The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(54)

Zeke: LOL right…but not until I got up to leave.

Violet: Like a big baby.

Zeke: Sorry, what?

Violet: You heard me.

Zeke: You’ve called me that once already tonight, sure you don’t want to take it back?

Violet: You have a lot to learn about relationships if you think getting huffy and walking out on someone is mature.

Zeke: Relationship? What relationship.

Violet: Our friendship. This relationship.

Zeke: Hate to break it to ya, but I walk out on my friends all the time

Violet: Your other friends might be okay with you treating them like that, but I am not.

Violet: I deserve more respect than that. Don’t you think?

Violet: Don’t you?

Violet: So now you’re going to ignore me?

Violet: Hello? Are you there?

Zeke: Yes.

Violet: Yes…what.

Zeke: Yes. You deserve more respect than that.

Violet: And you’re sorry you walked out on me?

Zeke: Yes. I feel like a jackass for walking out on you, and it pissed me off when you…

Zeke: Wait. Did you just use psychology bullshit on me to get me to apologize?

Violet: Maybe

Zeke: Please knock that shit off.

Violet: Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. We’ll see.





Zeke



This place is such a dive. I can’t believe we keep coming here.

An old-school biker bar turned college hangout, there’s a jukebox hanging on the wall that has a catalogue of hair bands, 80s rock, Led Zeppelin, and any country music recorded before 1989.

Assholes and trouble can be found lurking in every dark corner of this hovel. Its parking lot. Its back alley. Its basement.

I would know—I’ve been in trouble in all three places.

When Violet walks through the big, busted up front door, I know it’s her before I can even see her face.

She’s not standing under a light, but her hair is so pale that it translucently shines from her spot near the bar, even though she’s shrouded in semi-darkness. Braided around the crown of her head, the rest falls down her back in loose curls. Ethereal. Sweet, like she showers in flowers, rainbows, sunshine and shit.

I watch her profile when she nods, smiling up at her friend with the brunette hair, a tall, pretty girl with just as much laughter in her eyes as Violet.

They’re out of place here, not fit for any of the assholes in here. Not a single one.

Including myself.

What the fuck are they doing here? What were her asshole friends thinking coming to this place? Despite being one of the most popular off-campus bars, Mad Dog Jacks is little more than a glorified biker bar. Loud, gloomy, and rough, the place has an odd cast of characters: drunk students, drunk locals, drunk bikers, and bartenders that pour heavy.

Violet breezes toward the bar with her three friends, so small and delicate, pale hair glowing under the lights like some kind of goddamn halo.

A pixie in a room full of dark, boorish giants with no manners.

Pixie.

I’m actually glad I texted her last night.

She’s dancing now, spinning away from me, flowers at the knot in back of her hair. I can’t tell what color the flowers are—probably some shade of purple—but they’re stuck in the braid crowning her head. Jesus, seriously? Flowers in her hair at a biker bar?

They make her look youthful and na?ve and vulnerable.

She is going to be eaten a-fucking-live.

Or worse.

I choke down the beer in the bottle I’m clutching. It’s tepid at best, and barely tolerable.

Glaring, I turn my attention toward the cluster of preppy fraternity boys bearing down on her little group of friends, their pockets probably stuffed full of Rohypnol. The thought makes me queasy; Violet didn’t come here to get pawed at or taken advantage of by a bunch of drunks.

After driving away from her last night, I realize I probably know her better than she realizes. I know she’s a damn bleeding heart. I know she’s selfless, but only to a point. Kindhearted. Quiet. Inexperienced.

Stronger than either of us recognize.

Too goddamn trusting.

Too goddamn sunny for my gloom and doom.

Too light for my dark.

Too good for my bad.

Too everything.

Not to mention, she’s a horrible dancer.

I actually chuckle out loud at that last one as I watch her hopping around the dance floor, no rhythm. Taking another drag off my beer bottle, I drain it and set it on the round, bar-height table next to me, watching her from the corner of my eye. Violet’s head tips back, the column of her slim neck visible under the lights as she sways to the music, laughing along with her friends.

I wonder if they’re her roommates. I wonder which one of them brought her here.

“What the hell is Violet doing here,” I finally wonder out loud to no one in particular.

Mostly to myself.

Only fucking Oz hears me, nudging me in the ribcage. “Dude, what is it with you accosting girls who go out to have fun?” He pesters on. “You did this shit to James when we started dating, remember? Every time we’d see her at a damn party, you had an issue with it.”

I ignore him, gesturing instead to Violet and her friends, pointing like a dumbass. “Look how out of place she is.”

Oz turns and regards me weirdly. Warily. “Dude, I think you’re finally losing your grip on reality.”