How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  So I move.

  Shift my body, slide my newly free hand around her narrow waist, pulling her in.

  I groan, head hitting the back of the couch, counting one, two, three, four in a piss-poor attempt at some semblance of self control.

  Four.

  That’s as high as my brain can count because I stop breathing when her smooth lips find the pulse in my throat. Give it the tiniest, barest whisper of a kiss.

  Soft, exploratory kisses, up and down the column of my thick neck, gentle nuzzles beneath my ear. “You’re not so bad at it,” Violet says, lips just inches from mine.

  Whoa, what the fuck.

  There is no fucking way she’s trying to seduce me right now. No. Way. She’s too naïve and gentle. In my gut, I know she’s just being affectionate. No way is she trying to get laid.

  So what the hell is she doing, kissing the side of my neck and whispering flirty shit into my ear? She might as well be whispering lines from a porno. My brain works in overtime, trying to sort it out but coming up with nothing.

  I sit ramrod straight, afraid to move. Not wanting to lead her on, or worse yet—take advantage.

  Is this what being noble feels like?

  If it is, being noble fucking sucks.

  Am I attracted to Violet? Yes.

  Do I want to bang Violet? Yes.

  Would I screw her if she threw herself at me? Yes.

  Her head hits my shoulder again, whole body relaxes into me, vibrant and warm. Buzzing. The hum of electricity circling is deafening, and when she tips her face to smile up at me?

  I lower mine.

  Give in, just this once.

  Lips grazing.

  Again.

  Again. And again.

  Faint. Tantalizing.

  Small, teasing kisses I didn’t know I was capable of.

  Kisses that leave bruises? Those have always been more my speed. Girls that bite and spank and like to be told what to do? That’s what I’m used to. Girls who make all the moves, are aggressive, who don’t expect anything in return but an orgasm—those girls don’t want to be friends.

  My lips rest on hers, and I inhale her clean skin and perfume. Lift my hand to stroke the side of her face, caressing her smooth porcelain skin with the pad of my calloused thumb. With hands that might not have known hard work, but have worked hard. Hours upon hours of training and breaking my back for the wrestling team. Early mornings and late nights. Long road trips. Short weekends. Sacrificing a personal life to sink every spare moment into my team, until I’m left gasping for breath, because they’re all I’ve got.

  But Violet is with me now.

  I’m not sure what the hell it all means, or what the hell I’m doing here with her, but I know how good it fucking feels with her mouth pressed against mine. With her fingers running the length of my thigh, intentionally or not, driving a hot zip of friction to my groin.

  I groan into her mouth, dragging a hand from her face, straight down her arm. It hits her hip, kneading the flesh above the waistline of her jeans. Squeezes. Fingers the fabric of her hemline and curls, tugging.

  She presses closer with a little hum, small breasts brushing my chest, our breaths mingling.

  We can’t get enough of each other. Violet’s hands are in my hair, gliding along my shoulders, gripping, feeling, memorizing every hard line of my upper torso. Touching me like she’s never felt a man’s pecs before, never felt their arms or chest or muscles.

  Touching me like…

  Like I’m…

  Shit. The way I’m touching her.

  I want to fuck her so bad now I can hardly think straight.

  My hand roams her slender form, large hand running up and down her thigh. In between her legs and under her shirt.

  Up her flat stomach.

  There’s nothing special about her bare torso; it’s not like I haven’t had my hand up a girl’s shirt before. But this is Violet’s heat, Violet’s skin, and she’s letting me run the open part of my hand toward the curve of her breasts.

  I arrive at her bra; it’s so small I can fit my entire hand over the sheer cup. No underwire. Textured, I finger the lace and slide my hand all the way inside. Fingers toying with her breast, thumb flicking her nipple.

  Violet moans. So unexpectedly long and loud, I play with her again. Her tits are small, sure, but when I effortlessly glide my palm over the palest, silkiest skin I’ve ever felt, the size isn’t even registering in my brain as inadequate.

