How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  “That too, I guess,” I say quietly, embarrassed, even though I gave up my virginity two years ago.

  “You don’t think that’s funny?”

  “If I was actually a virgin I’d probably be embarrassed by it.”

  “You’re right—that’s private. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”

  Nope, he shouldn’t be.

  My right brow rises, and I dip my chin in a nod. Smile to myself, running the brush along my mug.

  “My roommate Oz is the pervert, not me.” He sighs warily. The air between us is riddled with a prickle of tense energy. “I’m sorry.”

  My head dips again, but I peek up at him under my long lashes.

  “I am Violet. That was fucking rude.”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?” The last thing I want to do is sit here and talk about my virgin status—or lack thereof.

  Zeke

  “That looks like a bumblebee.” Her words are wrapped in a delighted laugh.

  I glance down at my ceramic mug, the one I’ve slapped a big I on (for Iowa), along with some crudely painted yellow and black stripes.

  She’s right. It’s starting to look like a giant fucking bumblebee, and not even a skillfully painted one.

  “Shut up, Violet!”

  “I’m sorry! It’s so cute though! I can’t wait to see what it looks like once it’s fired and shiny from the kiln.”

  “What the hell is a kiln?” And what does she mean, once it’s fired?

  “A kiln bakes the paint onto the ceramic. Then it will be nice and shiny when it’s done.” She continues stroking light purple onto her cup, delicately drawn on flowers and polka dots. It’s pretty fucking adorable, way sweeter than my shitty Iowa mug.

  “You mean I have to wait to see what it looks like finished?”

  She looks up, surprised, brush paused in the air. “Is that what you’re all worked up about? You’re excited to see it and don’t want to wait?”

  “Well yeah! I want to see it!” Duh.

  “Zeke Daniels, I can’t believe it! You’re excited about your mug?”

  “Fuck yeah!”

  We both laugh and it feels good, way fucking better than being pissed off, which takes considerably more effort.

  “Hey.” I give her hand a little poke with the tip of my paintbrush, leaving a little blob of yellow on her wrist. “I just realized something.”

  Those big hazel eyes gaze at me, long black lashes fluttering, the angelic blonde hair shining. Man she’s beautiful, glossy lips parting, causing me to shift restlessly in my seat.

  Jesus. No.

  I shake my head. Shake it again.

  Clear my throat. “Do you realize you haven’t stuttered since we’ve been here?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” I smear black paint on my mug. “Why do you think that is?”

  Violet’s mouth opens, then closes, like a cute little fish gasping for air. “I don’t know? I-I…” Her pert nose wrinkles. “Shoot!”

  “Dammit,” I groan. “I’m really sorry I mentioned it.”

  “N-No, it’s okay. How long have we been here, an hour and a half? That’s a long time for me.” She looks proud. Beaming.

  “Must be because you’re comfortable around me, huh?” I wink—actually fucking wink—teasing. “I don’t make you nervous anymore.”

  “Actually, yes i-it probably means you don’t make me nervous anymore.” Her pink lips are still glossy and bent into a bashful smile.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But no one feels comfortable with me.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?” I stare at her like she’s bat-shit crazy. She must be.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…mostly I think it’s your size.”

  “Uh, how would I take that the wrong way?”

  “I-I just figured you prefer to come off as intimidating. I was intimidated at first, but now I just find it comforting.”

  “Uh, the next words out of your mouth better not be like a giant teddy bear.”

  “Those are not my next words. I didn’t say snuggly, I said comforting.”

  I lean forward in my chair. It creaks. “You don’t think I’m snuggly?”

  Her forehead creases. “Have you ever snuggled in a cozy blanket?”

  I snort. “Of course not.”

  “Have you ever snuggled a cute little furry animal?”

  I scoff and roll my eyes. “No.”

  “Have you ever snuggled someone watching a movie, or when they were upset?”

  “Uh, big fat no.”

  “I rest my case.” She grins, satisfied. “Comforting, not snuggly—though for the record, you’re missing out.

  “Whatever. I could be both if I wanted to be.” Deciding my mug is finished, I push it into the center of the table and shift around the small stack of containers and supplies impeding my view of hers. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s see it. Let’s see your masterpiece.”

  “I’m still working on it,” she whispers.

  I get the feeling she isn’t talking about her mug.

  Violet finishes her project; it turns out a whole hell of a lot better than mine. Hers is neatly designed and intricately detailed, light lavender with little flowers painted all around a dark purple monogram of her initials, the letters curling and intertwining. Mine on the other hand?

  Looks like a steaming pile of dog shit.

  I won’t get into specifics, but a three-year-old could have done a better job.

  I scowl at the damn thing.

  “We never got anything to eat. You hungry?”

  Violet bobs her head up and down. “I could go for something to eat, yeah.”

  “We could grab something on our way back to your place?”

  “Sure, sounds good.”

  Together, we clean up our messes, toss our paper towels in the trash, throw our brushes in the water, wipe up the black paint surrounding my fucked up mug. When I tip the stupid thing over to write my name in pencil on the bottom, the yellow smudges and gets on the end of my sleeve.

