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

by Sara Ney

  He’s blunt. “What the fuck is the problem?”

  “Nothing. We’re good.”

  “You look like you’re about to puke all over those pretty little shoes of yours.” He runs a tan hand through his black hair. “Is this about some woman? Did some chick get into your fucking head? Spit it out, we’re losing daylight.”

  Yes. “No.”

  He doesn’t believe me. “Jesus Christ, don’t lie to me. You’re running out of time before they blow the whistle. If it’s not a girl and your dick hasn’t fallen off, why are you standing there looking like someone pissed in your bowl of Cheerios?”

  This guy is brutal, no time wasted on peppering his speech with flowery sentiment. Zeke Daniels isn’t into mollycoddling, and he certainly isn’t going to start with me.

  Fuck.

  “It’s a girl.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. What’s the fucking problem?”

  “I met her on LoveU, pretending to be JB, sent him on a date with her, she hated him, set her on a double date with me, we had chemistry, got her number, took her out this weekend, she found out I was lying, now she hates me.”

  I word vomit all that out in one breath then inhale sharply, sucking a healthy dose of air back into my lungs.

  Zeke stares.

  Blinks once.

  Twice.

  “So. You catfished her.”

  “No—that’s not at all what I was doing!”

  He looks bored already. “But basically that’s what you were doing.”

  “Catfishing is when you use fake pictures and pretend to be someone you’re not,” I argue.

  His dark, thick brows rise. “Isn’t that what you were doing?”

  “No, because JB is real, and they are his pictures and he is the one who went to meet these girls.”

  “So Skylar was talking to you, and went to meet with JB, while talking to you, then you continued pursuing her as you, but using JB’s account. Did I get that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh.

  Oh fuck.

  I was catfishing her. A little bit, sort of.

  Wow. I’m not as smart as I thought I was.

  Lips parted, Zeke shakes his head slowly. “Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”

  My shoulders drop, head bent. “I don’t know.”

  “I take it she’s not talking to you?”

  “No. She hates me.” I sound pathetic.

  “That’s a bit harsh—it’s not like you can cheat on her if you’re not actually dating.” I wasn’t expecting any words of solidarity from him. “Bet she called you a liar and all that garbage? Man, chicks are so full of drama.”

  “Violet isn’t full of drama.” His fiancé of one year is the softest-spoken woman I’ve ever met, and the only one who could tame a beast like Daniels.

  “That’s because Violet is a goddamn saint.” His voice is gruff, filled with pride, eyes softening at the mention of her name. “I shit on her once or twice back when we started dating, and with a woman like that, it’s hard to bounce back. Any girl who knows her worth is going to fucking stick it to you and stick it to you hard. You have to be smarter than they are.” Zeke looks me up and down. “Which you are not.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  I know that, fucker. I was being sarcastic.

  I don’t say that shit out loud though, because he’d kick my ass, and I’d have to let him.

  “So what do I do?” I’m in serious need of help, sound like I’m desperate, and will take advice anywhere I can get it—even if it’s from the biggest asshole this wrestling team has ever had on it.

  “Let me think about it. I’ll have to text Violet—she’ll know what to do.” He gives me a confident nod, pleased that he’s on his way to solving my dilemma, then his hand returns to my shoulder, squeezing. He speaks slowly like he’s talking to a child. “Kindly remove your head from your own ass so we don’t have to do it surgically, take your fucking warm-up pants off, and pound out your goddamn stretches like you’re supposed to be doing.” He claps my back. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll circle back around.”

  I watch him saunter away, head bent, tapping away at his phone. Wonder what he’s telling his girlfriend about the situation and hope they can help me untangle this mess.

  Bending at the waist, I push off the standard-issue black and yellow warm-up pants we wear before our matches and then I’m standing in nothing but my tight black singlet. I yank up the straps and adjust them, pulling the nylon fabric out of my ass crack.

