How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours
Page 9
Of course, for once I keep my damn mouth shut.
With a sigh, Jameson closes her laptop with a decisive snap. “I can’t decide if I should trust you or not, and it drives me crazy that you only see me as a challenge. Crazy.”
“You know it’s more than that. Why would I be coming on this trip just to try to have sex with you when I could hire a hooker for less than what I paid for you?”
“Hire a hooker?!” she damn near shouts, eyes bugging out of her skull. “Would you really do that?”
“Well no. One, because I would never have to; I can get laid any time I want. And two, I can’t afford it. My point is, I’m coming on this trip because we’re friends, Jiminy Cricket, not so I can put the moves on you.” I manage to keep a straight face when the lie spills out of my mouth, totally convincing.
“Coming on this trip? You say it as if you were invited.” She snickers. “You’re the worst kind of hijacker, and for the life of me, I still can’t figure out why.” I open my mouth to speak but immediately snap it shut when she continues, “Yeah, yeah, I know—you said it’s because you wanted to see what it was like to be with someone who didn’t know who you were, but don’t you and your Neanderthal friends frequent seedy places like the Florida coast? Beer bongs and bikinis? MTV, loose girls, and STDs?”
Yes, hell yes, yes, fuck yeah, and no.
“Since we’re being honest, it seems extremely over the top to come on a trip with a girl you just met to escape the reality you created for yourself. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘you made your bed, now you have to lie in it’?”
I giggle like a teenage boy at the word bed.
Jameson throws a yellow number two pencil at me. “You are so immature.”
Immature.
Horny.
Itching for a challenge, and she’s just given me one.
Jameson
“What the heck are you and your crap doing on my stoop?”
The wind blows, sending snow and frigid cold air whipping past me and into my hotel room.
He’s standing in front of my door, letting his red duffle drop to the frozen, snowy ground. A bright lime green snowboard leans against the doorjamb, along with a black boot bag. “My new pal Chad said your roommate bailed on you,” he says with a casual shrug of his wide shoulders. Over his tall frame, I see sophomore snowboard club member Beth Lauer staring holes into his ass. Hard.
I don’t even want to know what thoughts are running through Beth’s head right now and silently will the powdery pile of white snow on the roof to slide down and bury me whole.
Or better yet, bury him whole.
Oz chatters on, oblivious to Beth’s ogling. “I told Chad we were cousins, remember? So he didn’t see a problem with us rooming together. Congrats, Jim! It looks like we’re going to be roommates.”
“Don’t you mean cellmates?” I groan, glancing over my shoulder at the empty bedroom, at the one queen sized bed with its one threadbare coverlet, the single dresser, and the tiny bathroom with one tiny shower.
The Bellagio it is not. It might be a pit, but it was my pit—and mine alone—until thirty-seven blissful seconds ago.
I glance toward Beth as she shuffles past us through the snow; our eyes connect when she lifts her gaze from Oz’s fantastic ass. Even in the cold winter weather, embarrassment floods her and she turns, scuttling off hurriedly in the opposite direction like a little pervy rat.
Speaking of pervs…
Having Oz shacked up with me for the weekend is the opposite of what I want. I paid the same six hundred dollars he paid; the last thing I need is my friends gossiping about me while he weasels his way in and out of my room.
A groan escapes my lips. “And stop telling everyone we’re cousins.”
“Come on, what’s the big deal?”
“Cousins? Come on, seriously?”
“Should I have told him we were kissing cousins?” He gives me a wide, toothy grin. “Unlatch the chain, James, and let me in. My testes just crawled inside my scrot to hide.”
Another groan and I’m unchaining the door, grabbing him by his muscular forearm to haul him—along with all his crap—into the recesses of my hotel room. The heavy door slams behind us, the lock automatically clicking into place.
I slide the latch over before turning on him, hands on my hips, sullenly eyeballing him. “First you crash my trip, now you’re crashing my room. You can take the floor.”
“The floor?” He picks up his duffle bag and suitcase, shouldering past me. Surrendering, I let him pass without an argument, trailing after him. “No can do, Jim. This body is a temple.”
“We are not sharing the bed.”
“Is it because you don’t trust yourself with me?”
“No. It’s because I don’t trust you.”
Oz snickers. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I honestly am going to kill you.”
“Why do you keep saying that? Oz, I’m going to kill you,” he mimics in a feminine voice. It’s actually somewhat disconcerting. “That’s the second time you’ve threatened my life; I’m beginning to think you mean it.”
I grin. “What can I say? You make me want to strangle you.”
He ignores me, instead hoisting his suitcase to the top of the dresser on the far side of the room and unzipping it. “I’ve decided if we’re not going to be fuck buddies—a bad decision on your part, I might add—then we can be friends of the non-fucking variety. The boring variety.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “I know, right? I thought so, too.”
“That was sarcasm, Oz.”
“Sarcasm or not, Jimbo, you’ll soon realize the benefits of having me as your friend.”
“Oh, you don’t say?” I cross my arms. “Enlighten me.”
“For example, I’m an awesome wingman. I’ll have the ladies beating down our door in no time.”
