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

by Sara Ney

  That’d be me.

  I roll toward the wall, giving her a wide berth to sit on the edge of my mattress, the weight of her body sinking down, her palm resting on the swell of my hip as she bounces up and down a few times.

  She gives me a nudge, eyes soft behind her black framed computer glasses, which she pushes atop her head so she can see straight. “Hey.”

  “Hey. What’s up?” It’s nice that she popped in for a visit, but I’m not sure I’m done wallowing in my own misery yet.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “Pfft. Me? No.” A little, but I won’t admit it. Crying over a guy who lied, one I wasn’t even officially dating, one I barely know?

  Lame. Pathetic.

  Hannah doesn’t contradict me, just gives me a look that says When you’re ready, we can talk about it, and I’m grateful for that. Still, there is a part of me that does want her to push the Abe issue, because I do want to talk about it. About Abe, and this fucked-up situation. A part of me wants to give him another chance—wants to talk to him—but that part of me won’t admit it.

  I need permission. Affirmation that I’m not losing my mind.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Hannah begins, crossing her legs and bobbing one idly. “Remember that time in high school when Kevin Rogers paid Lyle Stevens five bucks to write me love letters?”

  “Who doesn’t remember Kevin Rogers?” He was always trying to convince people he was related to country music legend Kenny Rogers, claimed his parents changed his first name to Kevin only so there would be no confusion. Sadly, no one confused Kevin Rogers with Kenny—not even when he’d bring his acoustic guitars to parties and sing “The Gambler”.

  Kevin simply could not carry a tune.

  “Remember when we found out about the whole thing?”

  “Yes. You were so mad you made your dad start a bonfire so we could roast those letters.” They were written on spiral notebook paper, folded into triangles, and slipped into Hannah’s locker every morning. She would pore over them, every single one, smitten.

  Until Lyle spilled the beans, professing his own true love for Hannah, hanging Kevin out to dry. It was the biggest scandal Mount Pleasant High School had seen in years.

  “Who were you more pissed off at? Kevin or Lyle?” I ask.

  “Both, at first. But then I went back and reread some of those letters—I never told you this, but I saved a few from the fire pit of revenge—and they were so sweet. I still have them, you know.” She tilts her head to the side in thought. “I should look Lyle up, see what he’s doing these days…”

  “Oh god. Do not look him up.” Hannah is such a creeper sometimes.

  “I forgave him you know.”

  “You did? How did I not know that?”

  “Because I knew you were mad at him, too. Because I’d been so…not mad. I was embarrassed.”

  Embarrassed.

  She goes on. “Is that part of the reason you’re not talking to Abe? You’re more humiliated than angry?”

  I haven’t spun it that way.

  “Why are you bringing this up?” My best friend was right alongside me that night when I got home, rallying, raging, and incensed on my behalf. Swore she’d tear him a new asshole. I quote: “I’m going to find that sorry SOB, and when I do, I’m gonna…I’m gonna… Well. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll think of something. He better watch out!”

  She was so loud, the neighbors called the apartment complex management to complain.

  “The whole thing made me feel really ridiculous.”

  “Which part?”

  My face scrunches. “The part where I caught him in a lie, Hannah! The part where his phone was buzzing and I sat there looking at the stupid LoveU app blowing up his phone! That part!”

  “So…is that the only reason you’re not talking to him?”

  Okay—now I’m confused. I contort my body so I’m sitting, looking her straight in the eye. “What is this about? Hannah. What did you do?”

  Shrug. “Nothing.”

  “Then what’s with all the questions? Did you auction me off or something? Put my face up all over campus like those wrestlers did last year to get their buddy a pity date?” My bestie is loyal, but she also wants to see me happy. “Does your Kevin Rogers story have anything to do with me?”

  “Yes. They’re eerily similar, and I forgave Lyle. He thought he was doing his friend a favor—and he ended up being a really good kisser.”

  “Hannah! What the fuck?”

  Another shrug. “What! He felt so guilty! He was so sweet.”

  “How long were you sneaking around?”

  “I don’t know—two or three months? Until Rick Roth asked me to the spring fling and lured me to go with his sweet, sweet ride.”

  She is unbelievable. “His Honda Civic?”

  “No, his dad’s Tahoe. We made out like crazy in the back seat. And other stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Now she’s got me wondering; she would have told me if she banged Rick Roth in the back seat of his dad’s SUV, wouldn’t she?

  “Not butt stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Good lord. “Why would I think that! I never said anything about butt stuff.”

  Hannah pulls a face. “When someone says the word stuff, my brain immediately goes to butt.” She doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Butt stuff. Can’t help it.”

  “Did you have sex with Rick and not tell me about it?”

  “No, but I let him touch my lady business.”

  Yeah, that’s right—I do remember her mentioning how terrible he was, all fingers and not enough tongue. Poor guy must not have studied up hard enough. It was so bad, she refused to go out with him again.

  “I should have gone to the dance with Lyle. He went with Mindy Kissler and she said he gave her two orgasms.”

  “But he was in love with you!”

  “You can’t blame the guy for moving on after I gave him the green weenie, Skylar. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Um. No one?”

