How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  “You don’t sound sorry.” He sounds disgruntled.

  “That’s because I’m not. Not at all.”

  “But you just called me a dickhead.”

  “And you know what?” I sigh, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms behind my head and clasping my hands. “It felt really good.”

  If I’ve surprised him by my candor, he doesn’t show it. His face is an impassive mask. “Violet, what’s your last name?”

  “My last name?” The question is random, catching me off guard.

  His response is a laugh so deep and amused, it sends a ripple up my spine. “If we’re going to be friends, don’t you think I should know your last name?”

  “I-It’s DeLuca”

  “DeLuca? DeLuca.” He squints at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Wait. Is that Italian?”

  I nod.

  “Because you don’t look Italian. You’re so pale.”

  Another laugh sputters out of me, and I have to put my head down on the tabletop to stop the noises coming out of my mouth. I can’t even look at him; if I do, it will just make me laugh even harder.

  “Now what are you laughing at?”

  “Oh god. You.” Tears run down the corners of my eyes, and I wipe them away. “Only you could call someone pale so honestly and make it sounds like an insult.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Violet DeLuca?”

  “It’s called teasing, Ezekiel Daniels.” I stop, tilting my head to the side to study him. “Lamentations, Ezekiel, Daniel, Hosea…”

  He watches me, unmoved. “Yeah, I get it—Ezekiel and Daniel are books of the bible.”

  “Are your parents religious?”

  “No.” He adjusts his black Iowa ball cap. “Well, I guess they must have been before they had me, but they aren’t now.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. It’s just one fucked up, karmic joke. My parents must have known from the beginning that I was going to be a sinner—that’s why it sounds like they named me after two books of the Bible. Lord knows I’m no saint.”

  His big body relaxes, sinking into his chair, slouching, still staring at me with those somber gray eyes. They’re unflinching and so unhappy.

  He changes the subject.

  “You ready for the fundraiser next week?”

  The casual mention of it has my stomach doing flips. To quell it, I dig out a water bottle from my backpack, twist off the top, and take a drink.

  “I don’t know. Are you going to be nice to me in public?”

  I let the awkward silence between us grow uncomfortably long before clearing my throat. Tip my chin up.

  “Zeke. I-I want an apology before I agree to go anywhere with you.”

  He frowns. “Violet…”

  “You owe me one.”

  Removing his black baseball cap, he sets it on the table in front of him, running his fingers through his dark hair. The black slashes above his platinum eyes furrow in concentration.

  “It was shitty. I knew as soon as I fucking let you leave it was wrong. Obviously I can’t handle having girls in my house without acting like a jerkoff. I’m sorry.”

  I reach across the table and pat his hand. “There now, was that so hard?”

  “Yes,” he grumbles.

  “Bet it made you feel better, didn’t it?”

  He refuses to answer, instead replacing his hat. Squeezes the brim and slouches down in his chair.

  “So this fundraiser—anything I need to know?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I don’t know…are we meeting anyone there? Are any of your friends going?”

  “My friends wouldn’t be caught dead in that place.”

  I laugh. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” They can’t all be hard asses with unyielding edges—like him.

  “You’re probably right,” he concedes, disgruntled. “My roommate has turned into such a fucking pansy since he started dating his girlfriend. He’d totally go.”

  I smile. “So it’s just going to be us?”

  Zeke frowns. “No. My wrestling coach is going to be there with his wife, and probably a few other people in the program. Apparently Coach loves this kind of shit—who knew?”

  “Why…” I have to clear my throat then, a stutter on the tip of my tongue. “Why is he making you go?”

  There has to be something he’s not telling me.

  “Because he’s a dick.”

  Another laugh threatens to spill out, and he shoots me a look.

  “Someone’s in a giggly mood today.”

  “Sorry.”

  His eyes bore into me, lips twitching. “I’m not.”

  Zeke

  For the first time in a few weeks, I don’t drag Kyle to the kiddie park. Instead, I drag him to one across town—one with a skate park, a baseball diamond, and a basketball court.