“It was my door,” I hiss. “And I’m not a lesbian.”
“You’re not?” He looks dubious.
“No.”
“Then why do you keep resisting all my advances?” Oz sits on the foot of the bed, kicking off his shoes. They hit the wall and land with a thud.
His socks follow.
“Uh, because you haven’t made any?”
“Wait.” He spins around. “Was that an invitation?”
Kind of? “No!”
“See?” He shuffles back to the door barefoot then lugs my suitcase farther into the room and places it on the dresser next to his. “Anyway, as I was saying—the guys will be beating down your cobweb-covered door in no time—or in this case, your cobweb-covered vagina.”
Side by side, we begin removing the clothes from our suitcases and neatly folding them into the top drawer, his shirts on the left, mine on the right, like we’ve done it a hundred times before.
“First of all, my vagina is none of your business. Secondly, it’s not covered in cobwebs.”
It’s obvious from his expression that he doesn’t believe me. “Whatever you say, Jimbo. My point is, with me by your side this weekend, you’ll be fighting them off with a baseball bat.”
“What if I don’t want a wingman?”
Clutching an extra pair of blue jeans against his chest like a shield, he stares at me blankly, his lip curling distastefully. His fingers twirl in the air, directed at my nether region. “Cobwebs.”
I stalk to the small nightstand, yank open the drawer, and root around the hollow space for the requisite pen and paper.
“We need to establish a few rules if we’re going to be sharing a room this week.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll take the liberty of writing a few of them down.”
I hold the little white notepad up for his inspection.
His lip curls up. “Why am I not surprised you’re making a list?”
I ignore his question. “One: no sex in the bedroom—”
“So just the bathroom or closet?”
“I’m serious too, Jim, serious as a heart attack. I am totally okay banging someone inside the closet.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second. However, I’d really prefer if you didn’t have sex anywhere inside the room.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Two: stay on your side of the bed, and keep those enormous paws off me.”
He places one of said enormous paws over his heart. “Jim, you wound me. Would I jeopardize our budding friendship by feeling you up?”
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “I don’t know, Oz—would you?”
He seems to give this question some serious thought, and sighs. “Honestly? Yeah, I would. I’ll probably try to touch you inappropriately at least once. Maybe twice if I’m being real. It would be remiss of me considering I’ve noticed your nice rack. Your sweaters are pretty tight, Jimbo.”
Face palm. “I guess I can’t fault you for being honest.”
He sits up straighter on the foot of the bed. “Does that earn me bonus points?”
A resigned sigh. “Sure, why not.”
“Great.” He claps his giant hands gleefully, rubbing them together. “Okay, hit me with number three.”
“There is no number three. Two is all I have—but we can make them up as we go along.”
“Oh goody. That’ll be a blast.”
I’m standing near the bed, innocently unpacking my snowboarding gear and refolding a pair of my boarding overalls when the bathroom door flies open and Oz comes out, a hazy mist of steam billowing out behind him.
He looks me up. He looks me down.
“How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands to my damn self when you’re wearing shit like that?” He waves his bear paws, gesturing wildly up and down, indicating my pajama set.
I glance down at myself, perplexed. “This? It’s an old tank top and shorts.”
He crosses his arms resentfully, my eyes flying to his broad, ripped chest and elaborately tattooed biceps. Drool. “Right, but you’re not wearing a bra.”
“I’m not wearing a bra to bed, Oz. It’s also not my problem you’re a horn dog.”
He disagrees.
“The tank top is white, which is practically see-through.” For the second time since he’s invaded my space, Oz rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing. He throws up three fingers. “Rule number three: no running around bra-less. Cover that shit up, for fuck’s sake. I can see your nips and it’s giving me a hard-on.”
“You’re only wearing a towel, you hypocrite! I can see the outline of your—” I stop myself short, a loud, nervous giggle bubbling up inside me so abruptly I actually smack a hand over my mouth to shut myself up.
My eyes drop to Oz’s lean hips. I can’t help but notice the beads of water dripping down the smooth, tantalizing skin of his sculpted abs…to the well-defined V…the happy trail of dark hair disappearing into the white terrycloth towel barely concealing his—
I cross an arm over my breasts defensively, hiding them from his heated examination. “What do you suggest I wear, smartass? I only packed this and I was planning on rooming alone.”
“I don’t fucking know, but you can’t prance around in that. Go put on one of my shirts.”
Prance?
Still, I nod once. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Rule number four: no running around wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. That thing barely fits around your waist.”
And it’s making me want to do naughty, sleazy things to you. Like pull the towel out of its knot and yank it to the floor to see what’s underneath.
Oz stomps barefoot to the dresser, yanks open the top drawer, and pulls out a gray cotton tee shirt. Wadding it up into a fabric ball, he whips it in my direction, sending it whizzing through the air and smacking me in the face.
I barely catch it.
“Please. Just go put that on. And come back uglier.”
Sydney: Has he asked about me at all?
James: Who?
Sydney: Oh please, you know who. Don’t tease me like that! Oz—has he asked about me! Come on, give a girl something to get her through a cold night.