  Awesome.

  But, despite that, I can’t help noticing that Violet looks cheerful. Chipper.

  Chipper, Zeke? Really?

  Christ, that’s something my grandpa used to say when he was alive. Whatever, Violet looks happy. A thousand times happier than she did when I arrived on her doorstep tonight.

  When she’s loaded back in my truck and we’re headed back toward campus, I stop at a fast-food burger joint and buy us both hamburgers. We eat them in silence, sitting in the parking lot.

  “Thanks Zeke.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and chews. Swallows. “For tonight, and for…this.” She holds the half-eaten burger up in the dark, the wrapper making crinkling sounds.

  “No problem.”

  And it wasn’t, I realize. For the first time in a long time, I’m not completely put out by going out of my way for someone else. Maybe because my participation in this outing was of my own free will, wasn’t forced. In any case, seeing her happy makes me not quite so…something.

  I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling, but it’s not irritation.

  Or annoyance.

  Or anger.

  It’s more like…

  I glance over at her in the dark, nothing but the glowing lights of the restaurant filling the cab. Illuminating the soft, delicate planes of her face. The glossy strands of her hair.

  She catches me watching and smiles.

  I…

  Smile back.

  Violet

  Should I invite him in?

  He’s just sitting there, watching me, and I know I have to decide before I hop out of his truck if I’m inviting him in or not. Zeke is removing his seat belt, hands fiddling with the keys in the ignition, and I know now is the time to make a move.

  Or not.

  Not that kind of move, god no—I’m not that kind of girl.

  I wonder if he’d co
me in if I invited him to watch a movie. Wonder if it would be totally awkward, or not a big deal.

  I blow out a frustrated puff of air, frustrated with myself for having no experience with guys like Zeke Daniels. He has experience written all over him, like he’s been around the block a time or two then jogged around another lap.

  I glance over.

  “Do you want to come in?” I’ve never been this bold and can’t believe I’m asking—and asking him of all people. Winnie would kill me. “Maybe watch a movie or something?”

  His head turns, and he stares at me for a few of the longest seconds I’ve ever counted, eyes flickering up and down my person.

  The heart inside my chest races. My temperature rises. Palms get damp.

  “Sure.”

  “R-Really?” I blurt out, shocked.

  “I have nothing else going on.” His hands motion around the interior of the truck. “Do you?”

  “Nothing but calling it a day early, maybe reading.”

  His head tilts in thought. “What’s your genre? I know you saw mine.”

  “Um.” My face gets even redder. “New adult romance.”

  “What the hell is new adult romance?”

  Oh god.

  “I-It’s characters that are over the age of eighteen?”

  “So, like, love stories and shit.”

  “Yes. Exactly like love stories and shit.” I laugh.

  His head nods toward the house. “So when we go inside, are you going to force me to watch chick flicks?”

  “I actually didn’t think about what I was going to force you to watch, but now that you mentioned it, the idea does have merit.”

  His brows lift. “The idea has merit?”

  I push open the passenger door, nudging it with my shoe. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.”

  He follows me into the house, removing his big brown boots at the door, setting them off to the side on the mat. His coat follows, draped on the back of the couch.

  Zeke Daniels standing in the middle of my living room, surveying the space, deliberating on where to sit—couch or recliner, couch or recliner.

  He’s massive.

  He chooses the couch, dead center, legs spread.

  Finds the remote, clicks on the television.

  He looks…content.

  “Uh, want anything to drink?”

  He cranes his neck toward where I’m puttering in the galley kitchen. “Sure, if you have water, I’ll take a bottle or two.”

  Or two?

  I hear him flipping through the channels, the audio changing every few seconds.

  “Is this a Netflix and chill thing, or just Netflix?” he calls from the living room, laughter in his voice.

  “U-Um, we have Prime, so j-just that.”

  Oh my god, this was such a bad idea. I’m in way over my head with this one.

  “You’re no fun, Pixie,” he replies, and I hear more action from the TV.

  Pixie? Did he just give me a nickname?

  I try my hand at a joke when I walk back into the living room, carrying three bottles of water that took me way too much time to retrieve from the fridge.

  “If you want to get crazy, you can always practice snuggling with me. I’ll let you hold the blanket.”

  He blinks.

  Blinks again.

  I smile.

  He scowls.

  But he also doesn’t reject the idea.

  I take this as a good sign and plop down next to him on the couch, reach behind me to grab a blanket, and settle in. “Anything on, or should we pick a DVD?”

  “I found a few things. The Walking Dead, a few new releases. True Blood, and, uh…Outlander.”

  I cannot keep the astonishment out of my voice. “I’m sorry, did you just say you’re willing to watch Outlander?”

  It’s based on a historical romance novel set in the highlands of Scotland; the main character time travels back to the 1700s and falls in love with a strapping Scott. It’s one of my favorite books, and I’ve been wanting to binge watch the series.

  “Yes.” He’s practically glowering with indignation. “I know when you were in my bedroom you were scoping out all my European history books and shit—don’t act like you weren’t.”