  “Hey kid. You any good at basketball?” I spy a basketball halfway across the old, fenced-in court.

  There hasn’t been a lot of upkeep at this place; the asphalt top needs resurfacing, and weeds grow like wild grass between the cracks. The court boundary lines need a fresh coat of paint, and don’t get me started on the chain-link fencing that’s seen better days.

  Still, it’s deserted, and as luck would have it, an old, faded basketball sits abandoned in one of the four corners.

  I forgot to bring one.

  Kyle shrugs his skinny shoulders. “We play it at school in gym class.”

  “You any good?”

  Another shrug. “I’m pretty good. I can run circles around Tommy Bauer, so…” Another shrug.

  “Wanna throw around some hoops? This park looks like it could use some action.”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “Trot on over there and fetch that ball. I’m going to set my shit down on the bench.” I look him up and down. “Want me to take your jacket so it’s not in the way?”

  “Sure. I guess.” Off comes the gray, threadbare zip-up hoodie.

  I really need to get this kid a new fucking sweatshirt, and obviously nothing but an Iowa wrestling hoodie will do. I make a mental note to grab one from the supply room where we get our sponsored apparel and shit. If they don’t have kids sizes, I’ll just grab him a men’s small.

  Kyle’s lanky frame jogs back with the ball, holding it in his arms.

  “You’re supposed to be dribbling that thing,” I joke.

  “I’m saving up my energy for when I whoop your butt,” he shoots back.

  Little smartass.

  He’s a few feet away when he trips, and my steely gaze hits his feet. Those gray and read sneakers, worn to shit.

  Back up to his face.

  His big blue eyes are trained on me, and I force a grin.

  “Want to make this interesting?”

  He tilts his head. “What does that mean?”

  A loud laugh escapes my throat, starting in my gut. “It’s just an expression; it basically means, want to gamble on the game.”

  “Oh.”

  I can tell by his face he still doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.

  “Betting is something I do with my friends. You wanna take a gamble? Winner takes all, loser pays up.”

  I snatch the ball out of his hands and dribble it once, continuing as he plops down on a park bench.

  “A bet is something people do for fun. Like, let’s say I bet you I can beat you to the fence. If we race and I win, you have to give me a soda.”

  His whole face lights up with understanding. “Oh yeah! A bet! We do that all the time at school!”

  Cool.

  “So, want to make a bet with me?”

  “What kind?”

  “I bet you can’t make more baskets than me.”

  “Why are you betting me that? I’m just a kid.”

  Slowly, Kyle rises from the bench and walks toward me, stopping to bend and tie his shoddy, worn sneakers. I ogle them for the umpteenth time while he ties
the laces.

  Snap my fingers.

  “Hey, on second thought. How about if you win, I have to buy you some new tennis shoes. Badass ones.”

  He gives me a dubious stare, the kind only a cocky eleven-year-old is capable of giving, but then, his shoulders slump.

  “I’m never going to be able to beat you. You’re huge.”

  Hmm, that’s true.

  “How about we start with a few pointers?” I dribble the ball, fumbling it between my hands, letting it bounce too high then letting it bounce away. It rolls across the asphalt, hitting the chain-link fence before stopping. “Dammit.”

  “Are you even any good at basketball?” Kyle’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

  “Hell yeah.” I brag. “The best.”

  I jog to retrieve the wayward ball, trying to push it through my legs like they do in the pros. It hits the back of my knee and careens toward where Kyle stands by the bench.

  “I thought you were a wrestler.”

  “I am, but I’ve always loved b-ball,” I boast. “Played in sixth grade all the way through eighth.”

  I dribble again, aim at the backboard, which is just a large, square piece of plywood nailed to where the old backboard used to be—back when the park system actually put money into this shithole park.

  I aim. Shoot.

  And miss.

  “Wow, you suck!” Kyle postures, chest puffed out confidently. “You’re on!”

