The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(55)

“Or maybe I’m just a concerned citizen.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you mind your own business and leave her alone. Stop fucking staring. We voted: you staring at her is weirding us out.”

He’s right, I should stop staring.

But I don’t.

Because I can’t.





Violet



The last person I expect to see at Mad Dog Jacks is Zeke—I’ve been here a few times in the past year and have never run into him and his wrestling buddies—but that’s who is leaning in now, all lips and warm breath, murmuring into my ear from behind.

I shiver when his gruff voice inquires, “Vi, what the hell are you doing here?” The heat from his entire body presses into my backside.

I freeze when he rests those big hands of his on my hips.

“Same thing you are, I suspect.”

“You suspect?” His hum vibrates.

“M-My friends love this place. Melinda’s boyfriend works here, and I go where they go, so…” I babble, pulling out of his embrace. Grasp? Hold?

I turn to face him. Give a helpless little shrug, giving his eyes permission to trail along the front of my dress. The long-sleeved baby blue tunic hits mid-thigh. The legs I spent ten minutes shaving and rubbing with moisturizer are silky smooth. The beige half boots add three inches to my petite frame.

The delicate silver V dangles between my breasts.

It’s not the sexiest bar outfit—not by a long shot—but it’s short and flirty, and I’m comfortable. Covered, really, since the only skin flashing is my legs.

Zeke drags his narrowed eyes up and down my torso, back to mine, leans forward, his palm grazing my forearm. “I still feel like a dick after last night.”

“You acted like a d-dick.” Great, dick is the perfect word to stutter over, Violet. Real classy.

“You look pretty.”

“I do?” I mean, I do—I know I do, I’m not a fool. I know guys think I’m cute, know they like my pale wavy hair and weird hazel eyes.

But that’s just it; I’m cute, not sexy. The good girl next door, not the polished sorority girl or outgoing flirt. The girls that show up at his wrestling meets all dolled up with half their clothes off.

Like the girls in this bar.

Like my own roommates, whose shirts are cropped. Whose pants are tight.

The music beats around us, bass pumping. It’s dark and dingy and he has to move in even closer to hear me when I say, “You think I look pretty?”

He quirks one of those dark, somber eyebrows. “You know I do.”

My head gives a little shake. “This isn’t how you talk to me. You don’t say things like that.”

No, he normally growls words like a bear.

“Maybe I don’t know how.”

I tip my head to study him. “How many beers have you had?”

“Three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah, three. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

I giggle. “You’re a big boy. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

He is laugh is sardonic. “Sometimes, Violet, I think I’d let you.”

“Uh…” It’s the best I can come up with.

“Sometimes, Violet, I think I’d let you lead me around like a big, fucking dope.”

“I-I…wouldn’t want to.”

“No?” He’s skeptical.

“No.” My head dips shyly. “I wouldn’t want to lead you around. I would never want you to feel like I was using you.”

“Using me? You? Violet, look at me.” He takes two fingers and tips my chin so I’m looking into his crystal-hued irises. His mesmerizing, weirdly colored eyes. Mouth now curved into a delicious smile.

A smirk.

“Use me any way you want.”

I watch those full, sexy lips say the words and feel my entire body getting warm. Hot.

Oh. God. He isn’t talking about me leading him around like a big fucking dope. He’s talking about his body; I can tell by the way his pupils dilate under the light. The flaring from his nostrils.

Zeke Daniels isn’t done with me.

We’re not done with each other, not by a long shot.

Except I’m not a well-practiced flirt. I have no idea what to say or what to do with this strapping, broody boy in front of me who suddenly looks like his solemn self.

The boy who thinks too much and does everything with purpose.

I want to kiss that boy so bad my lips ache.

The music around us gets low, slow, and sentimental—I think it’s a heavy metal hair band from the early 90s, but it’s a ballad, and the dingy house lights get dimmer. Lights above the makeshift dance floor flicker, strobing. Biker couples and college students dance. Sway.

“I should probably get back to my friends. I’m sure they’re looking for me.”

His nose grazes my cheek when his lips find my ear. “You have to know this bar isn’t safe, Violet. You have no business walking around, wandering off alone. You shouldn’t even be in a place like this.”

“Where should I be then?” My long lashes flutter. Lips tingle from our energy.

“Not here.”

“You’re here.”