  She feels perfect. Unspoiled.

  On the television, there’s shouting and arguing as the Highlanders engage in battle, but I barely hear any of it.

  Our tongues roll, hers tentative at first. That’s fine, I don’t need her trying to devour me; we can build to that.

  My hands slide out from under her bra, tracking toward the waistline of her pants. Dip down into her waistband, back and forth over her hips with just enough room to roam.

  She sucks in a breath.

  Holds it.

  I smile into her mouth, teeth nipping at her bottom lip, fumbling to find the button on her jeans, feeling around the denim belt loops blindly, like Helen Keller on steroids.

  “Zeke, please stop.”

  I freeze. Stop. Fingers motionless at the fly of her pants. Lowering my hand slowly, I pull away from her body, eyes seeking her wide hazel irises. Face flushed, her parted lips plump from being thoroughly sucked and kissed.

  “I’m sorry, but we have to stop.”

  I lean forward on the couch, resting those coarse palms on my knees, running them up and down my thighs before raising them to my head, running them through my hair.

  “It’s fine, Violet.”

  “I-I thought m-maybe I could do this, but I can’t.”

  Can’t?

  That—that right there is what sets me off.

  “Do this with me, or with anyone?” The words slip out of my mouth, already knowing the answer.

  She doesn’t want to do this with me, and why the hell is that bothering me so much? I’m not fucking good enough? Too angry, too dark, too forward?

  “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Whatever. I said it’s fine.” My jaw is clenched. I work it back and forth to loosen it, certain I must look like a psychopath.

  She’s struggling to tug her shirt down, straightening the hemline, pulling it over her waistband. “Y-you don’t sound fine…”

  I laugh, the sound slightly maniacal. “Trust me. I was fine before you came alone, and I’ll be fine long after you’re gone.” I stand abruptly, snatching up my jacket then tugging on my boots.

  “Why are you getting so upset?” One hand rakes over that pink mouth, tips of her fingers stoking her swollen lips.

  “I’m not,” I grind out, unconvincing.

  “I-I just didn’t want things to go too far.”

  “Too far? We’ve been making out for like, five minutes. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Her face turns bright red. “But you were unzipping my pants…”

  “So? What did you think I was going to do, Violet? Fuck you on the couch? We were just making out, it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe I wanted to get you off—Jesus, I’m able to control myself.”

  “I know that!”

  “Then why did you stop us?” I start to yank open the front door, pausing when she gives a diminutive shrug. “Are you afraid of one goddamn orgasm or are you just afraid of me?”

  “I-I was trying to gather my wits!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We both know you have more experience than I do; maybe I wanted five seconds before letting you stick your hand inside my pants.”

  I stab my finger toward the ground. “This is the reason I don’t do relationships. This. Right here.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say.” She scowls as I step onto the front porch. “Did it ever occur to you not to react like I just rejected you? This isn’t about you, Zeke, it’s about me. We could have just stopped and cooled off
for a minute.”

  Her voice gets louder with each word that comes pouring, crystal clear, out of her mouth, hands balled up into little fists.

  Her frustration wins out a breath later.

  “I-It’s embarrassing enough t-telling you I have less experience. My track record is two guys! Two. And then you throw it back at me by being an insensitive jerk! Sex isn’t a big deal to you, but it’s a big deal to me—it’s for relationships.” She’s stabbing herself in the chest with her thumb. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Zeke Daniels, but I’m not the kind of girl you just sleep with. I-I’m the kind you keep.”

  She’s glaring knives and daggers.

  “Do you care? No! God no! You have your head stuck so far up your own ass, you probably haven’t noticed that guys aren’t exactly lining up to date me!”

  What the hell? I’m the one getting rejected here, so what is she so upset about?

  “You’re taking this the wrong way. I just wanted to take a quick step back before we crossed the line.” Violet’s hand grips the door handle. “So go. Go on. Leave if you’re going to be a big baby.”