  I put my fist out, and he bumps it. We both make them explode.

  “Bring it!”

  Seven days later, I’m in the kitchen cutting up fruit when Oz and Jameson walk into the kitchen, both of them standing in the doorway. James hangs back while Ozzy strolls in, yanks open the fridge, and retrieves two water bottles.

  He cracks them both open, but keeps the tops on. “Jim and I are heading to a movie. You wanna come?”

  “Can’t.” I shove a piece of apple in my mouth. Swallow. Chew. “Gotta take Kyle for new shoes.”

  “Who is Kyle?” Oz asks.

  “My little brother.” Shit. When did I start thinking of him as my little brother? I must be losing my edge.

  “You have a little brother named Kyle?” Oz asks, confused. “I thought you were an only child.”

  “As if either of you know anything about me,” I scoff. Then, shifting my eyes to the ceiling, sending up a prayer for patience, I add. “For fuck’s sake, try to keep up. Kyle is the Little from the mentoring program I’m stuck doing for the rest of the semester. Remember? He was literally sleeping in this house two weeks ago.”

  Oz nods slowly. “Anddd…now you’re taking him shoe shopping?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “For shoes.” Pause. “Um, why?”

  “He beat me at basketball.” There’s a duh inflection to my tone, and I turn my back to shove another piece of apple in my mouth. Chew. Swallow.

  Oz and Jameson stare mutely, disbelief etched on both their slack-jawed faces.

  “A little kid beat you at basketball?”

  “Oh my god,” I grind out, annoyed. “Yes.”

  I chance a look at them both; Oz is clueless, but Jameson…Jameson is studying me through narrow eyes. Suspiciously.

  In two seconds, she’s going to be sniffing the air for my bullshit.

  My roommate prattles on, oblivious. “I still don’t get why you’re buying him shoes. Did he swindle you?”

  “No. I lost a bet.”

  Oz laughs. “You bet a little kid he couldn’t beat you at basketball? What an idiot. You’re always losing bets.” He steals a piece of watermelon from the cutting board. “Jesus, Zeke, how much money do you lose every year blowing bets with people?”

  Enough.

  I blow enough.

  But Oz isn’t done giving me crap. “Didn’t you bet Gunderson he couldn’t get that girl to go out with him? Then when he won, you had to pay him a hundred dollars, and he used it to buy a textbook he needed for his econ class.”

  Jameson crosses her arms, scrutinizing me. Her wide blue eyes rake me up and down, head to toe, blue irises boring down, hard.

  She is so annoying.

  “And what the hell was that gimmie bet with Erik Janz? How could you have bet that moron three hundred bucks on the Louisiana game? Everyfuckingbody knew Florida was going to get their asses handed to them, but you bet him they’d win anyway.” He takes a chug of water. “Then what does he do with the money? Huh? Spends it on a new starter for his piece-of-shit car. Man are you a dope.”

  When he’s done bitching at me and finally leaves the room, I look up to find Jameson still watching me, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a thoughtful expression.

  “You know,” she says slowly, taking a few steps forward. Advancing on me. Taps her chin with the tip of her forefinger. “I thought I had to watch my back around you—you know, right when I started dating Sebastian and started coming around. I thought it was only a matter of time before you hid in the bushes to jump me.”

  She gives an airy little laugh, pushing the black glasses perched on her nose farther up the bridge, leaning back against the counter to mimic my stance when I wish she would just leave.

  “Jump you? Why the hell would you think that? I’m not a fucking psycho.”

  Her brows rise. “Well yeah, I know that now—deep down inside, you’re just a big softie, aren’t you? All talk and no show.”

  “Screw you, James.”

  Another lilty little laugh. “Only you would tell someone to screw themselves when they were trying to be nice.”

  I can’t meet her eyes.

  “Oh…my…god,” she says breathily, drawing out the three words in a torturously slow preamble. “I know. I know why you do it.”

