The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(50)

My choices suck dick.

Bemoaning the fact that I didn’t stop and grab something fast on my way home, I grab the leftover Malone’s hamburger and yogurt, slap them both on a plate, and lean against the counter.

Where the hell is everyone? I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to my roommate.



Oz: Where are you?

Zeke: Stopped for food.



Shit.



Oz: Grab me something would ya. Starving.

Zeke: Yup. Back in thirty.



He might be a total dick, but he’s a dick that’s going to feed my hungry ass.

Satisfied that a meal is on its way, I dump the burger and yogurt in the trash, grab my bag, and head down the hallway for a hasty shower.

It takes me a total of six minutes, beginning to end.

Throwing on mesh shorts and a ratty old tee shirt, I head to my room and down the carpeted hall, pausing in front of my roommate’s door. Giving it a few short raps of my knuckle, I don’t hesitate to turn the handle.

Not wanting to wake him if he’s sleeping, I push the door open slowly, the dim light from within an indication that he’s home and awake.

“Hey, Elliot?”

My eyes stray to the bed, lingering on two entwined figures, namely my roommate humping the shit out of some girl, humping her into his mattress like it’s his last chance at a lay.

Their moaning fills the air.

Momentarily stunned, it takes me a moment to recover. “Oh shit! Sorry man.”

I should have shut the door then, should have backed away and gone to my room, but the sight of my roommate’s white thighs driving fervently into whatever chick he’s railing has me staring incredulously.

Conservative Elliot never brings girls home. Never.

Not once.

Well, I shouldn’t say never, but the occasions are so rare I can’t remember the last time it happened. It’s not his style, so I’m going to assume this isn’t some fling.

This must be a girl he’s been seeing but hasn’t introduced us to.

Someone he probably really likes.

So I should shut the door and walk away, be happy he’s getting his rocks off.

But I don’t.

Shame on me.

My eyes stray to the floor, to the discarded undergarments. The sheer lace bra. Lavender satin thong (nice choice). Jeans. Black patent leather ballet flats. White car— Wait.

Black ballet flats?

White cardigan.

White f*cking cardigan?

My eyes shoot to the bed, the tangle of sheets. Male moaning. A female gasp I’m all too familiar with.

Long, glossy hair spills over Elliot’s navy pillow, his arms braced on the sides of the brunette’s face as he frantically pumps and pumps and rails his hips into her while she gasps in pleasure.

Fucks her.

Fucks f*cking Jameson.

It’s her, I just know it.

In a rage, my mouth opens and I take a few steps toward them, intending to—to what? Pull him off her mid-thrust? Start a fight? Fuck! My squeak of outrage must alert them because Jameson opens her eyes, lifting her head listlessly off the pillow in a groggy, sex-induced haze.

Elliot’s fingers cup her ass, digging in near her crack, and I see red when he squeezes. See red when she giggles and moans.

“You’re so amazing,” she whimpers, and I watch in stunned horror as she licks my name off her lips. “You’re the best, the best…right there…yes!”

I watch, speechless, as she pants. Coming.

Coming.

Our eyes meet, hers glassy with ecstasy and she smiles, head rolling back in a sated, drunken state. Elliot sucks her neck, his dirty tongue running up the length of her throat.

Fuck, f*ck, f*ck me hard.

I smash his door shut so hard it cracks, shuddering on its hinges, and thunder down the hallway. Throw open my door. It bangs against the wall, bouncing back from the force. Pacing, I walk back and forth in the confinement of my room like a goddamn caged tiger, counting to regain my composure.

One, two, five. Ten.

I stalk back out into the hall, breathless like I’ve just sprinted eight miles, and fight the urge to punch the f*cking wall separating Elliot’s room from the hall.

I wait.





I’m leaning against the wall outside his door when she comes out, wearing nothing but his tee shirt. His f*cking tee shirt. I’m reminded of our trip to Utah—of her wearing nothing but my gray wrestling shirt—and almost lose my shit all over again.

I count to five, noting with satisfaction her startled gasp when she sees me, a gasp not unlike the one I heard a half-hour ago when she was screwing me over.

Screwing my roommate.

“Hi!” Spiteful, my high-pitched and cheerful greeting is anything but pleasant. “What’s up?!”

I’m sure I sound psychotic, but I’m just so f*cking pissed.

She looks left, looks right for a rescue. Sorry honey, no one’s coming to save you. “If you have to take a pee, or gee, I don’t know, toss a condom in the trash, the bathroom is down the hall to the left.”

Aren’t I just the goddamn welcoming committee? Tone it down a notch, Osborne.

Instead of making her way to the bathroom, Jameson leans against the wall, mimicking my stance. Ramrod straight, back against the wall, left knee propped up, foot touching the drywall.