How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  She’s probably right because why the fuck am I still talking about this shit?

  I grab one of Sydney’s mozzarella sticks, dip it in marinara sauce, and swallow it whole. “I just think it’s weird. She looks like a fucking kindergarten teacher.”

  My date shrugs. “She gets that a lot, but that’s not how she is. Trust me.”

  Jameson

  “Well that was the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.” Sydney walks in the door of our apartment, throwing her purse on the end of the couch I’m sitting on. “If you can call it that.”

  I sit up straighter, my plaid flannel pajama bottoms bunched up around my knees. A piece of red licorice rope hangs out the corner of my mouth as I close my laptop, set it on the coffee table, and lean back into the plush couch cushions.

  Trying to appear casual, I slowly drawl out, “What do you mean?”

  Sid huffs, banging a few cabinets open and rummaging through them until she finds a clean cup. “He spent the entire time grilling me about you.”

  What? “Shut up.”

  “For real. The entire time. At first I thought it was cute, you know? I thought he was asking out of polite interest, but then it got really annoying.”

  “Sydney, stop it. That’s not funny.”

  “I wish I was kidding,” she says as she fills her cup with water then takes a few sips. “Honest to god, James, that guy is so hot. Like, I could see his hard nipples through his shirt. And his tattoos? Gawd, so hot, but not gonna lie—he killed my lady boner by bringing your name up every two seconds.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She levels me with a stare. “Gee, I wonder.”

  Rolling my eyes, I follow her when she heads toward the bathroom, padding behind her with bare feet. “I mean, not that I care, but what was he asking? Be more specific.”

  Sydney puts down the toilet seat cover and invites me to sit. “He wanted to know why you study so much, why you’re so serious, do you go anywhere for fun besides the library.”

  Shuffling past her into the tiny room, I plop down on the toilet, emit an indignant hmph, and cross my arms as she drones on.

  “I know, right? And here’s the crazy part: he was hinting about asking me out again, which I found super bizarre ’cause he didn’t seem to give a crap about anything I was saying.”

  “Would you have said yes if he’d asked?”

  Say no, say no.

  Sydney’s face contorts with an Are you nuts look before shifting her focus into the mirror. “Um, yeah. I mean, I’m not stupid. It’s Oz freaking Osborne. He’s so freaking hot. I swear, I wanted to pet him. Oh my gawd, James, his tattoos got me so turned on—I could have climbed into his lap. My panties are so wet right now.”

  Tattoos. Wet. Hot.

  “Right,” I deadpan. “Hot.”

  And wet.

  My roommate pulls out a cotton ball, gets it wet, and begins taking off her mascara. She turns to me with one eye open. “What is with you? You’re acting strange.”

  “Me? No I’m not!”

  But I am—I totally am.

  “He asked for your number,” Sydney says offhandedly before running the water and bending to splash it on her face. “Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t already have it, the way you two carry on.”

  “He asked for my phone number?”

  My roommate laughs. “Yes Jameson, your phone number.”

  “Why would he want my number?” I muse, sounding mystified. “That’s so weird.”

  “Uh, no it’s not.” Blindly, she fumbles for a towel, her voice muffled when she says, “I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think…”

  I hold my breath. “Think what?”

  “I’d think there was something going on between the two of you besides being study buddies.” She says it warily, as if she’s afraid of what I’ll say next, afraid I might tell her to stay away from him.

  “Pfft, please. That’s ridiculous,” I object. “I’ve seen him in the library maybe five times—that’s it.”

  “I’m not so sure-er!” she singsongs. Then, lowering her voice, she teases, “What goes on between the two of you in that library, Jameson Victoria Clark?”

  “Nothing!” I protest loudly.

  Maybe too loudly, because my roommate’s smile widens into a full-out grin.

  “Hmmm.” Her green eyes scan my ribbed navy tank top and plaid pajama pants. Sid taps a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Come to think of it, he did seem to fixate on your wardrobe. He brought up your cardigans twice. I told him all about your cardigan collection.”