  I pop a squat on the mat, bending at the knees, then lower myself into a sitting position. Bend at the waist until I’m able to grip the balls of my feet in my fingers. Stretching my calves, kneading at the muscles of my hamstrings, the burn from the pull a painful reminder that I’ve been slacking lately.

  My mind wanders.

  What am I going to do?

  Normally, I wouldn’t care. I’d tune the issue with Skylar out like I do with everything else and move on. It was never my intention to date in the first place, so why this one? Why this girl?

  By all accounts, she’s more reserved. A bit anti-social. Beautiful in a subtle way, kind and funny and good. My mind wanders again, down the front of her blouse, mentally counting the buttons there—five—then mentally slipping them out of their fabric until her shirt is parted down the middle.

  Skylar had smooth, gorgeous cleavage I tried not to gape at while we were at the table, and it took a heroic effort to keep my eyes up. Pale skin. Freckles between her breasts and across the bridge of her perfect nose.

  Pink cheeks and even pinker lips.

  There wasn’t a moment she wasn’t smiling.

  At me.

  Blue eyes lit up right up until the moment I returned from the bathroom and ruined the entire date by being a colossal idiot.

  I unfurl myself from the floor, rise to my full height, and pull back on one leg, working my calves for a second time. Arms. Back. Move my head in slow circles to loosen my neck, all the while preoccupied with my thoughts of Skylar, her tits, her voice.

  My lies.

  Was I catfishing her?

  That’s not what I considered what JB and I were doing to be; in my mind, I was utilizing a skill he doesn’t possess—making idle conversation with beautiful strangers to learn more about them.

  I have it in spades.

  JB sucks at it.

  What JB lacks in social graces, he makes up for with his face, strength, and body. Deep voice, megawatt smile, dimple in his cheek.

  Chicks love that shit. They lap it up, hardly caring that he’s a dickhead. They only care that he’s good-looking, good in bed, and goes down on them—a fact he constantly brags about and one I sometimes hear acted out from my bedroom in the middle of the night.

  Oh JB…Oh…Oh, don’t stop doing that…

  There have been nights I’ve wanted to suffocate myself with a pillow to escape listening to his sexcapades.

  It would be easy to have a few of my own, but I’m not that guy. I don’t do casual, and never have—not even in high school, or as a freshman in college when everything was new and exciting and girls were throwing themselves at me because I was on the wrestling team.

  At this school, wrestling is a pretty huge fucking deal, and I’m in the middle of it.

  My eyes scan the auditorium, the bleachers and seats, searching for someone I know isn’t there but looking anyway. Torturing myself like a fool.

  Why would she come?

  We’re not dating and she hates me.

  Still, a part of me—the sick, eternal optimist within—thinks she might be curious enough to show up, knowing I would never spot her in a crowd this size.

  I scan it, back and forth, up and down, before finally giving up.

  Zeke Daniels is standing with the rest of the coaches, head bent, listening intently to one of the assistants, nodding. I can hardly believe he
offered to help me—Zeke, who gives zero fucks about anything and anyone.

  Well. Except his blonde, petite fiancé.

  I’ve seen them together a few times with some preteen kid they haul around, though it’s not very often because Zeke and Violet have both graduated and moved on, doing whatever it is they do when he’s not here pitching in.

  Giving back.

  I hear his parents are loaded—have what some people call “fuck you” money—and he’s working for his dad now, though I’ve never asked him outright; it’s none of my business, and I would feel rude bringing it up.

  As if he senses someone watching him, he looks up and our eyes meet, his head now tipping into a knowing nod.

  You got this. Don’t fuck it up.

  I win my match by the skin of my teeth, despite almost getting my ass handed to me straight out of the gate because my head wasn’t in it. An elbow to the teeth and a few faceplants to the mat brought me back to reality real quick.

  I take a cold shower after Coach chews my ass out, shouting obscenities along with the countless mistakes I made that almost lost me the match, that lost the team points.

