The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(39)

“That’s a bit harsh—it’s not like you can cheat on her if you’re not actually dating.” I wasn’t expecting any words of solidarity from him. “Bet she called you a liar and all that garbage? Man, chicks are so full of drama.”

“Violet isn’t full of drama.” His fiancé of one year is the softest-spoken woman I’ve ever met, and the only one who could tame a beast like Daniels.

“That’s because Violet is a goddamn saint.” His voice is gruff, filled with pride, eyes softening at the mention of her name. “I shit on her once or twice back when we started dating, and with a woman like that, it’s hard to bounce back. Any girl who knows her worth is going to fucking stick it to you and stick it to you hard. You have to be smarter than they are.” Zeke looks me up and down. “Which you are not.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I know that, fucker. I was being sarcastic.

I don’t say that shit out loud though, because he’d kick my ass, and I’d have to let him.

“So what do I do?” I’m in serious need of help, sound like I’m desperate, and will take advice anywhere I can get it—even if it’s from the biggest asshole this wrestling team has ever had on it.

“Let me think about it. I’ll have to text Violet—she’ll know what to do.” He gives me a confident nod, pleased that he’s on his way to solving my dilemma, then his hand returns to my shoulder, squeezing. He speaks slowly like he’s talking to a child. “Kindly remove your head from your own ass so we don’t have to do it surgically, take your fucking warm-up pants off, and pound out your goddamn stretches like you’re supposed to be doing.” He claps my back. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll circle back around.”

I watch him saunter away, head bent, tapping away at his phone. Wonder what he’s telling his girlfriend about the situation and hope they can help me untangle this mess.

Bending at the waist, I push off the standard-issue black and yellow warm-up pants we wear before our matches and then I’m standing in nothing but my tight black singlet. I yank up the straps and adjust them, pulling the nylon fabric out of my ass crack.

I pop a squat on the mat, bending at the knees, then lower myself into a sitting position. Bend at the waist until I’m able to grip the balls of my feet in my fingers. Stretching my calves, kneading at the muscles of my hamstrings, the burn from the pull a painful reminder that I’ve been slacking lately.

My mind wanders.

What am I going to do?

Normally, I wouldn’t care. I’d tune the issue with Skylar out like I do with everything else and move on. It was never my intention to date in the first place, so why this one? Why this girl?

By all accounts, she’s more reserved. A bit anti-social. Beautiful in a subtle way, kind and funny and good. My mind wanders again, down the front of her blouse, mentally counting the buttons there—five—then mentally slipping them out of their fabric until her shirt is parted down the middle.

Skylar had smooth, gorgeous cleavage I tried not to gape at while we were at the table, and it took a heroic effort to keep my eyes up. Pale skin. Freckles between her breasts and across the bridge of her perfect nose.

Pink cheeks and even pinker lips.

There wasn’t a moment she wasn’t smiling.

At me.

Blue eyes lit up right up until the moment I returned from the bathroom and ruined the entire date by being a colossal idiot.

I unfurl myself from the floor, rise to my full height, and pull back on one leg, working my calves for a second time. Arms. Back. Move my head in slow circles to loosen my neck, all the while preoccupied with my thoughts of Skylar, her tits, her voice.

My lies.

Was I catfishing her?

That’s not what I considered what JB and I were doing to be; in my mind, I was utilizing a skill he doesn’t possess—making idle conversation with beautiful strangers to learn more about them.

I have it in spades.

JB sucks at it.

What JB lacks in social graces, he makes up for with his face, strength, and body. Deep voice, megawatt smile, dimple in his cheek.

Chicks love that shit. They lap it up, hardly caring that he’s a dickhead. They only care that he’s good-looking, good in bed, and goes down on them—a fact he constantly brags about and one I sometimes hear acted out from my bedroom in the middle of the night.

Oh JB…Oh…Oh, don’t stop doing that…

There have been nights I’ve wanted to suffocate myself with a pillow to escape listening to his sexcapades.

It would be easy to have a few of my own, but I’m not that guy. I don’t do casual, and never have—not even in high school, or as a freshman in college when everything was new and exciting and girls were throwing themselves at me because I was on the wrestling team.

At this school, wrestling is a pretty huge fucking deal, and I’m in the middle of it.

My eyes scan the auditorium, the bleachers and seats, searching for someone I know isn’t there but looking anyway. Torturing myself like a fool.

Why would she come?

We’re not dating and she hates me.

Still, a part of me—the sick, eternal optimist within—thinks she might be curious enough to show up, knowing I would never spot her in a crowd this size.