The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(27)

Elliot waves sheepishly, flipping shaggy brown bangs and pushing up his glasses. “Hey.”

“So what are the two of you doing?” Oz wants to know. “Having a tea party?”

“Leaving!” I blurt out. “Violet was just leaving.”

I don’t know why I say it, don’t know why I said it with so much insistence in my voice, but the words are out before I can curtail them or wipe away the wounded expression crossing Violet’s face.

You could hear a pin drop it gets so quiet.

The whole damn house is silent.

I’d chance a look at her from under the brim of my ball cap, but I don’t want to see whatever hurt I know is pasted on her face. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Shame.

Take your fucking pick.

Steaming hot, heavy mug still in her hand, she sets it quietly on the table. Stands ramrod straight. Fakes a smile. “I-I guess I-I was just leaving.” Wipes her hands on the front of her leggings. “It was n-nice meeting you all.”

Oh Jesus, the stuttering is my fucking fault.

“You don’t have to go!” Jameson starts in with her special brand of nagging as Violet awkwardly skirts past, sleeve brushing my arm. “Don’t listen to Zeke; he’s a grouchy old bear.”

Nonetheless, they let Violet pass.

“Shit. Hold up a second!” I follow her as far as the living room, hands half raised, palms up, beseeching. “What am I supposed to do about Kyle?”

She slides her tiny feet into her black Chuck Taylors, presenting me with her back. “He’s sleeping Zeke. You’ll be fine.”

Everyone stands uncomfortably, giving us a wide berth, and I expect one of them to say something snarky. Instead they actually all look disappointed.

Well, they’re about to become more disa-fucking-pointed because I have zero romantic interest in Violet. Do they honestly think I’d bang a chick like that and let her loiter around the house? She has long-term commitment stamped in the center of her goddamn forehead.

My taste in women is simple: one-night stands. Not someone you’d bring home to your parents.

Women with dark hair.

Blue eyes.

Disposable.

The door opens and Violet steps down into the cold winter weather, steaming breath rising in the dark, illuminated by the porch light I rush over to flip—don’t want her tripping and killing herself on a rock or whatever.

“Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice.” I prop the door open with my foot, leaning on the doorjamb.

She lifts a palm to acknowledge my statement but continues down the sidewalk to the street. An old tan sedan that must be at least ten years old is parked out near the curb, and I hear her keys jingling in the dark as she fumbles her way down the walk.

Jameson grabs Violet’s jacket off the hook, shoulders past me, and jams her elbow into my gut before chasing her into the dark yard.

“Sooo…” Oz can hardly contain his meddling. “What the hell was that all about—and what the hell is a Kyle?”

Elliot has cleared the room.

“Kyle is a kid I’m watching. He’s sleeping in my bedroom.” Oz opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a brisk, “Don’t ask.”

“But—”

“Just shut the fuck up for once, would you Oz?”

This is partly his fault.

“You know I can’t do that man.” He moves into the kitchen, picks up Violet’s discarded hot chocolate, and sips from the mug. “Wow, this is good. Makes me feel all toasty inside.”

Jeez, not him too.

He grips the mug in one hand, the counter in the other. Lifts the mug again and examines it with narrowed eyes. “You don’t think that girl has any sexually transmitted diseases, do you? Before I go ham on this cocoa?”

He knows damn well what her name is, and he knows damn well she doesn’t have any STDs.

I’m practically growling. “Are you fucking serious?”

He slurps from the cup. “As a heart attack.” Lets out a loud, “Ahhh, this shit is good. Expensive, but good.”

“She doesn’t have any STDs asshole; why would you say that? And her name is Violet.”

He quirks a brow. “I’m just treating her like all the other randoms you bring home. Don’t get all bent out of shape. It’s a fair question.”

No, it’s not, and he knows it. And he knows she is nothing like the randoms I occasionally bring home. Nothing.

“She’s not like that—if you couldn’t tell.”

More slurping. “I didn’t have the chance to make a fair assessment; you basically shoved her out the door and into the cold ten seconds after we got home.” Slurp, slurp. “I bet she’s crying into her Cheerios right now.”

“Please, I highly doubt that.”

“Dude, she was stuttering—what the hell were you doing to her? She was flipping out.”

What the hell was I doing to her? Instead of defending myself to Sebastian Osborne, I roll my eyes.

“She always stutters.”

His eyes get huge. “What do you mean, she always stutters?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Like, is she deaf?”

“No jackass, she’s not fucking deaf! Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that? Don’t be an asshole.”