  All because I was focused on a girl with eyes as blue as the sky.

  “All right pissflap, here’s what we got.” Zeke stands next to my locker in the locker room, thumb scrolling along the screen as he looks down at his cell. “Violet said you’re going to need the roommate’s help to pull this off.”

  Hannah?

  Skylar’s pissed-off, combative roommate Hannah?

  No doubt she’s heard the entire saga and has my picture—along with JB’s—on the back of her bedroom door with darts in both our foreheads. There is no fucking way that girl is going to help me win back her best friend. Hannah would rather stick a fork in her own eye before she’d deign to help me hook up with her precious roommate.

  “Any other options?”

  He checks his phone. “Violet says no.”

  “You didn’t even ask!”

  He shrugs. “She said what she said. I don’t have to ask her twice.”

  A knot forms in my stomach that feels oddly like jealously. A relationship where there is no questioning the other person and their opinion is respected by default…

  It’s called trust.

  The irony is not lost on me.

  I don’t know how, but Zeke produces a cell phone number, holding out his phone so I can save it into mine.

  “What’s this?”

  “The roommate’s number, you fuckwit.”

  “Did you pull that out of your ass?”

  “No. Violet got it for me.”

  “How?”

  “Are you going to question everything I say?”

  “Yes?”

  His sigh is long, and loud, and he tips his head back and gawks at the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Violet got it from Jameson—Oz Osborne’s girlfriend—and Jameson got it from a friend who has a friend who works at the movie theater with Hannah.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “No. How the fuck would I know where Hannah works?” The perpetual dark cloud lingering over him darkens. “Violet went on Instagram and searched for Hannah then messaged her for her number. Jesus, it’s not hard to find people these days.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  “Give the roommate a call, explain the situation, get her on your side. Easy.” He socks me in the bicep. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  He looks skeptical, side-eyeing me. “Do you though? I think you’re going to screw this up.”

  “I said I’ve got it.”

  “Want me to help?”

  “Hell no!” The last thing I need is Zeke Daniels hanging around like the plague. Because where he goes, his best friend Oz goes, and where Oz goes, that idiot Rex Gunderson shows up—then before I know it, the whole wrestling team will know how I fucked up my dating life.

  Besides, I don’t need JB knowing about any of this until I’m good and ready to tell him. No sense in pissing him off prematurely. There’s a chance this entire scheme is going to blow up in my face and nothing will come of it, so why get his panties in a twist?

  “You know what chicks love? Kids. If you found yourself a kid, you’d have this in the bag.” He’s deep in thought, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “You have spare kids lying around, smartass?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Shit, that’s right. He spent a few years volunteering with a mentor program. The lanky little boy he used to hate spending time with he now treats like a younger brother—one he totes around everywhere.

  It’s so bizarre.

  But so is seeing him with his girlfriend, a girl you’d never match him with in a million years. If there was a photo next to the definition of opposites in the dictionary, theirs would be next to it.

  “You know what’s better than one kid?” He’s really warming to this kid idea. “Two kids. Maybe even a puppy.”

  “No.” I raise my arms and pull on a clean t-shirt, presenting him with my back.

  “Aren’t you taking a shower?”

  I shoot him the stink-eye. “What are you now, my mother?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  Not to be disrespectful, but, “Why are you still standing here?” He can go now. The looks he’s shooting me and the fact that he’s invading my personal space are making me cagey. Paranoid.

  Twitchy, even.

  “You’re like a car wreck,” the bastard is saying. “I can’t peel my eyes away—I have to know what happens.” He leans against the metal lockers, crossing his ankles and arms. Cocky. “I’m invested.”

  Invested? Jesus Christ with this guy. “I have it handled.”

  “Ehhhh…” Zeke isn’t convinced.

  I turn to face him, shucking the rest of my singlet, kicking it off and retrieving it from the ground. It will get tossed in the laundry in the corner of the locker room, cleaned, and returned for the next meet.