James: We’ve been very busy, sorry.
Sydney: I can’t believe you’re spending the weekend with him. If I’d have known, maybe I would have come along.
James: And given up the Florida sun?!
Sydney: You’re right. I still wouldn’t have gone to Utah, LOL. Maybe I should try texting him. Do you think I should?
James: I think you should do whatever makes you happy ;)
Sydney: Is that a yes or a no.
James: Sure. Yes, text him.
Sydney: Squee!!!! K, I’m doing it.
James: Good luck
I don’t mention to Sid that moments ago Sebastian was half naked and dripping wet, just out of the shower. Or that he was eyeing me up in my white tank top. Or that I just pulled his tee shirt over my head—one that feels like heaven and smells even better.
I set my cell down on the cold, outdated Formica bathroom counter and adjust the contact of the charger. Smoothing down my silky hair, I burrow my nose down into the collar of Sebastian’s shirt. Give it another whiff…
Wistfully exhale.
Taking a deep breath before I push through the door to the bedroom, I give the shirt one more quick sniff for good measure.
So damn good I can’t stop.
I walk across the room toward the light switch with trepidation, pausing when he sits up in our shared bed. The bed that would have been perfectly acceptable when I was sharing it with Celeste appears miniscule with hulky Oz Osborne resting in it.
A tower of pillows is stacked in the middle, a barrier I erected when he was in the shower, albeit a laughably flimsy one.
Oz is sitting in bed, atop the covers and naked from the waist up. Propped against the headboard, thumbing through a Men’s Health magazine, he grimaces when he glances up, greeting me with an irritated, “God dammit Jim, that’s worse!”
I look around the room, confused by his angry tone. “What’s worse?”
“You. In that shirt.”
Well duh. I only threw on his gray Iowa wrestling tee after his ridiculous no-tank-top rule was enforced.
“Is there no winning with you?” I toss my hands up in defeat. “What’s wrong with this shirt? You told me to put it on. In fact, you wadded it up and threw it at me. It hit me in the face, remember, and almost took out my eye.”
“You weren’t supposed to take your shorts off!” he accuses, scowling.
My hands go back up, exasperated. “Oh my god, what is the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal, she asks?” He’s grumbling to himself, pounding a fluffy pillow and adjusting it behind his head. I can’t help but admire his biceps flexing while he does it. Sorry, but they’re amazing to look at. “The big deal is now all you have on is fucking underwear.”
“Right,” I say slowly, shifting my gaze away from his body to lift the hem of his tee. “But the shirt goes down to my thighs…”
“Are you insane? You keep that shit on.”
“Uh…”
Oz holds up his hands, halting my argument. “Rule number five: no shaving your legs.”
“No shaving my legs?” A burst of laughter escapes my lips and I double over at the waist, giggling hysterically. Tears stream down my cheeks. When I finally catch my breath, I sputter, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What does shaving have to do with anything?”
He gives me a look that says duh. “Hairy legs are disgusting. No dude wants to bang a chick with more hair than he has. Trust me, it’s your only defense.”
I stare at him blankly, my lip curling distastefully, before wiping away a stray tear. “You’re so weird.”
“You’re right. I would totally bang a chick with hairy legs.” He karate chops my pillow barrier with his hand, a mocking smil
e spreading across his stupidly arrogant face. “Is this to keep you on your side of the bed? Cause I gotta say, Jim, I won’t fight you off when you decide to cross over to the dark side.”
God he’s so devilishly handsome.
I shake my head, grinning back as I pull back the covers and climb onto my side of the bed. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Wanna bet on it?”
“Would you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Betting on everything.”
“Sorry. Bad habit.”
I pull back the coverlet and slide in, my bare legs hitting the cool fabric. Reclining next to him in the bed, my body relaxes into the down pillows.
I feel him watching me out the corner of his eye when I reach for and click off the bedside lamp. Sigh. “What?”
A low chuckle comes out of the dark. “Do you really think that pillow barrier will keep me on my side of the bed?”
“Of course not. It’s a metaphor for keep your distance.”
“And my paws off?” He chuckles again, but this time the low baritone has me shivering. He must feel the vibration through the mattress because he asks, “Cold?”
“A little.” I hunker farther into the covers, wishing they were feather filled.
“Well, I’m here if you want to spoon. My mom used to say I was a hot box—you’d be hot and hopefully sweaty in no time.”
I bite back a smile in the dark. “Thanks for the offer.”
“I’m a giver, Jimmy.”
I don’t doubt that. As I lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing, my mind wanders. I mean, would anyone blame me? Lying here next to this big, broody, sexy, warm-blooded male, naked from the waist up?
I’d have to be nuts not to fantasize—or dead from the waist down, which I’m not.
I clear my throat, the sound filling the dark. “Tell me about wrestling.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Are you any good?”
His answer is a deep, gravelly rumble. It booms and shakes and reverberates the bed. Even without the lights on, I know he’s clutching his stomach.
“Don’t make fun of me!” My arms stretch out and I poke what I’m assuming is a thick bicep. My fingers sink into his hot skin and I quickly pull them back.