The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(23)

Violet: Let’s not say anything else about my boobs please.

Zeke: I kind of need a favor.

Violet: …



Oh, I see—she’s not going to make this easy, is she?



Zeke: What are you doing right now?

Violet: Reading.

Zeke: What are you reading?

Violet: What do you want, Zeke? I know you’re not just texting to be friendly. Ask me for the favor and get to the point.



My brows shoot up; she’s really being sassy. I like it.



Zeke: Kyle is here. I need help.

Violet: Is everything okay?

Zeke: Well, yeah. I mean he’s watching TV, but his mom has to stay at work and needed me to watch him. So he’s on my couch.

Violet: Have you ever babysat a little kid before?

Zeke: That would be a no.

Violet: Yeah, I figured you’d say that.

Zeke: Yeah, so, he’s here at my place…

Violet: If everything is okay, then what’s the problem?



Freaking A, why can’t she just volunteer to come help me? Why do I have to come out and ask? It’s pretty obvious that’s what I’m texting her for.



Zeke: He’s on the couch. Do I leave him there or what?

Violet: Does he look content? What’s he doing?

Zeke: Watching TV. I don’t know what the hell this show is called but there are two guys running around in superhero capes and blowing shit up, one is Captain Man. It’s fucked up.

Violet: Is he laughing?

Zeke: Yeah.

Violet: Then you should be good :)

Zeke: I’ll pay you.

Violet: Pay me to do what?

Zeke: Pay you to come save me.

Violet: From an eleven-year-old? LOL

Zeke: Yes, exactly. Any moment he’s going to need something. Or realize his mom isn’t coming back until late.

Violet: I guess I could stop by to check on you.

Violet: But only for a few minutes—this is your gig. I’m just coming to make sure you don’t burn down your house with him inside it.

Zeke: Great. How does fifty bucks sound?

Violet: I just rolled my eyes—you don’t have to pay me to stop by. Just tell me your address.

Zeke: 2110 Downer

Violet: Putting on coat. See you in five.





Violet removes her coat, draping it across the back of a chair near the door, and fluffs her white blonde hair. No matter how hard my brain tries not to notice her figure, my eyes can’t help themselves: black leggings, black t-shirt, black Chucks.

She’s slim and petite, fists propped on her hips.

“Where’s the little guy at?”

My lips part, and I want to make a joke about the little guy being inside my pants, but don’t want to be offensive after the whole trampoline park boob thing. Besides, my roommate Oz is the pervert, not me, and the last thing I want is for her to leave.

“In here.” I point toward the living room. “The little shit passed out on me. I wasn’t sure what to do with him.”

“Aww, poor lil’ guy. It only took eight minutes for me to get here!” Her hazel eyes narrow. “You didn’t give him any beer, did you?” she jokes softly, tiptoeing to the couch.

Violet peers down at Kyle, bending at the waist to gaze affectionately as he snores soundly, then looks up at me. “I’m so sorry I said the beer thing. It was a joke.”

“I’m an asshole, not an idiot—I got the joke. You’re very funny.” I shove my hand into my pockets, rooted to the carpet. “So? Do I leave him in here or what?”

Violet looks around, biting down on her lower lip. Her eyes light up. “Why don’t we move him into your bedroom? Then he can get some decent sleep. I don’t think you want him waking up when your roommates come home. He has school tomorrow.”

Good point. “Okay, yeah. I’ll toss him in bed.”

That I can do.

I move to the couch, strategizing my plan for picking him up.

Bend at the knees, scoop up Kyle’s limp, lifeless little body, support it in my arms—I free-weight more than this kid weighs.

Violet skirts around me, silently questioning which room is mine, and I nod with my head to the door at the end of the hall to the right. “That one,” I mouth.

Violet sneaks past, turning the knob to my room and pushing gently on the door. Stands in the threshold, glancing around.

I made the bed this morning, so she rushes forward, pulling down the black bedspread, dragging it low enough for me to set Kyle down, completely dressed.

We stand side by side, staring down at him.

“His shoes,” Violet mouths, pointing to the scuffed-up tennis shoes strapped to the squirt’s feet. She then pantomimes that I should take them off.

Obediently, I kneel at the foot of the bed, untying one raggedy tennis shoe, then the other. Holding them in the palm of my massive hand, I give them a onceover: gray and black with red laces, the rubber at the bottom is peeling back from the plastic base. The laces have broken in a few spots, but were retied instead of replaced.

The toes of both are scuffed to shit.

His mom is right, the kid needs new shoes; these are horrible—no way they have any good arch support left. I disregard them, placing them carefully under my window sill, out of the way so Kyle doesn’t trip if he wakes up and gets out of bed.