah, a modern-day chastity belt?”

  “Exactly!”

  “No.” I laugh. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I dig into the chip bag, making a ton of noise in the process while I root around for one or two—the sound drives Hannah nutso—then shove three tortilla chips in my mouth at the same time. Bite down and chew. Swallow. “Okay, how about a black camisole and jean jacket?”

  “Yes, yes, I love that. Just enough skin without being revealing, and the denim makes it casual enough that it doesn’t look like you’re trying too hard. Yes. Perfect.”

  I nod. “It is quite perfect.”

  “Plus”—Hannah eyes me slyly—“if things get heated, you can slide the jacket off and—”

  “Stop. Just…don’t even say it.”

  She rattles the bottom of her ice cream bowl with the metal spoon in her hand, the hollow, empty sound making her frown and tip the bowl sideways.

  “Empty. Empty like my heart.”

  “Oh my god, shut up.” I laugh, tossing a chip in her direction. She snatches it up and pops it in her mouth even though it just landed on the couch.

  “The date is going to be fine. If anything, it will be a good practice run. Right?”

  Right. It’s going to be fine.

  What’s the worst thing that could happen? He turns out to be a mass murderer? The Craigslist Killer?

  “He’s going to fall madly in love with you.” Hannah leans toward me, wrapping her free arm around my shoulders. “He’s gonna love you like I love you, only he’s going to want to sex you, too.” Long pause. “Not that I don’t want to sex you sometimes.”

  “Shut up, Hannah!”

  She shrugs. “What can I say? You’re adorable.”

  Adorable.

  Great.

  Abe

  “You’re not seriously going to meet her at that bar,” I deadpan to Jack, who’s studying for the first time this semester—that I’ve seen, anyway. When I walked into his bedroom after Blue confirmed their date, I found him with an actual textbook open and a highlighter in his hand.

  I almost fainted from shock.

  Blew my fucking mind.

  He looks up from his book, a pair of actual, authentic reading glasses perched on his nose. “What’s wrong with McGuillicudy’s? I take all my dates there. No one has had a problem with it yet.”

  I know he takes all his dates there. That’s why this feels so…wrong. A girl like Blue doesn’t deserve to be treated like all his other dates. She’s classier; I know this without even meeting her.

  I’ve spoken to her long enough to know the idea doesn’t thrill her. It took her several minutes to respond and confirm the date to begin with.

  “These women aren’t going to tell you they hate it to your face.” I pause, thinking. “Ethan Ransick finger-bangs someone in the hallway by the bathrooms almost every weekend, and the last football victory party was there. One of the linebackers got wasted and tore the kitchen door off.”

  “Dude, why do you sound so surprised? I have literally taken at least twelve girls there.”

  “Twenty-one, but who’s counting.”

  “Sounds like you are.” He sounds aggravated.

  “Only because I’m the one setting all this shit up. Change it up a little for God’s sake. You’re becoming way too predictable.”

  JB stretches his neck, ignoring my barb. “Why should I change shit up when you’re doing such a great job being me? Keep up the good work, buddy.”

  “Fuck you, Bartlett.”

  He pulls the glasses off his face and lays them on his open book, finally giving me his attention. “What the hell is your problem, Davis?”

  BlueAsTheSky is my problem; she’s one of the good ones and dipshit here is going to fucking ruin it by being…himself.

  My lips seal shut, pulled into a straight line as I fold my arms across my chest. “Maybe it’s time to get serious. You say you want a girlfriend and you’re over Tasha, but you’re not actually trying.”

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “Statistics.”

  “Huh?”

  I cross my ankles and lean against the doorjamb. “You bag seventy-five percent of your dates, and odds are you’re going to bag this one. This chick is…she’s—”

  “This chick is what?”

  A keeper.

  Funny. Smart.

  Clever. Pretty.

  Someone you’d take home to your family.

  “Nothing. I just don’t… Let’s just say I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “Yeah?” JB’s brows rise, interested. “What kind of feeling?”

  “She—”

  “Makes your dick tingle?” He’s smirking at himself, one side of his mouth turned up, kind of like the Joker in Batman. It’s creepy as hell.

  “Shut the fuck up, Bartlett. Be serious for a second.”

  JB rolls to his back, laughing at the ceiling. “I am being serious, Grandpa. Jesus, act your age for a change.” My roommate laughs again. “I made a rhyme.”

  God he’s an idiot.

  “Is that what this is about? This chick gives you a woody?”

  “No, you asshole. She doesn’t get me hard.”

  I’m lying, obviously.

