How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  My knee starts to bounce, on edge.

  I look down at my laptop, the curser blinking in the same spot it’s been in since Jameson waltzed into the library, flippantly strolling past me like I don’t exist and plopping down nine tables away.

  Yes, nine.

  I counted.

  Dragging the curser around my screen, I tear my gaze away long enough to tap out several sentences of my paper, the small black triangle blinking back at me, waiting for a new command. Instead, the calloused pad of my index finger traces a circle around the center mouse pad, uselessly.

  My eyes flick back to Jameson, whose slim shoulders are now hunched over an open textbook, face resting in her palms as she reads, the pair of black glasses now perched on her nose.

  Huh. Cute.

  I count to four before my knee begins its steady, rhythmic bouncing and firmly place my palm there, pressing down to curtail it.

  Fuck.

  Fuck it.

  I snap my laptop closed, grab the cord and case, and spin my ball cap so it’s backward. Stand up. Weave my way through the labyrinth of desks, tables, and chairs.

  Standing at the foot of Jameson’s table, I clear my throat when she barely raises her head to acknowledge me.

  “I’m not a tutor, so don’t bother,” she drones.

  “Ha ha. Do you use that line on everyone?”

  Those damn pearls around her neck glow when she stops writing long enough to cast a glance up at me. A smile tips her lips. “Oh, it’s you. Don Juan.”

  Smiling—always a good sign.

  “Ouch. Careful—my ego is so fragile you might break it.” I set my books, bag, and other shit on her table, pulling out the seat opposite her.

  A pfft escapes her lips. “Fragile? Not likely.”

  “Did I say fragile? I meant pompous and windbaggy.”

  “Better.” She exaggerates a sigh, fake glaring down at the stack of books I just landed on her desk. “Ugh, what is with you? I didn’t invite you to sit down.”

  Disregarding her lighthearted grimace, I unwind my power cord, plug it into the outlet on the base of the lamp, and give her a low chuckle. “You look like you could use some company.”

  She volleys back with a low chuckle of her own. “I do not look like I want company. You are such a liar.”

  “Maybe. But you have to admit, the library is becoming our special spot.” I pull my lip between my teeth, bite down flirtatiously, and give her a mischievous grin. Instead of blushing like I expect her to—like they all do—she rolls her blue eyes and inclines her neck, resuming her studies.

  She quickly peeks at me. “Can you do me a favor and try not to make noise? I have a chem test in the morning that promises to be brutal.”

  “Quiet I can do, especially with a gag in my mouth.” I wiggle my brows, even though she’s dead set on ignoring me.

  Her pen stops. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You could gag me and find out for yourself.”

  The silence stretches. Then, “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I open my laptop, connect to the university’s Wi-Fi, and resume research for a business communication logistics paper I’ve busted my left nut over. It’s due on Monday, which gives me four days.

  I search a notorious sexual harassment lawsuit from 1997—Johnson v. Olastaire, a case filed by a corporation against one of its own managers—and create notations in the margins of my document.

  Opening Excel, I generate a spreadsheet with the compiled information, compare the case with a recent Supreme Court ruling, and set my mouth into a grim line at the article in front of me: sexual assault in a corporate workplace whose PR machine spun the victim into the guilty party.

  The whole thing makes me ill and hits a little too close to home, so close it’s the reason I’ve declared human resources as a major.

  My older sister Kayla.

  Thirty-two, brilliant, and beautiful, Kayla was fresh out of grad school when she became the victim of workplace sexual harassment. A lawyer working her way up in a small boutique firm, she spent countless nights pouring over cases. Endless hours with the paralegals. Never-ending early mornings.

  Then, one early evening when she was alone, researching a case, she was assaulted in her office by one of the partners. High powered with clout, he made Kayla the guilty party and human resources turned a blind eye.

  The whole thing went public. The media in our hometown painted her as a young, gorgeous corporate climber, censuring her with no ethics and too much ambition.

  It ruined the thrill of her first job, future career prospects, earning potential—and her self-worth.

  And she was the one getting her ass slapped by her dickhead of a boss. Kayla might have won the court case, but she hasn’t been the same since.

  It’s sickening.

  The whole thing with my sister makes me ill, so I forge on, diligently copying notes.

  Copy, paste. Notation. Copy, paste, notation.

  Repeat.

  Eventually, I come up for air, lifting my head and reaching for my water bottle. Lift the lid and chug down a thirst-quenching gulp.

  Jameson is studying me quizzically. The hands that were furiously pounding away at those laptop keys now hover above her keyboard at a standstill, her pouty mouth twisted thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  She gives her head a little shake, braided hair swaying. “Nothing.” Biting down on her lower lip, she picks up a highlighter and drags it across her textbook, then chews on the end of it.

  “Bullshit. You were giving me a look.”

  Her hands splay. “Fine. Yes, I was giving you a look. You’ve managed to surprise me by actually doing homework.”

  I scoff. “I told you the other day—I’m carrying a three point seven.”

  “Yes, but…” The words hang in the air between us. With a shrug, she grins. “I didn’t actually believe you.”