  “Shut up Sydney!” I grab a damp washcloth from the shower and lob it at her. “I do not have a cardigan collection, brat!”

  Just one of every color in the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue… Purple. Pink. White, black, and gray.

  And a few patterned ones.

  But big deal—who doesn’t?

  “But you kind of do. Don’t bother denying it,” she teases, calling off the colors in my closet. “Red, pink, yellow, green.”

  I stick my tongue out. “I hate you sometimes.”

  “No you don’t.” Sydney goes back to removing her makeup. “So you don’t care if he asks me out again?”

  “What? Please. No. Why would I? It’s not like I’m going to date him. Haha. No. Be my guest—he’s just some guy I study with at the library.”

  Seriously, I need to stop talking.

  Fiddling with a container of moisturizer, not turning to meet my eyes, she dubiously nods. “All right, if you say so. But…you know, if you change your mind, say something, okay? I don’t want it to be weird if Oz and I start dating.”

  “Oz Osborne dating?” I roll my eyes but she doesn’t see me. “Okay Sydney. Good one.”

  This time she does turn to face me, her brows furrowed. Hurt. “Why would you say it like that?”

  “Please. The guy screws everyone—I saw him getting a hand-job at a party in the hallway. It’s probably a good idea to stay away from a guy like that, no matter how good looking he is.”

  “First of all, there is no way he screws everyone. Every athlete has a reputation simply by being an athlete; they’re not all pigs. Oz could be guilty by association. And secondly, why wouldn’t I want to date him? It’s Oz Osborne. If he asks me out, I’d be a fool to say no; do I look like a fool to you?”

  No, dammit. She doesn’t.

  She’s not.

  I cross my arms stubbornly. “Fine. Just don’t let him lead you on—no doubt he’s run out of room on his bedpost for notches.”

  She levels me with a stare. “You don’t honestly believe that garbage, do you?”

  Well, no. I don’t. So why the hell did I say it?

  My sigh is palpable. “No. But I also don’t think you should get involved with him.”

  Sydney considers this for a few moments, swiping a hand through her long blonde hair. “James, it’s a few dates, nothing more. I’m not going to marry the guy.”

  Her face turns a suspicious shade of pink—one she tries to hide behind a white terrycloth towel.

  “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And make sure you wear a condom.”

  She giggles prettily. “Him too?”

  “That goes without saying,” I tease when she sets down the towel to slather on moisturizer.

  I wait as she brushes her teeth, braids her hair, and scuttles back to her bedroom.

  I wait for the telltale sound of her door closing before I exhale a shaky breath and revisit our earlier conversation.

  Sebastian talked about me the entire time they were on their date? Then asked for my phone number?

  What does that even mean?

  A knot of uncertainly forms in the pit of my stomach, along with a pang of something else.

  Jealousy.

  I’m jealous that I’m not outgoing in the way Sydney, Allison, and Hayley are. Jealous that guys don’t find me sexy because outwardly, I’m conservative. Jealous that I can�
�t just let loose. Jealous that…

  Ugh, stop it, James. Stop!

  He’s not my type, he’s not my type, he’s not my type, I chant to myself.

  Oh god, I’m doing it out loud.

  Rising from the toilet, I walk to the counter, bracing my hands on either side of the sink, breathing in through my nose and exhaling out my mouth to curb this wave of nausea.

  Nausea at the thought of my roommate dating Sebastian.

  Me. Jealous.

  Is this what that feels like?

  This is a new low, and I groan miserably.

  Sebastian

  “I reserved us a study room.”

  I stand over James’ table, looking down at her open textbook. Her blue gaze hits me square in the gut when she glances up, and I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet.

  “You what?”

  I straighten to my full height. “I reserved us a study room. Upstairs, room 209.”

  “You reserved us a room?”