  I’m lying because if he finds out I’ve been fantasizing about taking Blue out myself, the most likely scenario here is that JB would try to pick a fight—because he’s a whiny bitch like that—and do his best to hand me my ass. Or tell everyone on the wrestling team I’m poaching girls from his dating pool.

  Which is ridiculous.

  Me finding one of these girls remotely interesting was bound to happen eventually, and it happens to be Blue.

  Him calling me out about it makes my left eye twitch.

  JB opens his mouth to talk. “Of course she doesn’t get you hard—I’ve seen her and her cardigan sweaters. No one wants to fuck a girl wearing a cardigan, Grandpa—except maybe you.”

  He says the word cardigan as if it’s something distasteful, says it like Blue has a contagious disease. Like syphilis.


  Or gonorrhea.

  “She’s funny.” My argument is weak. Funny is good, but to a guy like JB, hot is better. Sexy is better. Sexually adventurous?

  Even better.

  “Funny,” he repeats, unimpressed. Bored with the conversation. “Next you’ll be telling me she has a great personality. Honestly, Gramps, all I give a shit about right now—this very second—is how great her tits are.”

  “Have you looked back at our conversations? Your date is tonight—you should know what we talked about so you don’t sound like a moron.”

  He’s going to sound like he developed amnesia overnight.

  “Stop talking to these girls so damn much. Your job is to swipe and get the date, not swipe and get to know them. You’re acting like a female, getting all personal. Knock that shit off so I can keep up with what’s going on. It’s my account, not yours, fucker.”

  I get it. I crossed the line.

  I crossed it and I regret it.

  So damn much.

  Skylar

  He’s late.

  JB is officially—I look down at the purple watch circling my wrist—twenty-five minutes late.

  Not a great first impression, but I’ll give him five more minutes before bailing.

  No message to let me know he’s running late. Nothing.

  In the time we’ve been talking, he just hasn’t struck me as the kind of guy who would stand a girl up for a first date. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  If he can’t chat, he lets me know. He says good morning and good night, and has been…consistent. Reliable in his communication? Reliability is a trait I value and am looking for.

  So the fact that he’s almost half an hour late disappoints me.

  One strike against him.

  I fiddle with my purse strap, self-consciously tugging on the brown leather, and debate grabbing us a booth to sit in—if he ever shows up.

  It’s busy in here for a Wednesday night, but in a college town, that’s to be expected—Wasted Wednesday and all that jazz. Students play pool in the back room, beers perched on the ledges surrounding them.

  The music is almost deafening; a song I don’t recognize is blasting out of the speakers located in each corner of the main bar, my ears already ringing. Close to bleeding actually, ha.

  The place smells like grease, spilled beer, and bad decisions, and I know as soon as I walk in the door tonight after this date is over, I’ll beeline for the shower.

  Guaranteed.

  Twenty-six minutes late.

  Twenty-seven.

  Is this a joke to him? Is that what this is about?

  I’m reaching across the booth where I’ve dropped my things, grabbing for my jacket and rising, when the heavy glass door at the front swings open.

  JB fills the doorway, his entire frame boxed out as his dark eyes scan the bar (I know they’re dark because I’ve studied his photographs no less than dozens of times). He’s not that tall or imposing, but his arms are positioned away from his body, hanging at his sides—shoulders back, chin up.

  Arrogant.

  Hmm.

  I clutch the coat in my hands, fingers tightening on the black polyester fabric, nails digging into the puff.

  JB struts forward, automatically recognizing me as his target, a slow smile spreading across his features.

  He’s handsome. No—he’s hot.

  Not as tall as I thought he’d be, and a little…sharper. For some reason I thought he’d be more…approachable? This guy feels like he’s trying to intimidate me rather than reassure me, and I know instantly that he’s not going to apologize for keeping me waiting almost half an hour.

  I also know he isn’t taking this date seriously.

  How?

  It’s cold, but he’s not wearing a jacket—just an Iowa wrestling hoodie with the yellow school logo splashed across the front and the number eight in the corner.

  Who wears a hoodie on a first date, even if it is just drinks?

  A healthy dose of disappointment begins creeping up my chest, along with the dull ache of embarrassment that I’m standing here in a cami, jeans, and heeled boots when he showed up in clothes he probably wore to the gym.

  “Hey,” is the first word out of his mouth. “You BlueAsTheSky?”

  A reminder that I haven’t yet told him my name. Or have I?

  Ugh.

  “Hi. It’s Skylar.” I put my hand out to shake his, and instead of taking it, he slides into the booth, hands skimming the tabletop.

  Okay then.

  “You want to sit up at the bar, or will this work?” JB asks, grabbing at one of the menus wedged in between the salt and pepper shakers, beside the condiments.