  “Hannah.”

  “Ugh, fine—it was that loser JB. When we were at the restaurant, at the bar, he was hitting on me pretty hard. I wanted to clock him, but I fought the urge.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me!”

  “I didn’t think I had to! We both hated the guy, and I knew you weren’t going to see him again, so why add salt to the wound?”

  “There is no wound. The only hurt I feel is—” I stop myself from saying it, though we both know what was about to come out of my mouth. The only hurt I feel is from Abe lying to me.

  Because I like him.

  Liked. Past tense.

  “But now that you mention it…” Hannah is all soft whispers and sweet talking.

  “I wasn’t mentioning it.”

  “Regardless. I just have one thing to say, one little nuggy of advice.”

  Nuggy? Instead of nugget? Great, now she’s abbreviating everyday words to make them cute.

  “Let’s say Abe did fall for you—what then?”

  “Hannah. He lied.”

  “Did he though?”

  Is she for real? “Uh—yes.”

  “But the account wasn’t his, and he never claimed it was.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, he would go in, swipe on people, have a quick chat with them, turn the chat over to JB, and bail until the date was done. You were the one and only person he actually had conversations with. The only one.”

  Wait. What? “How the hell do you know all this?”

  There is no way Jack Bartlett told her this information; on our date, he was still pretending we knew each other, albeit extremely poorly.

  “Hannah. Did Abe contact you?”

  She avoids my glare, picking at the cuticle on her right hand.

  “Hannah! Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me Abe didn’t contact you!”r />
  She won’t turn her head.

  “Oh my god, I’m going to kill you.” This is beyond…I don’t know what, but it is! It’s beyond! “He got to you, didn’t he? You’re on his side now!”

  Finally, she spins her body. “I am on the side of true love!”

  Oh.

  My. God.

  I roll my eyes; it’s the only possible response, really. “Abe Davis is hardly my true love.”

  “He could be! How do you know if you don’t give him a chance?”

  I don’t believe this. “Oh my god, what did he say to you? Is he paying you? Blackmailing you?”

  “Give me some credit here, would ya? I know sincerity when I hear it, and I heard it in that boy’s voice.”

  Fine.

  I might be a skosh curious. Just a smidge.

  Like, this much.

  “All right. What…” I clear my throat, determined not to sound eager. “Start from the beginning.”

  Hannah clears her throat too, winding up for a good storytelling. “It was a dark and stormy night…” She raises her arms and wiggles her fingers, like she’s about to tell a good haunted house story.

  Did I mention she drives me insane sometimes?

  “I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you say that all the time.” My roommate gets comfortable on the bed, leaning back, pinning a more serious expression to her face. “Monday I get a call from an unknown number. Normally I’d never answer, but I was waiting for my doctor to call with some lab results, so I answered it.” Dramatic pause. “It wasn’t my doctor.”

  Lab results? She’s so full of shit.

  I flop to my back, knowing I’m in for the long haul. She’s going to drag this story out and torture me with it.

  “The first thing Abe said to me was ‘Don’t hang up,’ real hurried like, which was a weird thing to say because I had no idea who was calling at that point.” Hannah rolls her eyes. “And obviously the first thing I wanted to do was hang up. Haha. But…I didn’t.”

  Confession: I am hanging on her every word and she damn well knows it.

  “The second thing he said after I agreed to hear him out was ‘The second I saw Skylar, it was like a punch to the gut. I knew I wasn’t going to make it out the other side without some collateral damage.’”

  I hold in a bated breath.

  Exhale. “What’s the third thing he said?”

  Hannah pretends to think on it. “The third thing wassss…the third thing…hmmm.” That index finger with the bright blue nail taps the end of her chin.

  What. A. Freaking. Brat. “Hannah. I’m going to kill you.”

  “All right, all right. Calm down. I’m thinking.” She pauses a few moments. “Oh, now I remember. The third thing he said was something like, ‘I know you both probably hate me, and I’m not expecting you to help me—but I’m hoping you will. All I want is to talk to her. In person would be great, but I’ll settle for anything at this point.’” I get another cursory glance. “He’s desperate.”

  I bet he is.

  “He’s desperate for you.”

  “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

  “I don’t know, Sky—this one might be worth a little headache over. He sounded miserable.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Maybe not yet, but he wants to. And any guy who fights for a little bit of your time? They don’t come around often—not in this lifetime, and not on a college campus.”

  She’s right. How many men in their twenties, in this day and age, care about someone other than themselves? On a college campus, where Abe Davis could date anyone? Sleep with a different girl every night of the week?

  And he wants me.

  He even put himself at the mercy of Hannah Stark, the biggest female sasshole in Iowa, and lived to tell the tale.

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  Friday? “Where?”

  “Aisle four at the used bookstore downtown.”

  “He wants to meet me at the used bookstore?”

  Hannah nods. “I think it’s cute! And quiet. And it’s Friday, so you’re hardly likely to bump into anyone you know.”

  “Right. ’Cause no one goes to the bookstore on a Friday!”

  “Skylar, you need a place where you can talk. It’s perfect—don’t be a brat.”