  “I have a scholarship. I can’t afford to piss it away.”

  “Is that why you agreed to that stupid bet with your friends the other day? For the money?”

  “Yup, that’s why I agreed to that stupid bet. Every little bit helps, yeah?”

  Jameson cocks her head to the side and studies me for a second.

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to grill me?”

  She shakes her head. “No. If you had something more to say, you’d say it.” Her head dips and she resumes her homework.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” I blurt out.

  She sighs. “Doing what?”

  “Ignoring me.” Shit, I sound like I’m whining.

  “Look,” she says, patiently resting her hands on the table to look me in the eye. “I’m sure you’re a real ladies’ man and everyone finds you very charming.” Her lips purse.

  A smile cracks my lips. “But you don’t?”

  “Sorry.” Her head shakes back and forth. “I don’t.”

  I lean against the wooden chair, tipping it to balance on the back legs. Rocking it back and forth, I ask, “And you don’t think a guy like me is going to consider that a challenge?”

  “A ‘guy like you’?”

  “Yeah, you know: stubborn, competitive…handsome.”

  With a laugh, she gives her head another shake. “I can’t help not finding you charming—you’re way too arrogant—so forgive me for not ripping my clothes off and letting you ravish me.”

  “Ravish you.” I say it with wonder. “See, that right there fills my head with so many fantastic erotic visuals.”

  A swipe of the highlighter followed by an undignified hmph is her only reply.

  “Ravish. Ravish. You shouldn’t have said that because now I consider you a challenge.”

  “Be my guest.” Jameson laughs again, a soft, low chuckle that sends a damn shiver up my spine. “What you do with that information is not my problem.”

  My eyes skim the top half of her body. Colla
rbone, graceful neck. Breasts.

  “Want to bet?”

  “God no.” She laughs. “Is this your way of trying to get your two hundred and fifty dollars back?” She grabs her pencil and wields it like a tiny sword in my direction. “Which you still haven’t paid me, by the way.”

  “We agreed I’d pay you when they pay me, and I will, Scout’s honor.”

  “Don’t you have to have been a Boy Scout to make those sorts of promises?”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “But you like it.”

  An eye roll and a sigh. “You said you weren’t going to make noise.”

  “I know, but I have to know what your deal is.”

  “My deal?”

  “Yeah, you know—what’s your story? Do you come here to study often? Do you ignore everyone, or just me? Why are you wearing that necklace?”

  Her laugh is low and entertained. “Can we save that line of questioning for another day? I have a feeling if I start answering, I’m never getting anything done.”

  Dammit, she’s right.

  Now I’m the one sighing. “Fine.”

  “Do your homework, Oswald.”

  Sebastian

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  I look up from editing the text on the screen of my laptop, surprised to see Jameson Clark standing at the foot of my study table with a sly grin. Winter hat pulled down over her hair that hangs in one long chestnut braid over her breast. Jacket in one hand, laptop in the other, her pink cheeks are flushed.

  I smile at the sight of those little amber freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. They’re sweet.

  I want to lick them.

  “You sure do come to the library a lot,” I tease. “Here, sit.”

  My foot pushes out the chair opposite me and she pulls it the rest of the way out before hesitating, laptop poised on the corner of the table.

  She drapes her jacket on the chair before taking a seat. “I could say the same about you. You seem to be here as often as I am.”

  “True, but you know—got that scholarship.” I wink at her and she goes through the ritual of laying out her school supplies: pens, notebooks, textbooks, laptop.

  Neon highlighter.

  Her blue eyes soften. “I still can’t get over the fact that you actually study.”

  “I still can’t get over the fact that you find me resistible.”

  “Do your homework, Oswald.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Because that’s your name?” She gives me a duh look.

  “No. It’s not.”

  Genuinely perplexed, her brows furrow. “It’s not?”

  “Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

  “Um, yes?”

  I stare at her. “Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

  “Do you hear an echo?”

  I ignore her teasing. “You’re telling me you haven’t googled me yet?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Knock it off.” I give my head a mental shake, marveling at this information. “So let me get this straight—you have no idea who I am.”

  She throws her pencil down on the wooden table and crosses her arms. “I have a feeling you’re just dying to enlighten me.”

  Damn right I am! “Damn right I am!”

  Jameson leans back in her chair with a patronizing expression. “Fine. Go ahead. I’m all ears, hanging on your every word, your majesty.”

  Shit. Her blatant sarcasm kind of took the wind out of my sail. “Oz. As in Osborne.”

  Jameson stares blankly before scrunching up her cute freckled nose. “Your first name is Osborne? Crap. That wasn’t even on my radar as a possibility.”

  “No.” Impatient, my leg begins to bounce under the table. “My last name is Osborne.”

  Her hands go in the air in surrender. “Yikes, don’t get all offended. How the hell was I supposed to know?”

  Is she fucking serious?

  “You know what? Never mind.” I reach over the side of the table, dig into my backpack, and whip out a textbook. Cracking it open, I do my best to ignore her.

  “Come on, don’t be a baby. I told you, I didn’t know.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “Can I still call you Oswald? I’m sad now knowing it’s not your real name.”

