The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(61)

Hurt and confused, latching onto the least important detail.

Typical female.

I twist my torso to face her. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. The dream was f*cked up because—shit. I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying any more.” She’s quiet so I fill the silence with more jabbering. “It’s the same, reoccurring dream: I come home from out of town and I walk in on you boning my roommate. Hard. We argue and fight, then you cry and I kick you out. The first time it happened, I was shaken awake on the bus by a teammate; he heard me crying like a goddamn baby. How f*cked up is that?”

“You were crying? Because I was your fake girlfriend who fake cheated?” Her head gives a tiny, confused shake. “Why would that upset you?”

“Because it didn’t feel fake.” I’m whining.

“I don’t understand. You don’t even like me like that—why would you dream about me?”

Spoken like it’s something I can control.

“Don’t you see? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” My eyes float back to the ceiling as a puff of air expels from my chest. “Maybe I do.”

Those three little words ripple in the air, tension thickening the atmosphere.

“But surely…not like that,” she drawls, sounding cautious and doubtful, uncertainty etched across her pretty, perfect brows. I glance at her sharply.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if I did like you? I’m a great catch you know.”

“You want the truth? Here it is: it bothers me sometimes that all you do is talk about sex. It’s a turnoff for me. Like, let it go already, we get it, you’re a walking hard-on.”

“Is that your only impression of me?”

“Are you being serious?” she deadpans. “You spend half our time together making sex jokes, and yet you expect me to take you seriously right now.” Jameson throws her hands in the air, mumbling to the ceiling, “What is it with guys?”

Okay, but… “Seriously, you think that’s all I want from you? Sex?”

Her chuckle is sarcastic and lacking enthusiasm. “What else is there? Do you honestly just want to be my friend?”

“No, I don’t just want to be your friend.” Not any more; now I want to be her friend and I want to bang her. Repeatedly. “Do you just want to be friends?”

“I did at first. I mean, you’re vulgar and kind of a pig. I’m not sure where to start with a guy like you. You’re like a set of Legos with a million tiny pieces and terrible instructions, and I’m not sure where to stick what. And then I end up stepping on the pointy edges in the middle of the night, which hurts like a bitch.”

What the f*ck is she talking about?

“What I’m saying is…I think you’re really fun and great, but parts of you could hurt me.”

I scratch my chin. “I’m not sure how to feel about being compared to a set of Legos.”

“That’s why I haven’t slept with you.” She bites down hard on her lower lip. “But you’re growing on me and I hate it.” Her head shakes back and forth, eyes squeezed shut. “Hate it.”

“So my pointy edges are…?”

“Other girls.”

I draw each word out slowly, carefully. “Sometimes sex is just sex, James, and that’s all it is for me. A physical act to relieve stress.”

Jesus, even to my own ears I sound like a huge ass; I basically just compared sex to working out at the gym. I curse my mother for not teaching me better manners.

And yet, it doesn’t faze her. “That may be true, Sebastian, but I’m not into sharing or constantly wondering if my boyfr—the guy I’m sleeping with has his youknowhat in someone else’s youknowwhat. It’s a deal breaker, and you said you weren’t into being tied down, so…”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Have you told your fan club?” Her gorgeous pout makes my heart skip a beat and my pulse race, no f*cking lie. It means she cares.

“Jameson Clark, I never would have pegged you as the jealous type.” Even to me, my next question comes out sounding incredulous. “You’re not jealous of the other girls, are you?”

Cause that would be great. I’ve had jealous, angry hate sex in the past, and believe me when I say, it’s the best.

“Yes, I guess I am.” Jameson gives a careless shrug, shocking me with her honesty. “I just know that all the times you’ve said you want to f*ck me”—she winces—“it pushed me away—no, that’s not the right word. It didn’t push me away, but it does make me feel…” She struggles with her next choice of words. “Common? Like maybe how all the others feel. The girl in the hallway with the red hair.”

I glower. “You are nothing like those other girls.”

Jameson rolls her eyes, and blurts out, “Duh. I know that.”

This unexpected statement surprises us both, and the way she says it makes us laugh. I fall onto the bed, roll onto my side, and prop myself up on an elbow, studying her.

I study her hard.