  As I’m quietly debating my options, Hannah’s voice breaks in, low but firm. A tone meant to push me out of my comfort zone for my own good. “I think he’s one of the good ones, Sky.”

  I trust Hannah. She looks out for me; always has, always will. I’m putting my faith in her and trusting her now.

  I can’t get my heart broken by Abe Davis twice.

  I won’t allow it.

  But I know she won’t allow it, either.

  “Okay. Tell him I’ll go.”

  “Perfect. Meet him in aisle four.”

  Skylar

  Aisle four, aisle four… where on earth is aisle four?

  I walk slowly through Nebbles Secondhand Book Bazaar, counting steps much like I would if I was walking to my death. Or to a date I was dreading because I was looking forward to it so much.

  I took special pains to get ready, Hannah doing my hair and makeup so it looks as if no one did my hair and makeup, the jeans and blouse casual but pretty. Flat shoes. Two bracelets. Hoop earrings.

  The bracelets jingle, clanking together as I walk, peering my head around each corner, knowing when I finally reach aisle four and spot Abe, I’ll be taken aback—just like a jack-in-the-box. You know it’s coming, but you’re never quite prepared.

  I pass the self-help section, then architecture. Books are piled on the floor at every end cap, some as high as the low ceiling.

  The place is mostly empty, except for two guys thumbing through records near the entrance and an older gentleman in the history section.

  Non-fiction.

  Fiction.

  Aisle four.

  Romance.

  He has his back to me, fingers pushing in a thick paperback novel so it’s lined up with the rest, and I watch as he levels out a few more with the side of his palm so they’re even.

  Anal much?

  “Hey.” I don’t know what else to say, or how to greet him.

  Abe spins around, surprised.

  I’m fifteen minutes early, but then again—so is he.

  “Hi.” He’s shocked I actually showed up; it’s there, written on his face. His hungry eyes are drinking me in, head to toe, expression schooled but communicative.

  He’s relieved. Excited.

  Blushing.

  “You look gorgeous.” I’m not sure if he meant to blurt that out, but the words warm my insides a little, and I immediately thaw.

  Dammit, that’s not good. I am a fortress of steel! Here to hear him out and nothing more.

  Lies, lies, everyone tells them…

  “I know.” I sound so bratty, but I’m glad he thinks I look gorgeous. I wanted him to—I want him to know what he’ll miss out on if he ever lies to me again.

  If I’m being honest, I might be missing out, too. Abe gets a perusal of his own as I skim over his jeans and the blue plaid, flannel shirt he has tucked into them. Tan leather belt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit, I’m a sucker for arm porn, and Abe does it well—too well. Those forearms of his are tan and toned and making my mouth water, just a lil bit.

  I can smell him from here; the aftershave and shampoo are fresh and masculine, his hair finger-combed and slightly damp. Dark. Thick.

  “Want to sit?”

  “Where? The floor?”

  Abe looks chagrined, but it passes quickly. “I know it’s the floor, but…it’s clean.”

  “No, this is fine. The floor works.”

  I lower myself to sit, legs stretched out across
the aisle, and we’re facing one another—my back to one shelf of paperback romance novels, his back to the one directly across from me.

  Abe grabs a paper bag that is lying nearby, folding over its top, setting it aside so it’s almost behind his back.

  “What’s that?”

  “Apple slices and crackers. And…two protein bars.”

  I can feel my brows shoot up. “You brought snacks?”

  “I know it’s eight, and we both probably ate, but I thought, what the hell. Just in case.”

  It’s almost like a picnic, on a much smaller scale. Thoughtful. Definitely something a sweet boyfriend would do if I had a boyfriend who did sweet things.

  Which I don’t.

  “Thanks for showing up.”

  I hesitate, pondering the level of brutal honesty I want to dish out then deciding he can take it. He deserves it. “I wasn’t going to come. I wanted to stand you up.”

  “Why didn’t you?” His question is measured, tone careful.

  I roll my eyes. “Hannah insisted on driving me.”

  Abe nods with a smile. “She knew you were a flight risk.”

  “She did. She knows me all too well, I’m afraid.” I can barely look him in the eyes; he’s so handsome and my heart is beating so fast right now. My lashes flutter as I force my gaze to his face. “What did you say to her? One second she wants to gouge your eyes out with a dull spork then the next she’s bouncing on my bed singing your praises. It was vomit-inducing.”

  He laughs again, white teeth a little crooked on the bottom.

  Adorable.

  “I don’t know…I just told her the truth.”

  “Hmm. Well, it worked, because here I am.”

  I didn’t even put up a fight, not really; my heart was never in it.

  Glancing at him again, my stomach flutters, ripples floating to the base of my throat—who could stay mad at that face? Abe Davis is a teenage dream, and now he’s mine, too.

  “You already know what I’m going to say about what happened,” he begins. “Do you want to talk about it again?”

  Not really.

  Yes.

  “I’m tempted to say yes, but…I don’t suppose it would serve any purpose.” I give myself a mental pat on the back for sounding so adultlike and rational. I’m impressed with myself, and I hope he’s impressed with me, too.