The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(21)

I catch myself, bouncing back up to my feet like a boss.

“Someone isn’t as light on their feet as they think they are,” she teases, beginning a steady bounce.

Up and down…up and down…crossing her arms protectively across her chest, holding her rack like she’s afraid they’re going to be flopping around.

I smirk.

“I don’t know why you’re holding your chest like that. You have almost no boobs,” I say it in an effort to be helpful, because seriously, the girl has no tits.

Judging by her flaming red cheeks, I’ve embarrassed the shit out her, and she presents me with her back. Slows her roll. Stops jumping all together and makes her way to the edge of the padded safety mat.

“Hey, where are you going?”

She ignores me.

I roll my eyes.

“Oh come on, don’t get pissed.” Jesus, why is everyone so damn sensitive all the time? “Can’t you take a joke?”

She spins around, narrowing her eyes as she climbs backward down the ladder. “It’s only a joke when other people find it funny.”





Zeke




“Hello?”

“Ezekiel?”

I scowl into the phone. “Jesus, no one calls me that. Who is this?”

“This is Krystal Jones. Kyle’s mom.”

Well, shit.

I glance down at the kid, who is half asleep in the passenger seat of my truck. We’re on our way home from an arcade to meet his mom. “Oh. Hey Krystal. What’s up?”

“I have a huge favor to ask, and I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate…”

“Lady, if you’re propositioning me—”

“I need you to watch Kyle tonight, just a little longer. One of our second shifters called in sick and I really need the money from this shift but have no one to watch Kyle.”

Uh, what does she think I am, a fucking babysitter?

“Ms. Jones…”

“I just need an answer.” It sounds like she’s in a crowded diner, and I hear her glancing over her shoulder. Hear someone calling her name in the background. “Can you watch him?”

I squint over at her son. He’s half out of it, head against the glass window, mouth falling open from exhaustion. Gross.

He better not drool on my damn seats.

“Uh…”

“Please.”

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“At my place or what?”

“Yes, if you could. I’m sorry. I don’t even know if I trust you, but I’m desperate. I know it’s against the mentor rules to even be asking you to babysit, but I need to keep my job. I need the hours.”

The desperation in her voice has me squeezing my eyes shut and pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck,” I draw out.

Krystal inhales a breath. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Ugh. I’ll do it if I have to.” I hate myself, but I’ll do it.

The call disconnects without any further instructions. Kyle peers at me through sleepy, hooded eyes. “Was that my mom?”

“Yup. Sorry dude, you’re coming home with me.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Do I have to?”

“Trust me, Kyle, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

Heading toward my house, I give him another glance. He really does look tired, and for a brief moment, I wonder about his parents and life at home.

“Where’s your dad, kid?”

“Where’s yours?” Jesus, even half asleep the kid is a little smartass.

Still, it’s a fair enough question. “My dad is…let’s see, how do I put this so you understand? My dad is a bag of shit.”

His eyes go wide. “Did he hit your mom?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Did your dad hit yours? but I hold back—I’m not that insensitive.

Fine, I am. But still, I bit my tongue.

“No, my dad didn’t hit my mom. In fact, they’re still married.”

“Does he buy you stuff?”

“Yes. He buys me stuff.” Stuff I charge on his credit card.

“How can he be a bag of shit if he buys you stuff?”

I snort. “Kid, you have a lot to learn about life. Just because someone buys you stuff doesn’t mean they actually care. Let’s use my parents for example—they give me things so I won’t bother them.” I shoot him a frown. “You know, I’m kind of like you in a way; I was shuffled around when I was young while my parents worked. They worked night and day, starting their business and inventing stuff. Stuff that made them a lot of money. I had tons of babysitters, all that shit, just like you. Sometimes I think they forgot they even had a son.”

“My mom doesn’t forget about me,” Kyle says with pride in his voice.

“No. She doesn’t. She’s working hard to keep a roof over your head. She’s a good mom.”

“Do your parents work a lot?”

“Kind of. They used to work day and night. Now my dad just works and my mom plays.”

Why the fuck am I telling this to an eleven-year-old?

“Where do they go?”

I have no idea. No longer care. “Anywhere they want.”