  “Yeah, then we can talk and study and no one will hassle us.”

  Her lips tip into a smile. “Oz, I don’t want to talk, at all, let alone when I’m studying.”

  “Oh James. Jim, Jim, Jim…the many dirty ways I could respond to that.”

  She bites the inside of her cheek to stop her smile from spreading, and a dimple I’ve never noticed appears in her left cheek. “Haha, very funny.”

  “You’re no fun.” I sigh, setting my red and black backpack down on the edge of her table. “Fine, no study room.”

  “Wait. You’re not sitting here.”

  “Why not?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Because you’re chatty and distracting.”

  “A good kind of distracting? As in, you spend your time thinking of all the ways I could fuck you distracting?”

  “Oh my god, no. You are so offensive.”

  “Fine. No talking. Promise.” I make the universal sign for zipping my lip and throwing away the key.

  She regards me thoughtfully, then lets out a resigned sigh and gathers her things. “Fine. We can go up to the study room.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  “Sure. Clearly your evil intention to wear me down until I’m a shell of a woman is working. You know, like an FBI interrogator beats down a perp, or a toddler begs for candy.”

  “Or like a fine wine.”

  “No, not like a fine wine. The opposite of a fine wine.”

  “Whatever you say, Jim.” When she rises with her bag, laptop, and textbooks, I reach over. “Here, hand that over. I’ll carry your stuff.”

  “Aww, what a gentleman.”

  “You’re way too petite and delicate to be carrying all this shit anyway. It’s bad for your back.”

  “You…” Her voice full of wonder, James raises her brows up at me. “You think I’m delicate?”

  I cast a glance down at her. “Duh.”

  It only takes Jameson seven minutes to break the silence once we settle into the study room, sitting across from each other in the private, conference-like room. Completely enclosed with only a narrow window in the door, it’s isolated at the end of the hall, and quiet.

  You could hear a pin drop. Until—

  “So. How was your date with Sid?”

  I bite back a grin. I wondered how long it would take her to bring that up, and she doesn’t disappoint.

  “Great,” I say jovially. “She’s a delight.”

  More silence. And then—

  “So…what did you talk about?” James is the embodiment of composure and indifference, her features passively schooled.

  “You know. Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  You kind of stuff. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  Her shoulders rise into a shrug. “Just curious. Sid was over the moon when she got home. You must have really laid on the charm.”

  Nope, not even the slightest bit. Instead, I go with, “Or maybe Sydney is just an easy lay.”

  Jameson stiffens, mouth dipping into a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” My meaning is clear.

  Silence.

  She ignores me then, bending her head and writing in her notebook, the sound of her pen reverberating against the walls with every punishing stroke.

  “No. I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, just above a whisper.

  I feel like such a dick. “Oh relax, nothing happened. I’m fucking with you.”

  She’s not amused by my antics, or my swearing. “You use that word a lot.”

  “I do. It’s a great fucking word.”

  She raises her head and her cheeks are red. Blushing. Flaming.

  All from the use of a single word. I decide to see how far I can push her.

  “You don’t like it?” I press on. “Fucking?”

  Nostrils flaring, her face gets redder—if that’s possible—and her eyes shine bright blue. Clear. Glassing over.

  Unfocused. Heavy lidded. Turned on—another language I speak.

  “Fucking is my favorite,” I soothe gently. “The word, I mean.”

  Clearing her throat, James tilts her head to study me, intense blue gaze falling on my lips. They linger there, watching my mouth as I speak.

  “Personally, Jameson, I think it’s one of the most versatile words in the English language. Don’t you?”

  One small, jerky nod and I can see her throat contract when she swallows.

  “Just listen once: fuuuuck.” I draw out the sound in a whimper, pained, the word strained in a slow, tortured moan, like I’d sound if I were about to orgasm.

  “Fuck-ing,” I coax. “Fuck it. Fuck off.”

