The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(3)

Right. Cannot forget that.

“She’s out there waiting for you, champ.” I laugh, shooting him a look over my shoulder. “Somewhere on this campus is some buttoned-up cutie just waiting to be boned by the great Jack Bartlett.”

“Goddamn I hope so.”

Poor kid can’t even tell when someone is being sarcastic anymore. Clearly his brain has been addled from the strain of his face being pressed against the wrestling mat one too many times.

JB is a decent wrestler. Good, but not great.

He used to be until Tasha broke up with him; since then, his pins have taken a nosedive and he’s shit about practicing.

His grades have definitely gone downhill. One could even say they suck. Long story short: Jack should be less focused on finding a replacemend for Tasha, and more focused on wrestling and school. At the rate he’s going, it’s going to take him another year to meet the university’s requirements to graduate with a degree.

If he wants to climb up my ass and beg for favors, he should be begging me to tutor him, not find him a girlfriend.

Whatever.

It’s not my place to judge, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back on track. Back to winning, back to a better GPA, back to being involved. If that means sitting on a dating app and pretending to be him a few hours a week, so be it. I want my friends to be the best they can possibly freaking be.

What he does in his free time is none of my damn business, as long as he pays his share of the rent on time and stays out of my shit—but I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for him since he’s my roommate and teammate. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

His parents give him a hard time for all the fucking around he’s been doing lately—and they don’t know the half of what their son’s been up to.

I don’t mind having the bastard around, so I’m willing to help keep it that way.

“I think you should go in for a concussion test on Monday,” I joke.

“Nah. I just had one a few months ago.” He picks lint off his hoodie and flicks it onto my carpet. “I should be good.”

Dang. See what I mean? The kid cannot tell when someone is being sarcastic.

I clear my throat and end the conversation. “All right, if that’s all you needed…” My sentence trails off when I hold up the textbook that’s been lying open on my desk next to my laptop. The spread on my desk makes it look like I’m about to do some serious cramming, but the truth is, school comes pretty naturally. I’ll only be at it for an hour to review some notes, tops. “To summarize: quality girl, not quantity. Down to fuck.” My brows go up. “I don’t think I’m missing anything.”

“Nope, that’s perfect. I’ll log in later and swipe on whoever.”

Whoever.

And there’s the problem.

“Yeah, thanks for the extra hand.”

He shoots me a pair of finger guns, pushing off from the doorjamb. “No problem.”

Then he’s gone, pulling my door closed behind him, the steps of his big feet echoing down the hall.

I stare out my window, out into the dark, at the house next door, every window in the two-story glowing. The bathroom sits directly across from mine, its interior obscured by two billowing white drapes hanging there. They’re sheer, just opaque enough that I’m unable to see through them—not that I’ve tried.

It’s a houseful of girls, none of whom I’ve ever spoken to.

The few times I’ve stepped outside at the same time as them (they always seem to travel in clumps), I’ve immediately put my feet to the pavement, head down to avoid them and dodge direct eye contact.

Pretty. Outgoing, most of them. Friendly, if their waves and polite greetings are enough to go by. Tons of makeup and loud laughing. Their place always has the music blasting, and I’m almost positive one or two of them are football cheerleaders. One is a dancer. Another few are in a sorority.

Why do I avoid them? They’re not my type; they’re Jack’s—not that I discriminate based on extracurricular activities. That would make me an asshole, and I’m not one of those, either.

I like to think I have a good head on my shoulders, not one in the clouds.

The shadow of a figure appears in front of the bathroom window, her outline a silhouette behind the curtain. My fingers pause over the textbook page I’ve been reading and, with a guilty stare, I study the shape of her body. I can tell she’s removing a shirt, dragging it up over her head slowly as if she knows I’m sitting here watching. She dips, probably removing her bottoms and Christ, I feel like such a fucking creeper.

I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. The bathroom window is right fucking there in front of me, front and center, and this is the first time I’ve ever really noticed anyone in that room taking their clothes off. Honest to God, I barely pay attention.

Ashamed, my eyes cast downward, trained on my textbook, mind spinning. Sex on the brain.

Do not touch your dick while you’re watching, Abe. Do not touch your fucking dick.

I don’t touch my dick.

I’ll wait and do it later when I’m in bed, when the cloudy image of a nameless, faceless girl with giant boobs removing her clothes is erased from my brain by the biology literature in front of me.

Line after line, word after word filters through my mind, not one bit of it being retained.