The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(14)

“That poor kid,” someone else laughs.

I grunt, puffing out a breath of air, perspiration coating my upper lip, chest, back, and forehead. A bead of sweat slides down my temple as I build a wall, mentally blocking out the sound of Rex Gunderson’s irritating voice.

“Does the kid have a hot mom?”

What the fuck?

I try raising my head, despite the amount of weight I’m currently bench pressing.

“Shake it off man, you’re almost done. Six more.” Sebastian Osborne—my teammate and roommate—glances down at me, mouth set in a hard line. “Shut the fuck up, Rex, he’s in the middle of a set.” Then to me he adds, “Five more.”

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The metal bar hits the rack with a clatter at the same time the air leaves my body, a long, loud breath expelled from the exertion. I lay motionless, breathing in and out to catch lungfuls of air.

Flex my pec muscles. Raise my torso up, straddling the seat of the weight bench.

“I hear you’re doing more than babysitting.”

“Oh yeah?” I snap. “Where did you hear that?”

“My RA volunteers at the tourist information center next to some park. She saw you yesterday with some kids and a blonde chick.”

“Well isn’t she just a wealth of information.”

“I see you’re not denying it.”

“Why would I? Your resident assistant already gave you the juicy details. I was at a park yesterday. Riveting.”

Gunderson laughs. “You babysitting for free, Daniels? I might have a job for you. My kid brother is eight.”

“Don’t you have anything to do Rex? Fill the water bottles? Fetch us some fresh towels?” Oz walks away from my spot on the bench and struts to the free weights. He stands in front of the racks, deliberating, before selecting two thirty-pound dumbbells and beginning reps of curls.





Violet clears her throat. “So, I-I know this is going to come out sounding awkward, but I told them I’d at least ask you.”

“I thought I came to the library for peace and quiet so I can get this done, not chitchat.”

She’s here helping me again, but instead of getting down to business, she chooses today to be chatty. My bio paper is due in two weeks; desperation and determination to get the damn thing done are the only reasons I scheduled time to have her sitting across from me.

My pen hovers above the notebook open on the tabletop.

“I-I know, I know, but I told them—”

“Them who?”

“Summer and Kyle.”

This get my attention. “What the hell do they want?”

Violet narrows those almond-shaped eyes at me, black lashes fluttering. Agitated. “They’re children. Please be respectful.”

“Fine. What do the darling children wish for you to ask me, pray tell?” I smirk. “That better?”

“Kyle and Summer were talking…”

Fucking Kyle. That kid and his meddling.

“…and the kids were wondering…”

Oh. The kids were wondering?

“…if we could do a play date on their next Thursday with the both of us. I-I promised I’d at least ask.”

We sit silently while the words sink in.

She’s asking me to do a play date.

Play. Date.

Me. With two kids.

Hysterical.

She forges on, because if there’s one thing about Violet that I’ve discovered, it’s that she will do anything for a little kid.

“Kyle assumed you’d say no.”

“Kyle is a very bright young boy.”

“You’re not even going to think about it, are you?”

“Nope. Why should I?”

She takes a deep breath for courage and forges on. “Because, the kids want—”

“Oh! Oh!” I mock. “The kids want! Let me fall all over myself doing fun shit because some eleven-year-old is begging me to.” I level her with a stare. “Tough. Shit. Kids don’t always get what they want, Violet. It’s called life and they’re going to be bitterly disappointed throughout the rest of it.”

She regards me then, quiet. Waiting.

Patient.

Always so goddamn patient.

It’s unnerving and annoying.

Just like Jameson, Oz’s girlfriend.

“I understand.”

“You’re not even going to try to change my mind?” I spit out, no longer able to stand her ambivalence. “You know, for the kids.”

“No.” Her soft voice is barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t my intention to get you all worked up and m-mad about it. I’m so—”

“Don’t fucking apologize. Can we just get this goddamn paper done so I can go home? I have a shit ton of other studying to do.” I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

Jesus Christ. She’s looking at me like I just kicked her puppy, dejected and crestfallen, no doubt from my callous dismissal.

Well that’s too damn bad, because I don’t have time to think about her sensitive feelings. Or Summer’s. Or Kyle’s. So she can just take her sad eyes and downturned mouth and…

Shaking my head, I ignore the knot forming in the bottom of my stomach, dismissing it as hunger pains. Yeah, that must be what it is; I haven’t eaten in hours and normally don’t go more than two hours between a snack or meal. Why else would my gut feel so shitty?