The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(13)

“It’s lame but he had no other place to take me.”

“There are a million places to go!” I turn toward Zeke. “Let’s discuss some more ideas.”

“No.”

Oh brother, what a grouch.

I ignore him, vowing to come up with a fun list later, and turn to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Well Kyle, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Violet.” I hold up a sheet of paper, offering it to him. “I know you’re older, but do you want to craft? Your new friend is Summer, and she’s making her mom a card.”

Kyle scrambles onto the bench and eagerly snatches the paper out of my hand. “Sure! I can make one for my mom, too. And Summer’s not the worst—for a girl.”

I laugh again. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”

Zeke snorts. “A backhanded one.”

Kyle looks up, confusion on his face. “What’s a backhanded one?”

“A backhanded compliment is saying something nice and being rude at the same time.”

“I wasn’t being rude!”

I step in, spreading out some more paper to give the kids a broader selection, and to inhibit the argument brewing between a twenty-one-year-old guy and an eleven-year-old child.

“Paper? Crayons?” Zeke groans. “Ugh, seriously? Jesus. How long is this going to take?”

“I-is this not okay?” I pause. “Do you have somewhere to be? If he needs to get back…”

“I don’t have to get back!” Kyle replies helpfully, already digging into the crayons.

“Fine.” The storm across Zeke’s face darkens as he crosses his bulky arms. “Make it snappy.”





Zeke



“Hey Mom.” Kyle bounds up to his mother two excruciatingly long hours later. Two painful, irritating hours spent watching him craft, color, and glue with Summer and Violet at the park.

“Hey kiddo. How was it?” She reaches for a lock of his brown hair, running her fingers through a short strand with a grin. “Is this glitter?”

“Yeah, we got into a glitter fight.” Sheepishly, the kid hands her his drawing of a lion. “Here, I made this for the fridge.”

While she studies the picture—a blue piece of construction paper covered in crayon and yellow, furry balls—I study her. Young, with frazzled brown hair, her black mascara is smudged under her eyes. Tired. Drained.

Kyle’s mom extends a hand toward me, and I take it, pumping it up and down. “Hi, I’m Krystal, Kyle’s mom.”

Normally, when I shake anyone’s hand, I squeeze it, but Krystal’s fingers feel frail and weak. Cold as ice. The bones brittle as a bird’s.

Exhausted.

She ruffles her son’s mop of unkempt hair with hands that know a hard day’s work. “Sorry I’m a little late, pal. I had to wait on Donna to take over my shift.”

“Are you a nurse Mrs. Fowler?” I wonder out loud.

“It’s Jones. Ms. I was never married.” She frowns. “And no, I’m not a nurse. I’m a waitress at the truck stop off Old 90 and just worked a double. You must be the new Big.” Krystal looks me up and down critically. “What did you say your name was?”

“Zeke Daniels.”

She purses her lips my direction, checking me out again from head to toe. Krystal’s shrewd brown eyes take in the sweat-stained hoodie I wore running, black puffy vest, mesh track pants that haven’t been washed in over a week, and the two-hundred-dollar tennis shoes I’m wearing without socks.

Her penciled-on eyebrows rise before she glances down expectantly at her son, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “Well? How was it?”

“It was okay,” I drone at the same time Kyle gushes, “It was so great, Mom! Zeke and I are already best friends.” My brows shoot up into my hairline. “He’s the best Big I’ve ever had!”

I scowl down at the little shit. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Kyle shrugs and his mom’s disapproving gaze shoots back and forth between us; she knows one of us is bullshitting about the truth, but can’t decide who.

Still, she says, “All right, so you’re going to be his once-weekly.” Krystal digs in her purse, producing her car keys. “I work every day, sometimes doubles, so I’m always running late.”

Great.

“His dad isn’t in the picture, so if you want to have him more than once a week, make sure you give me plenty of advanced notice. I know it’s against the center’s policies, but it would really help me out if you could take him more than a few hours, especially on Thursdays.”

She is completely out of her fucking mind if she thinks that will ever happen.

“My number is…” she starts.

I stand with my arms crossed, leaning against the front counter.

“My number is…” Krystal repeats.

A pointy elbow jams me in the ribcage. “Zeke, get your phone out.”

Fuck. My. Life.





“Hey Daniels. I heard you’re a babysitter now,” one of my teammates calls out in the weight room just as I’m lifting a solid three hundred pounds above my head.