  Agitated, I turn to face her, slamming the book closed with a satisfying thud. “Do I look like an Oswald to you?”

  She squints, sizing me up. “Hmmm, not really, now you mention it. Now that I’m taking a good look at you, you’re more of a Blake. Or a Richard.”

  “Okay, now you’re fucking with me.”

  “Me?” She points a finger at her chest. “Noooo.”

  We both start laughing then, the clear sound of her lighthearted giggle doing bizarre shit to my stomach and heart that I can’t label—weird, fucked up fluttering and shit.

  Annoying.

  When we finally stop snickering, she leans in across the table and quietly asks, “So what’s your name?”

  “I just told you—it’s Oz.”

  “No.” Her head gives a little shake. “Your real name. It’s not like I can’t google it if I was feeling motivated, which I’m not.” She says the last part with a roll of her eyes. “What did your parents name you?”

  For a few quiet heartbeats, I consider not telling her, making her work for it. But then—

  “Sebastian.”

  “Your name is Sebastian?”

  “Yup.” I let the P sound pop.

  Jameson studies me then, harder than anyone’s ever studied me before, blue eyes searching the rigid lines of my face. The strong jawline. The faded bruise under my left eye from being locked in a chokehold full of elbow.

  I feel every stroke of her examination, as if her smooth fingertips are truly caressing my skin.

  “Sebastian,” she repeats quietly to herself, testing the name. She repeats it several more times, each pronunciation with a different inflection. “Sebastian…Sebastian. Hmm. Who would have thought?”

  “I’d rather be called Oswald.”

  “No you wouldn’t.” Her whisper carries across the table.

  My chin rests in my palm, elbow propped on the table. “You’re right. That name sucks donkey balls.”

  Jameson bites down on her lower lip, her gaze suddenly shy as she glances down at the books opened in front of me on the table. Her throat clears. “We’re not getting any work done.”

  “True.” My finger traces the mouse pad in unhurried circles as she begins drumming her fingertips on the table.

  “I should probably go.”

  “Stay. Let’s talk for a few more minutes. No harm in that, yeah?”

  She seems to mull this over, her teeth still pressed into her bottom lip. “Okay. We’ll talk. What do you want to know about me?”

  “What’s the deal with your roommate and mine?”

  Jameson’s surprised expression is fleeting. “I think they’re just friends with benefits. Why?”

  “She should stay away from him. He’s a whore.”

  Jameson laughs. Head thrown back, the cheerful sound fills the room. “That’s what they say about you.”

  “Someone said I was a whore? Who?”

  “Everyone. After they saw us talking at the party, my friends gave me quite an earful.”

  I lean back in the chair and it squeaks when I tip it back on its legs. “Any good gossip?”

  She mimics my posture and balances herself across from me. “Well, let me think here.” The legs hit the ground again and she scratches her chin. “Allison heard you having sex at the party this past weekend and said the door was rattling. So that was interesting news.”

  I pretend to consider this. “Yup, can’t lie about that one. I railed that door and the redhead almost off their hinges. Got any others?”

  “You date multiple people at once.”

  “False. I don’t date anyone. Ever.”<
br />
  Jameson’s face is an impassive mask. “Hayley told me you broke up with your last girlfriend over Twitter.”

  A grimace twists my mouth into a frown. “Oh, Hayley told you, did she? Didn’t your mother teach you not to listen to rumors?”

  “Yes, but is it true?”

  “Yes, but in my defense, she wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a pity fuck who turned into a clinger.”

  “A Twitter breakup?” This time Jameson winces. “That’s bad.”

  “Sorry, but it’s the truth. It was the only way to get rid of her. Trust me, I did her a favor.”

  “How is that doing her a favor? She was probably humiliated!” Then, “Can I ask what the tweet said?”

  I chuckle. “Why don’t you just go on Twitter and look for yourself.”

  Those fascinating eyes, which have been judging me for the past few minutes, narrow into bright blue slits as she drags her phone across the table, flips it over, and unlocks the screen.

  Gives it a few taps.

  “What name am I looking for?”

  “OneTapUofI. All one word.”

  Type, type, type.

  Narrowed eyes widen, dark eyebrows shoot up. Her pert mouth falls open a fraction in horror when she finds it. “This is terrible! You are so crude.”

  I chuckle again. “Read it out loud so I can get a good laugh.”

  “No!”

  “Oh come on, Jim! She had it coming.”

  “No! You called her a troll—that is so uncalled for.” She glances down at the screen of her phone. “This whole tweet is terrible.”

  “Careful, you’re repeating yourself.”

  “Oh shut up, you—”

  “Asshole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dickhead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Douchebag?”

  She titters. “You said it, not me.”

  “No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman, Jim.” Casually I regard her from across the table. “Haven’t you ever done anything you’ve regretted?”

  She pretends to consider the question. “You mean like letting a stranger convince me to kiss him in public?”

  “Ha ha. But yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I mean.”

  This time Jameson does think about it, humming to herself as she deliberates on a reply. She inhales, drawing in a deep breath, and says with a straight face, “Once I ate at White Castle. Does that count as a regret?”