  “I totally was, I’m just surprised you’d want to watch Outlander. I’d love to watch it if you want to.”

  He squints at me. “That depends; what episode are you on?”

  “The episode right before she marries the Scotsman? I think.”

  “What! That’s as far as you got?” I’ve never seen him so animated. “You’re an entire two seasons behind! You’re only at The Garrison Commander episode? Ugh.”

  Seriously, I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to him go on about this. He’s truly disgusted with me.

  It’s hilarious. He’s hilarious.

  Not ha ha funny, but oddly playful in his own way.

  An enigma.

  “Hey now, don’t get all crazy guilt-tripping me. I don’t have a lot of free time to watch TV!”

  Both of us are laughing now, and the grin on his face—I want to kiss it off of him. Grab his face and kiss it all over. He’s adorable.

  So handsome.

  Straight white teeth, square jawline completely covered in five o’clock shadow—he’s stunning. And that smile?

  Guh. Where does he always hide it?

  It’s a crime against humanity.

  “Fine, we’ll start at the wedding.” His beefy arm rises, clicking the remote toward the television, flying through the menu selection until he arrives at Outlander. Chooses season one. Chooses episode: The Wedding.

  Click, click, click goes the remote.

  “Obviously I watch a lot of TV.” He chuckles. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “That’s surprising. When do you have time with your busy social schedule?”

  “My busy social schedule? Goddamn you’re cute.” He gives me a sidelong glance, still pointing the remote control at the TV. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m the last person people think of when they hear the word social.”

  “I-I—”

  “Don’t worry, you didn’t just insult me. Let’s just watch the show, although, I should warn you—spoiler alert!—there’s some tits and ass.”

  “T-Tits and ass?” I repeat, blushing. I mean, what’s worse than stuttering out the word tits in front of a handsome boy? Nothing.

  Nothing is worse.

  “Nudity,” he clarifies. “You okay with that?”

  “Okay with nudity? Sure.”

  Zeke

  I have a hard-on.

  Not the soft, chubby promise of one or the tingling stirrings—this is a raging boner.

  My grip on Violet’s plaid blanket tightens when the Scotsman Jamie Frasier and his wife Claire begin fucking on screen. She’s on top, riding him—you know, because he’s a virgin—in a chair, sinking down onto his erection, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.

  I chance a glance at Violet; I’ve never seen her face so flush, and I’ve embarrassed her plenty in the few weeks we’ve been hanging out.

  “I-Is it hot in here?” she mutters under her breath, fanning herself by yanking on the collar of her black t-shirt.

  “Yeah it’s fucking hot in here.” And getting warmer with every passing second.

  “Should I open a window?” I volunteer, half off the couch and walking to the bank of windows at the front of the room before she can reply. I adjust the stiff dick in my pants, easing it to the side of my thigh before unlatching the lock and sliding my hands under the frame, pulling upward.

  I crack the window a good nine inches—the length of my throbbing cock—wipe a set of sweaty palms over my pants, and yank my shirt down over my crotch.

  Violet misses me gimping it back to the couch because her eyes are glued to the horny Highlanders banging on the television, in high def and Technicolor.

  I ease myself back dow
n, and despite the rising temperature in the room, grapple for the blanket and spread it across my lap, adding a throw pillow on top like a teenage boy afraid to be caught whacking it by his mother.

  Normally I wouldn’t give a shit if some chick saw my boner, but this is Violet—I don’t want her to feel violated or whatever. I want her to feel safe with me, not like I’m going to fucking jump her with my giant cock.

  On screen, Claire Frasier has just spread herself wide on the bed, and the Highland ginger Jamie is slowly scaling lower on her body. Nipples pointy and wet from his mouth. Head tipped back. Lips parted, sounds coming out of them both while he goes down on her.

  This was such a bad idea.

  I fucking knew the wedding episode had sex in it; I just didn’t remember it being this graphic.

  The actress’s tits are right fucking there.

  “Do you want to turn this off and watch something else?” I hear myself croak out, realizing just then that when I sat down on the couch, I grossly miscalculated the distance between us. Instead of giving her inches of berth, our legs and thighs and hips are touching.

  “No,” comes Violet’s soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

  “No?”

  I shift in my seat, the heat from her denim-clad thigh only making the tension worse.

  “No. We’re good.”

  I know I shouldn’t react—I do—and yet, when Violet’s soft hand finds mine beneath the blanket and slides into mine, and fits…I move, body inching closer like a magnet is drawing me nearer.

  Our fingers entwine, her other hand runs along the top of my thigh, patting it, seemingly unaware of the raging war inside my underwear, my body losing an intense battle with itself.

  Fucking traitor.

  She innocently lays her head on my shoulder.

  The blonde hair on the top of her head tickles my nose, sending an odd twitch straight from my spine to my already pulsing dick. The little terror strains against the fabric of my jeans.

  “This is snuggling,” she informs me just as Claire Frasier has an orgasm not ten feet in front of us. Violet’s pretty face tips up so she can look into my eyes.

  Her body leans, fingers finding the bulk of my bicep and landing there, all the while clutching my other hand. It must be uncomfortable.