  She shifts in her seat, restless now. “I get the picture, Oswald. You can stop now.”

  But I don’t stop.

  “Fuck you. Better yet, fuck me.” The curse rolls off my tongue like a command.

  My cock stiffens as I lower my eyes to the chest of Jameson’s soft lavender sweater, the buttons now straining against her breasts. The visible skin in the V above her neckline is splotchy and red.

  “Oh yeah, fuck me.” I quirk my eyebrow. “Have you Jim? Fantasized about fucking me?”

  “Is it necessary to be so vulgar?” Her question comes out breathless and labored, and it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s avoided answering my question.

  “Necessary? No,” I allow. “But it is more fun.”

  “Well it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.”

  “Really? It’s making you uncomfortable.” I rub my chin in thought.

  She blows out a puff of what I assume is sexually frustrated air. “It makes me uncomfortable having you sit here and say things like that when we both know you’re only saying it because you think I look virginal and you’re trying to shock me. Too bad it isn’t working.”

  She raises some valid points. Still—

  “Don’t bullshit me, Jim. Every time I use the word fuck you start blushing like crazy. I bet you’re blushing everywhere, aren’t you?” Her face turns toward the bookshelves to avoid my rebuttal. “Look me in the eye and tell the truth; you’re getting turned on.”

  Her reply sounds small and vulnerable—so unlike her.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t feel so uneasy if I thought you weren’t playing some immature game. And don’t lie to me; this is a game. All you’re trying to do by saying fuck over and over is get a reaction. You don’t actually care how uncomfortable it’s making me feel.”

  I ignore all her feelings talk and skip to the good stuff.

  “Holy shit I can’t believe you just said it.”

  “What? The F-bomb? Pfft, please—I swear when the mood strikes me.”

  I laugh. “Okay badass, give me your best curse. Have at it.”

  Jameson removes her hands from her keyboard, leaning forward in her chair until she’s facing me. Clasping her hands on edge of the table primly, her small but sexy body adjusts in the black leather seat, her back ramrod straight.
>
  She unclasps her hands and drums her fingers on the smooth lacquered tabletop.

  My attention is drawn to those hands like a moth to a flame; I look down and study them, pale and fragile, the short nails filed and painted a glossy peachy pink color. I look up at the elegant pearl necklace adorning her slim neck, the lavender of her cardigan sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

  The gleaming, delicate gold watch circling her tantalizing wrist.

  Jameson bites down on her bottom lip, sucks on it a few seconds, then inhales. Exhales a long, exalting sigh as she musters up her courage. “Okay asshole. Sebastian.” She breathes my name serenely, the words more a tender caress than profane.

  The first sign of my dick involuntary hardening has me at full attention when she continues, voice quiet. “You want a curse word, but I’ll do you one better to shock you. Ready? I’m most definitely not a virgin. And I’m definitely not…wearing…any…” She leans in all the way, her soft breath tickling the lobe of my ear from across the table. “Panties.”

  She stops breathing the same time I do, the boardroom table in front of us a monolith of epic proportion, stretched wide, separating me from her pantie-less pussy. She shifts in her seat, shooting me a guilty glance; she’s wet, I just fucking know it.

  “Is that an invitation?” I whisper back, palms splayed on the table and coming up out of my chair, ready to pounce. I’d bang her right on this table if she’d let me.

  “No.” She breathes.

  “You sure about that?”

  Another whisper. “Yes.”

  “But not yes as in, ‘Yes Oz, yes! Harder! Yes Oz, right there?” The words come out in an adolescent croak, my voice cracking as I fight the urge to readjust the bulge in my stiff denim.

  The entreaty travels across the silent room to its intended target, drifting listlessly, weaving its way into Jameson’s black leggings. She shifts again in her chair, lifting her rear off the seat uncomfortably.

  “No.”

  “You know you’re breaking my heart, don’t you, Jim?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes, yes, yes.