  Then, just as I’m about to open my mouth and, I don’t know, apologize, Violet does the last thing I expect her to do.

  She slams the fucking door in my face.

  Zeke: You should know—I don’t apologize to people.

  Violet: Then don’t.

  Zeke: But I feel goddamn guilty about leaving.

  Violet: You didn’t have to text me to tell me that. I don’t feel bad about kicking you out.

  Zeke: You didn’t kick me out, I left.

  Violet: Remember that part where I slammed the door in your face.

  Zeke: LOL right…but not until I got up to leave.

  Violet: Like a big baby.

  Zeke: Sorry, what?

  Violet: You heard me.

  Zeke: You’ve called me that once already tonight, sure you don’t want to take it back?

  Violet: You have a lot to learn about relationships if you think getting huffy and walking out on someone is mature.

  Zeke: Relationship? What relationship.

  Violet: Our friendship. This relationship.

  Zeke: Hate to break it to ya, but I walk out on my friends all the time

  Violet: Your other friends might be okay with you treating them like that, but I am not.

  Violet: I deserve more respect than that. Don’t you think?

  Violet: Don’t you?

  Violet: So now you’re going to ignore me?

  Violet: Hello? Are you there?

  Zeke: Yes.

  Violet: Yes…what.

  Zeke: Yes. You deserve more respect than that.

  Violet: And you’re sorry you walked out on me?

  Zeke: Yes. I feel like a jackass for walking out on you, and it pissed me off when you…

  Zeke: Wait. Did you just use psychology bullshit on me to get me to apologize?

  Violet: Maybe

  Zeke: Please knock that shit off.

  Violet: Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. We’ll see.

  Zeke

  This place is such a dive. I can’t believe we keep coming here.

  An old-school biker bar turned college hangout, there’s a jukebox hanging on the wall that has a catalogue of hair bands, 80s rock, Led Zeppelin, and any country music recorded before 1989.

  Assholes and trouble can be found lurking in every dark corner of this hovel. Its parking lot. Its back alley. Its basement.

  I would know—I’ve been in trouble in all three places.

  When Violet walks through the big, busted up front door, I know it’s her before I can even see her face.

  She’s not standing under a light, but her hair is so pale that it translucently shines from her spot near the bar, even though she’s shrouded in semi-darkness. Braided around the crown of her head, the rest falls down her back in loose curls. Ethereal. Sweet, like she showers in flowers, rainbows, sunshine and shit.

  I watch her profile when she nods, smiling up at her friend with the brunette hair, a tall, pretty girl with just as much laughter in her eyes as Violet.

  They’re out of place here, not fit for any of the assholes in here. Not a single one.

  Including myself.

  What the fuck are they doing here? What were her asshole friends thinking coming to this place? Despite being one of the most popular off-campus bars, Mad Dog Jacks is little more than a glorified biker bar. Loud, gloomy, and rough, the place has an odd cast of characters: drunk students, drunk locals, drunk bikers, and bartenders that pour heavy.

  Violet breezes toward the bar with her three friends, so small and delicate, pale hair glowing under the lights like some kind of goddamn halo.

  A pixie in a room full of dark, boorish giants with no manners.

  Pixie.

  I’m actually glad I texted her last night.

  She’s dancing now, spinning away from me, flowers at the knot in back of her hair. I can’t tell what color the flowers are—probably some shade of purple—but they’re stuck in the braid crowning her head. Jesus, seriously? Flowers in her hair at a biker bar?

  They make her look youthful and naïve and vulnerable.

  She is going to be eaten a-fucking-live.

  Or worse.

  I choke down the beer in the bottle I’m clutching. It’s tepid at best, and barely tolerable.

  Glaring, I turn my attention toward the cluster of preppy fraternity boys bearing down on her little group of friends, their pockets probably stuffed full of Rohypnol. The thought makes me queasy; Violet didn’t come here to get pawed at or taken advantage of by a bunch of drunks.