  “Um, this is fine.” Sit at the bar? I don’t think so, pal.

  Despite his first impression, I’m still naïvely hopeful that JB will pull his head out of his ass and be the guy I’ve been chatting with on the app. So. I’m going to plop myself down across from him, order a drink, and pray for a miracle.

  Mirroring his actions, I grab a menu and let my eyes roam the selections, not quite sure if I should go out on a limb and order alcohol.

  “You getting anything, babe?” He doesn’t look up at me, and for whatever reason, his use of an endearment rubs me the wrong way. I might not date much, but I do know guys often use pet names when they can’t remember someone’s actual name.

  “It’s Skylar.”

  He finally lowers the menu, lifting his face to look directly at me. Smiles. “I know.”

  “What does the J stand for?”

  The menu lowers again. “Jack.”

  Rises.

  “Jack. I like that.” There happens to be a straw on the table, so I take it and start rolling it between my fingers to stop myself from fiddling with my shirt. Or the small hole slowly growing on the thigh of my jeans.

  I’ve stuck my finger in it four times already, and I know this little factoid because I counted.

  “Thanks.”

  His short answers are killing me softly. Frustrated, I blow out a puff of air, my brown hair floating away from my face.

  “Um…”

  JB sets the menu down. “I’m getting a draft beer. How ’bout you? Wine or something girly?”

  Wine? In this place? It probably comes in a cardboard box.

  “Undecided.” It’s clear to me that this conversation—or lack thereof—isn’t going to improve the longer we sit here. JB and I have no chemistry; if we did, I would have felt it already.

  Instantly.

  “What about something fruity—don’t all chicks dig those fruity drinks?” He laughs, eyes sparkling, as if he’s just told a joke and expects me to laugh. “Sex on the Beach?”

  It takes me several seconds to respond, and I seriously wish I could see the expression on my own face.

  “I’ll take a pass on a fruity drink, but thank you for the suggestion.”

  The guy winks. “No problem, babe.”

  “It’s Skylar.”

  “Right.” He shoots me another winning smile—one he probably considers a wicked grin—then licks his lips. “Tell me about your cat, Skylar.”

  “My cat?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you say you have a cat? I love animals, too.”

  “I don’t have a cat.”

  “Oh, that’s right—you’re a dog person. Tell me about your dog.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “I don’t have one of those either. I said on the rare occasions I go running, I always stop to pet dogs. I never said I had one.”

  The menu in front of me that’s been lying on the table gets pushed aside.

  I clearly won’t be needing it since I won’t be staying.

  JB is an asshole who clearly has no idea who I am.

  Which means:

  1. He’s obviously talking to so many girls at the moment he can’t keep any of them straight.

  2. He’s out for numbers, not something meaningful.

  3. I am not the girl for him,
and probably not even his type.

  “Sorry, it’s been a long day,” he muses.

  “Oh? How so?”

  And he tells me. Every. Single. Detail about his day. How he had to wake up at the “ass crack of dawn and jog three fucking miles in the damn dark” then locked himself out of his house and had to go to class with no books while wearing a sweaty t-shirt and track pants.

  “Jesus Christ, I was so hungry by the time I made it home this afternoon—after practice, of course. Totally brutal today.” He shoots me a pointed look. “We have qualifiers for the WIAA championship coming up, so…yeah.”

  I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but judging by his tone and his raised brow, JB is expecting me to be impressed.

  I’m not.

  I’m irritated.

  He keeps talking, droning on above the music screaming out of the subwoofers, never once taking a breath so I can interject, ask a question, or participate in the conversation.

  “You know, I don’t know what I’ll do when I graduate, but I have clear goals. I’m getting a business degree but I think I’ll end up working for my dad. Why not, right? I can make six figures straight out of college doing nothing but pushing pencils, and my dad knows a guy at this huge network so I can always try broadcasting. Nepotism at its finest, right? But who gives a shit if I don’t have to work at getting a gig. Am I right or am I right?”

  It sounds like a speech he has memorized and has given dozens of times.

  Gross.

  “Only a fool would pass up an opportunity like that,” is the only thing I can think to say.

  Other phrases that come to mind that I don’t have the lady balls to say: Where is the real JB and what have you done with him? and You are a freaking idiot and Why are you still talking?

  Better yet, why am I still sitting here listening?

  I’m the moron, not him.

  What I should do is haul my ass up out of this booth, put on my damn jacket, and walk out.

  So that’s what I do.

  I press my palms against the wooden table, the pads of my fingers landing in something unidentifiable and sticky, and push myself up to stand.

  “Know what, Jack, I really think I need to get going.”