The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(25)

She shoots me a shy smile. “Well in that case, I think I’ll go with the soy.”

“We have that ’cause Elliot is lactose intolerant.” I root around, shifting shit around to free the carton of soy. “So we always have it.”

“Oh! I don’t want to use Elliot’s stuff.”

“Chill out, it’s fine.”

I don’t mention that I’m the one doing all the grocery shopping, or that my roommates almost never pay me back for food, so technically, it’s all my mine.

“Okay, if you’re sure he isn’t going to get upset, then I trust you.”

I trust you.

Those three words have me standing there holding the milk, staring at her, weighing the words but just fucking staring at her like a moron because she said she trusts me.

Obviously she doesn’t mean it in a deeper sense—it’s fucking soy milk—but no one has ever said those words to me before.

Violet doesn’t even know me. I doubt she even likes me—no one does. I’m not nice, and I’m not an idiot; I know what they say about me behind my back and the way girls look at me. They’ll fuck me because of my body and because I’m a wrestler for Iowa, but that’s where the desire ends.

My friends put up with my shit because they have to; I own the house they live in and I’m on their wrestling team. They’re stuck with me until we graduate or I get kicked off the team because of my shitty attitude.

Sucks to be them, I guess.

Violet’s large trusting gaze meets mine as I take her measure, still holding the milk. Her black leggings hug her slender thighs. Her black long-sleeved t-shirt is tight and pulls across her small chest. I can see the outline of a bra beneath the thin fabric, but continue traveling up her torso. Her long slender neck is checkered with red splotches.

Her blonde hair is a wild, sexy mess.

She isn’t hating me right now; I can see it in her eyes.

I trust you.

I twist the top off the milk and pour the mug full, muttering “Fuck,” when some spills over the side.

Her laugh is sweet. “Want help with anything?”

“I got it. You relax.” What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Saying.

Robotically, I set the mug inside the microwave, hit the quick minute button twice. We stand there in an awkward silence for one hundred twenty seconds, the countdown on the clock taking a fucking eternity.

Thirty more seconds.

Twenty.

Eighteen.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Violet says when the microwave beeps and I yank the door open. Take the mug out, set it on the counter, and pull the top of the peppermint-striped canister.

I dig a spoon in and add three heaping scoops, hoping she likes her shit extra chocolatey. Stir it rapid fire, toss in a handful of marshmallows, and hand it to her.

“Thanks,” she says again, sipping the white froth off the top. “Mmm, this is delicious.”

I watch her tongue dart out and lick the melted chocolate off the lip of the cup, then the melted mallow. Watch to see if any of it clings to her top lip, wanting desperately to see her pink tongue dart out again.

Desperately?

Shit, I need to get laid. Or at least a blow job.

I’ll definitely be jerking off later.

“Mind if I have a beer?” I ask, going back to the fridge, hand halting mid-reach for an amber ale. “Oh shit, that’s right—I probably shouldn’t have a beer because I have a kid in the house, should I?”

“Probably not a good idea.”

I twist the top of a water bottle instead, leaning my hip against the kitchen counter as she takes a seat at the table.

“So,” I begin. “What’s with you doing shit for little kids all the time?”

Her light brown brows go up. “What do you mean?”

The cynical part of me—the part that appears most often—chuckles.

“Come on Violet, what’s with you always doing shit for little kids? You know, babysitting and taking them to parks and being so patient. Was your childhood like, the goddamn Brady Bunch so you want everything to be magic and unicorns shitting rainbow dust all the time? I bet the Tooth Fairy came to your house, and all that other made-up bullshit.” I pause to take a chug of water. “Did your parents kiss your blonde little ass growing up? Bet you never got into trouble.”

She stretches out the silence, letting it grow heavy in my tiny green kitchen, expression going from shy and delighted to pensive and reflective.

“No actually, it was nothing like that at all.”

I snort. “Yeah right.”

“I wish it had been but…” A small shrug. “My parents are gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone? Like on vacation?” It isn’t an unreasonable question; that’s where my parents are—gone.

Violet shots me a peculiar look. “No. Gone.” Her voice is quiet, her features impassive. “They’re dead. They died.”

Well…

Shit.

“When?”

“A long time ago. I was young. Four years old.”

The halo of white blonde hair suddenly makes her look incredibly vulnerable now that I know yet another personal thing about her, something I didn’t necessarily care to find out, but…

Too late now.

Violet plays with the handle of her mug, running a finger up and down the polished white ceramic. Two hearts are painted on the mug with the initials J and S—two smudged, shitty-looking hearts my roommate Ozzy painted at one of those lame pottery painting places. Jameson made one, too, so it would be a matching set.