The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(28)

His hands go up in mock surrender. “Whoa, I was just asking. I mean, you can’t just say someone has a stutter and not expect a litany of questions to follow.”

Oh yes I fucking can.

But Oz isn’t done, not by a long shot. “What are you doing with that girl, man? It’s obvious you’re not sleeping with her.”

“Why is it obvious I’m not sleeping with her?”

He laughs. “Well, she doesn’t look like your usual type.”

She’s not, but that doesn’t stop me from asking, “And what is my usual type, smartass?”

We both know the answer to that one: big boobs, single, the end.

“Easy. Big boobs. In it for the D, and I don’t mean defense.” Oz finishes the hot chocolate from the hand-painted heart mug with a long drag, setting it down next to the sink. “So, what the hell are you doing with that girl, Zeke?”

Why the hell is he asking me this? We don’t have conversations like this, ones about sweet, na?ve girls who drink hot cocoa instead of liquor, do nothing but nice things for people, and have kind hearts. We just don’t. We talk about sports, and wrestling, and wrestling practice, so I don’t know why he’s butting into my business.

He’s in a relationship, so that suddenly makes him an expert?

Fuck.

That.

His bulky arms are crossed now, serious expression taking residence on his face. The overhead light in the kitchen makes the black tattoo sleeve on his arm more pronounced.

His dark eyes bore into me; he’s expecting an answer.

“We’re just…friends.”

“Friends?” He looks confused. “I didn’t know you did that.”

“You didn’t know I did what? Speak English.”

He throws his hands up. “Friends. I didn’t know you did friends, let alone friends with tits.”

This isn’t the right moment to point out that Violet doesn’t have any tits, and it’s not something I’d want to point out to him anyway—girlfriend or not, he’s kind of a pervert.

“Fine. I use the term friend loosely,” I concede.

Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I am actually doing with her. Am I attracted to her?

Maybe.

Okay, yes. I am.

And she’s growing on me every second we spend together. Anything more than that? I have no interest in exploring what that attraction means.

I’ve never given much thought to what I wanted in a girlfriend, because I’ve never had any intention of having one. Dating. Being in a relationship.

Shit, I barely have a relationship with my parents, and we’re related—so why am I thinking about Violet? Why am I letting her in my house? Inviting her to this fucking fundraiser?

“Violet.” Oz chuckles. “Even her name sounds like fucking sunshine and shit.”

It does. I begin rolling her name around in my head, playing it on a loop.

“James is going to be bummed,” Oz speculates.

“Oh, well in that case, let me chase after her so I can propose.” Like I care what Jameson Clark wants for my personal life.

Oz laughs at me. “I’m just saying, she’d love having another chick here to break up the testosterone.”

I snort through my nose. “James has more testosterone than the three of us combined.”

My roommate grins from ear to ear, pushing away from the counter and flexing. “I’m going to tell her you said that; coming from you, she’s going to take that as a compliment.”

“I’m sure she will.”





The first thing I hear when Jameson returns to the house from chasing Violet down is the distant sound of the front door slamming shut. Then I hear two boots drop to the hardwood floor, one at a time. The pads of her feet trudging down the hallway.

Arm pushing into my room without knocking.

I put a finger to my lips, shushing her from my spot at the desk. I don’t need her waking up Kyle, who’s curled into a tiny, breathing ball that’s been squirming every ten seconds.

Jameson’s eyes widen when she sees him.

“Knock much?” I whisper-hiss. “It’s not enough that you’ve infiltrated the house, now you’re breaking and entering people’s bedrooms?” I’m as quiet as I can possibly be through clenched teeth.

James stands indignantly at the foot of my bed, gazing down at Kyle. Whatever lecture she was about to deliver gets derailed by the sight of his slight, peacefully slumbering body.

Lucky little bastard.

She turns to face me, walking to stand beside me.

“Uh…what is going on with you lately?” Her low, easy laughter fills my bedroom. “Nice girls in the house. Volunteering. Now you’re babysitting a little kid? What the hell is happening?”

“Would you get out of my room? The kid here is trying to sleep,” I whisper frantically, raising a World War II history book, waving it in front of her face. “And I am trying to read.”

“You can’t kick me out,” she whispers back. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

I glare at her, glare at her straight brown hair and bright blue eyes. She’s wearing a boring gray t-shirt and the same damn pearl necklace she always has on, even when it’s just a well-worn shirt.