The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(72)

I can’t believe all the sensitive bullshit coming out of Coach’s mouth; this is a man I’ve seen reduce grown men to tears, and now he’s doling our relationship advice like he’s…like he’s fucking Dr. Phil.

“Give it some thought,” he concludes. “And close the door on your way out.”





“Hey Zeke.” Rex Gunderson, our team manager, nudges me in the arm with his boney elbow. I don’t even know why the hell I let him and Oz follow me to the library tonight—neither of them ever shuts up long enough to let anyone study. “Isn’t that your tutor?”

Gunderson’s nasally voice breaks through my concentration, snakes through my cerebellum with alarming speed, and has me jerking my head up. Scanning the perimeter of the library. Skimming over the entrance. Glancing toward the back stacks, to the circulations desk.

Finding Violet.

Schooling my features into an expressionless mask of indifference so they don’t start in with the questions, or give me a rash of shit.

“Yeah, that’s my tutor.” I lower my head, determined to keep my eyes glued to a term paper.

“She’s not just his tutor,” Oz says with authority. “Is she Daniels?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“He’s why.” I cast a glance toward Rex Gunderson, wide-eyed and curious, then back at my roommate. “Why are you even here?”

“Ozzy invited me.”

“Of course he did.” Because he knew it would irritate the piss out of me.

We collectively watch Violet round the circulation desk, bending at the waist to straighten a cart of books, pulling one out and moving it to the bottom rack. Stand. Straighten the hem of her dark gray shirt.

“Psst,” Oz hisses loudly, cupping his large hands beside his mouth like a megaphone. “Psst, Violet.”

“Dude, cut it out,” I demand, smacking him in the tricep. “Knock it off.”

He is the picture of innocence. “What? I want to say hi.”

God he’s so fucking annoying.

I suck in a breath when Violet glances up, eyes scanning the first floor of the library. Know the exact moment she spots us by her sweet smile. By the way she nervously smoothes down her hair and bites her lower lip.

Beside me, Oz seizes the opportunity of having her attention. Shoots his hand in the air when she glances over again, signaling her with a wave, wiggle, and shake of his meddling fingers. He waves and waves, tattooed arm flailing around as if independent from his body, causing a scene. She’d have to be blind not to notice him, especially with that bright yellow Iowa t-shirt he’s sporting.

“I said knock it off.” I’m gritting through my teeth.

I see her flaming red blush from here—a blush I’ve seen over her entire naked body half a dozen times—and want to fucking punch my roommate in the face for drawing attention to our table, and for making her uncomfortable.

“Put your damn arm down,” I hiss, slapping at it.

“Dude, chill. I thought you’d want to say hi to your girl over there.”

I do.

I don’t.

I—not like this.

My face burns as red as hers, and I’m pretty sure the tips of my fucking ears are red, too.

“I do, but not right now.”

Oz scrunches up his ugly ass mug. “Why not? I thought the two of you were a thing. Canoodling and shit.”

“What’s canoodling?” Gunderson asks.

“You know,” Oz starts with an air of authority. “Snuggling and hanging out and shit.”

I’m telling you, ever since he started dating Jameson, he thinks he fucking knows everything there is to know about relationships; I could do without his unsolicited advice.

“Why do they call it canoodling?” Gunderson just will not let it go.

Oz shrugs. “How the hell should I know?”

“It sounds awful.”

“Well, Rexy, maybe that’s why you’re still single and Zekey and I are both in budding relationships.” His thumb flicks between the two of us. “He’s finally getting sex regularly, which is why he hasn’t been such a bitch.”

My response to them both is to glare down at my notebook and thump my pen on the table as Violet’s jeans and white shirt appear in my peripheral view.

“Incoming! Look alive, old chap!” Oz declares merrily. “And try not to fuck this up by being your usual cheerful self. That was sarcasm in case you missed it…”

“Shut up, scrot.”

“Why are you getting all defensive? I’m trying to help you charm the ladies.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Gunderson chuckles.

They’re the opposite of helpful, and they’re grating on my last nerve. The tension in my hands, legs, and shoulders is insurmountable, my fingers tapping on the table anxiously like a fidgety crack whore.

Oz laughs, kicking me under the table. “Relax dude, or she’ll think you have issues.”

“I said. Shut. Up.”

“Say shut up please.”

Oh my fucking god, seriously?

“Say it.”

I clamp my lips together.

Oz raises his dark eyebrows. “Are you really not going to say please?”