  Her words are slow and deliberate. She braces a hand on the counter

  I make a pfft sound, yanking the fridge open and peering inside so I don’t have to look at her face. She’s aggravating the shit out of me.

  “What is it you think you know, smartass?”

  She snaps her fingers.

  “Remember that bet with Oz? The one where you bet him five hundred dollars to kiss me in the library? You did it because you knew he was broke and needed money.”

  “You’re crazy.” I stare at the milk. “You’ve known me for all of two seconds.”

  She ignores me, chattering on, warming to the subject. “But you don’t just make bets with anyone. You make bets with people who need help. It all makes sense now.”

  Jameson playfully pokes my bicep with a fingernail.

  “You know this kind of makes you a philanthropist, don’t you?” Gasp. “Holy crap, Zeke. You’re…nice!”

  “Shut up,” I grumble. Why the fuck won’t she just go away? “Are you done yet?”

  “You’re not even going to deny it!” She cackles, slapping her thigh with an open palm. “Don’t worry Angry Daniels. I won’t tell anyone your dirty little secret.”

  I feel her palm patting me on the bicep as she airily breezes from the room.

  She sticks her head back in.

  “No one would believe me anyway.”

  She winks.

  For all her prim and proper ways, Jameson Clark really is a fucking smartass.

  Zeke

  This fundraiser is packed.

  Which is surprising given that it’s not a huge organization we’re here to raise money for. From the entryway, the moment we walk in, I immediately begin casing the joint. I don’t know why I do it, but every time I walk into a room, I take note of the size, the exits, and the people in it.

  So I stand here, Violet waiting patiently beside me.

  Over in one corner, I spot Nancy from the Big Brother office, head thrown back and laughing at something a gray-haired dude is saying. She’s about as dolled up as she can get: full-length mother-of-the-bride dress, hair curled, eye shadow so bright you could see it from the moon.

  There’s a band setting up, a small area sectioned off for dancing in the center of the room¸ and l
ining the perimeter, long banquet tables showcase the raffle and auction items. The moneymakers. Stars of the show.

  The fundraiser isn’t as formal as I’d expected; people are milling about, most of them with drinks in hand, in all styles of attire. Khakis. Dressy denim. Suits and ties. Floor-length numbers.

  Stifled, I yank at the tie around my neck that seems to have gotten tighter on the ride here—like a noose.

  My black suit coat stretches too snugly across my broad back and shoulder blades. The collar of my baby blue shirt buttoned too high and cutting off my air supply. Shoes too new and stiff to be even remotely comfortable.

  Fucking Coach.

  I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t forced me to be.

  And with Violet, no less.

  Quiet Violet, waiting patiently next to me, near the coat check area, her calm demeanor only slightly quelling my resentment at being here. Always serene, always composed—if you don’t count the random, nervous stuttering.

  Her colorless blonde hair is down and arranged in loose curls down her back, a stark contrast against the dark-as-night dress coat she’s wearing over her dress.

  I know it’s a dress because I checked out her pale bare legs when she was climbing into my truck, plum-colored heels boosting her height by several inches, the pastel nail polish she’s always wearing playing peekaboo out of the tips of her shoes.

  Cheeks pink. Lips dark burgundy. Lashes long and coated with black mascara.

  Pretty. Real fucking pretty.

  When she smiles up at me, skin positively glowing, flush with excitement, her teeth are straight and perfect, highlighted by her dark lips.

  Violet bites down on that lower lip, probably chewing off her lipstick in the process, then beams up at me, hopeful and sunshiny and bright, like she’s waiting to blow sunshine up my ass.

  She looks happy, but I didn’t come here to have fun and I didn’t come here to fundraise. Or socialize. Or see people.

  I’m here out of some twisted obligation.

  “Daniels. Son,” says the devil himself.

  I turn to acknowledge Coach with a dispassionate dip of my head. He takes inventory of me, of my attire, and I take in his. Shoes, pants, shirt, eyes raking up my expensive paisley tie, his critical blue eyes are shrewd, shifting once I pass his inspection.