The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(58)

The preppy assfuck takes a step forward. “I said back off, dude.”

I shake my head slowly. “No, no, the other part.”

“You can leave her with me?”

“No.” I grind out between clenched teeth. “The other part. You know what I’m fucking talking about, so say it. Fucking. Say. It.”

He smirks. “Stuttering freak?”

“Yeah.” I rub my chin. “That part, you motherfucking piece of shit.”

I lift my hands so they’re illuminated under the dim light above us and he looks down, tracking my movements, staring at my open palms with wide eyes. “See these hands?” I ask, closing my palms into fists. “They are three seconds away from pounding the piss out of you.”

“Zeke—” Violet tries to cut in, but I cut her off.

“What’s it going to be asshole? Are you going to walk away, or am I going to take these fists and smash them into your face?”

“Zeke!” Violet gasps out a sob. “P-P-Please.”

The guy looks back and forth between us, trying to decide what our relationship is, internally debating about how strong I actually am. If he can take me in a fight. How far he can push and push before I knock him on his ass.

If the stammering girl is worth getting his teeth knocked out.

The bag of crap decides she’s not, rolling his eyes at us and shoving his hands into the pockets of his khakis. Khakis—who wears those to the fucking bar anyway?

Wisely, he takes a step back. “Whatever dude.”

Then another, until he’s backing away. Vanishing into the crowd, out of sight.

Violet turns to me. “I-I can’t believe you almost hit him.”

“He would have had it coming.”

“I-I’m sorry you had to step in. Y-You know I-I didn’t come back here to g-get accosted. I j-just had to p-pee.”

Jesus. It sounds like her teeth are chattering, on top of her stutter.

I rest my hands on her slim shoulders. “Don’t apologize, Violet—you did nothing wrong. I watched him waiting for you when you were in the bathroom.”

She nods.

It’s then that I take a really hard, piercing look at her. My palms look enormous splayed on her petite shoulders. I squat, bending at the knees so I can gaze into her eyes.

“Jesus, I thought he was hurting you. Did he touch you?”

A shake of the head. “No, he was harmless. Just a little…mean.”

“Mean?” I’m mean. “What did he say to you, Vi?” I press, wanting to shake the words out of her. Rather than telling me, her lips press together in a thin line. “Violet, you can tell me. I’m mean, too, remember?”

I shoot her a wane smile.

“You’re not mean, you’re angry at the world. There’s a difference,” Violet reminds me softly. “He…he was making fun of me.”

“Yet he wanted to get in your pants?” The question just slips out, bitter and cold.

“I guess.” She shrugs, her shoulders moving up and down beneath my hands. “I don’t want to repeat anything he just said. It’s embarrassing.”

She doesn’t need to repeat a single thing that asshole said; I can use my imagination to figure that shit out on my own.

“I let that fucker off way too easy. No one talks to you that way, ever.” I balance on my heels, still squatting, to meet her eyes. “No one. Not even me, you got that?”

When her bottom lip quivers, I stand. With instincts I didn’t know I possessed, I tug her toward me, tucking her into my big body, wrapping my arms around her and resting my chin atop her pretty blonde head. Run my open palm down her back, stroking it gently.

Man, she’s so tiny.

“It’s okay Violet, it’s okay,” I’m murmuring into her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Now you’re starting to sound like me. It wasn’t your fault,” comes her muffled reply, her cheek pressed against my chest.

Her nearness feels…

Good.

Really fucking good.

“Text your friends and tell them what happened. Let me take you home. Let me get you out of here. I don’t trust any of the jackasses here.”

Grappling for her, we head toward my friends so I can let them know I’m leaving. I brought them here, but doubt I’ll be bringing them back—unless they all want to pile in my truck and leave with us now.

I don’t make it all the way over.

Oz sees me weaving toward them through the crowd, Violet in tow, and gives me the nod.

I raise my hand in acknowledgement, shift gears, head toward the exit.





Violet



Zeke is hugging me again.

Zeke Daniels is hugging me on my front porch.

No, not a hug—an actual embrace.

I’m enveloped in his strong arms and can feel the dense muscles flexing as he reaches around me to run his hands up and down my back, comforting me.

I lean back to look up at him, the tips of his fingers finding purchase on my cheekbone, tracing my skin, the pads of his thumbs running under my eyes, wiping away whatever tears haven’t been dried up by the cotton of his t-shirt.

Whisper-light touches. Soft.

“Zeke?”

“Hmm?”