  After driving away from her last night, I realize I probably know her better than she realizes. I know she’s a damn bleeding heart. I know she’s selfless, but only to a point. Kindhearted. Quiet. Inexperienced.

  Stronger than either of us recognize.

  Too goddamn trusting.

  Too goddamn sunny for my gloom and doom.

  Too light for my dark.

  Too good for my bad.

  Too everything.

  Not to mention, she’s a horrible dancer.

  I actually chuckle out loud at that last one as I watch her hopping around the dance floor, no rhythm. Taking another drag off my beer bottle, I drain it and set it on the round, bar-height table next to me, watching her from the corner of my eye. Violet’s head tips back, the column of her slim neck visible under the lights as she sways to the music, laughing along with her friends.

  I wonder if they’re her roommates. I wonder which one of them brought her here.

  “What the hell is Violet doing here,” I finally wonder out loud to no one in particular.

  Mostly to myself.

  Only fucking Oz hears me, nudging me in the ribcage. “Dude, what is it with you accosting girls who go out to have fun?” He pesters on. “You did this shit to James when we started dating, remember? Every time we’d see her at a damn party, you had an issue with it.”

  I ignore him, gesturing instead to Violet and her friends, pointing like a dumbass. “Look how out of place she is.”

  Oz turns and regards me weirdly. Warily. “Dude, I think you’re finally losing your grip on reality.”

  “Or maybe I’m just a concerned citizen.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you mind your own business and leave her alone. Stop fucking staring. We voted: you staring at her is weirding us out.”

  He’s right, I should stop staring.

  But I don’t.

  Because I can’t.

  Violet

  The last person I expect to see at Mad Dog Jacks is Zeke—I’ve been here a few times in the past year and have never run into him and his wrestling buddies—but that’s who is leaning in now, all lips and warm breath, murmuring into my ear from behind.

  I shiver when his gruff voice inquires, “Vi, what the hell are you doing here?” The heat from his entire body presses into my backside.

  I freeze when h
e rests those big hands of his on my hips.

  “Same thing you are, I suspect.”

  “You suspect?” His hum vibrates.

  “M-My friends love this place. Melinda’s boyfriend works here, and I go where they go, so…” I babble, pulling out of his embrace. Grasp? Hold?

  I turn to face him. Give a helpless little shrug, giving his eyes permission to trail along the front of my dress. The long-sleeved baby blue tunic hits mid-thigh. The legs I spent ten minutes shaving and rubbing with moisturizer are silky smooth. The beige half boots add three inches to my petite frame.

  The delicate silver V dangles between my breasts.

  It’s not the sexiest bar outfit—not by a long shot—but it’s short and flirty, and I’m comfortable. Covered, really, since the only skin flashing is my legs.

  Zeke drags his narrowed eyes up and down my torso, back to mine, leans forward, his palm grazing my forearm. “I still feel like a dick after last night.”

  “You acted like a d-dick.” Great, dick is the perfect word to stutter over, Violet. Real classy.

  “You look pretty.”

  “I do?” I mean, I do—I know I do, I’m not a fool. I know guys think I’m cute, know they like my pale wavy hair and weird hazel eyes.

  But that’s just it; I’m cute, not sexy. The good girl next door, not the polished sorority girl or outgoing flirt. The girls that show up at his wrestling meets all dolled up with half their clothes off.

  Like the girls in this bar.

  Like my own roommates, whose shirts are cropped. Whose pants are tight.

  The music beats around us, bass pumping. It’s dark and dingy and he has to move in even closer to hear me when I say, “You think I look pretty?”

  He quirks one of those dark, somber eyebrows. “You know I do.”

  My head gives a little shake. “This isn’t how you talk to me. You don’t say things like that.”

  No, he normally growls words like a bear.

  “Maybe I don’t know how.”

  I tip my head to study him. “How many beers have you had?”

  “Three.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah, three. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  I giggle. “You’re a big boy. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”