  Digging through my duffle, I find gray boxer briefs. Pull those on, all the while ignoring the looming shadow beside me.

  Why is he still here? Why does he care? This is a guy who doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything; suddenly he has a vested interest in my dating life?

  I’m in hell, that’s what’s happening—there can be no other explanation.

  Resigned, I ask, “What the hell am I supposed to say to Hannah? You know how girls are—Skylar probably told her every last detail, probably cried all night and—”

  “Ate all the ice cream?”

  “No. I was going to say plotted revenge.”

  “Oh yeah, that makes more sense. A scorned girl is ruthless, but her friends are worse.”

  “I didn’t scorn her.” Why is he so dramatic?

  “Right. You catfished her—that’s even worse.” When I go to argue, he holds his palm up to shush me. “Don’t say it. We both know that’s what you did, because you’re a dumbfuck and you weren’t thinking straight.”

  I’ve never been called a dumbfuck by anyone in my entire life. I’ve been called brainy, smart, too sharp for my own good… never a dumbfuck.

  “Fine. Whatever.” I root around for mesh shorts and step into them. “What am I supposed to say to Hannah?”

  “The good news is, when you call—don’t text her, because all she’ll do is chew your ass out then block you—she won’t know it’s you, so she’s going to answer her phone.”

  True.

  “Maybe say some shit like, ‘Wait! Before you hang up…’ so she doesn’t hang up.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He’s not impressed with my dismissal of his suggestion. “You should be writing this down.”

  “That one sentence?” I feel around my upper torso like I’m searching for a writing utensil. “Gee, looks like I don’t have a pen.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.” First I’m a dumbfuck, now I’m a smartass.

  “Hold up. Quick question: do you think I sh
ould tell JB about this?”

  “Are you out of your mind? First of all, he’s the one who got you into this mess. Secondly, all’s fair in love and war, and he’s a moron. He’s going to cockblock you left and right and three ways from Sunday and still not want that Sky whatever-her-name-is. So forget it. This is no longer his fucking business—completely out of his jurisdiction.” He’s giving me a hard glare. “Any other stupid questions?”

  “Nope.” Just that one.

  “Good. Now as I was saying—once you have Hannah’s attention, play up the fact that you’ve never done anything this stupid before.”

  Which is true.

  “And you’re a smart dude who made a really stupid mistake.”

  Also true.

  “And that if she helps you out, you swear you’ll never do anything this fucking stupid again, and if you do, she’s welcome to chop your nuts off with whatever dull object she can find.”

  “That’s my only option? Her chopping my nuts off?”

  His brows rise. “Stop talking. I’m on a roll here.”

  God he’s an asshole.

  He’s also gone silent, brows furrowed, forehead creasing. “Fuck. I lost my train of thought.” The glare he gives me could shrivel anyone’s nuts by four sizes.

  “I’m sorry!” I blurt out, slightly traumatized by the exchange to begin with. This is so weird, getting advice from him. Zeke has barely spoken ten words to me in the three years I’ve been on the team, and suddenly, he’s playing matchmaker.

  “I guess start with Hannah. If that doesn’t work, give up, because dude—don’t be a stalker.” His favorite thing to do is look people up and down, and he does it to me, again. “If I find out you’re creeping on her, I’ll sock you in the balls.”

  I cup a hand over my scrotum. “I don’t want you socking my balls.”

  He stares at me like I’m mental, lip curled on one end. “No one wants to be socked in the balls, dipshit.”

  Okay then.

  Skylar

  “Sky, can I talk to you for a minute?” Hannah scrapes her fingernails on my doorframe as a courtesy—the action makes my skin crawl—then enters without waiting for a reply.

  It’s late, and a Thursday, so we’re both in our pajamas, but it’s clear only one of us has been studying while the other has been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling for the past thirty minutes.