The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(61)



“I don’t mind.” She blushes. “I like it—it’s sexy.”

My sweat is sexy.

“What’d you think?”

“Abe, you’re amazing.” She’s out of breath, chest heaving like she’s the one who just held Blake Cartwright down for three seconds. It doesn’t sound like much, but when the dude is two hundred pounds, fifteen percent body fat, and fighting like hell to get out of the hold, it’s a sonofabitch to accomplish.

“You think so?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen a wrestling game in person before.”

I could kiss her face. “It’s called a wrestling meet.” But I forgive her.

“Gosh, I knew that—I’m just nervous, sorry.”

Out of habit, I shoot a glance over my shoulder at the mats and the dwindling numbers. If I don’t get into the locker room soon, someone is going to notice.

“JB is going to a party tonight—want to come over?”

“Are the girls next door having a party?”

“No, this one is at a frat house. His cousin or something is a Lambda.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“We could hang out and watch a movie? Or go out—but I figured since I have the place to myself for a change, you might want to come over?”

“I’d love to come over.”

I get close enough to kiss her again. “I’m going to shower then I’ll be home in about an hour. We have meetings and shit afterward then I can take off.”

“Am I crawling in through the window?”

I laugh. “Use the front door.”

“Are you sure? That was kind of fun, you know?”

“I’m not making you climb in through the window, Skylar.”

She squints one eye at me. “Isn’t it a little early for a frat party? Don’t those usually start at like, ten o’clock?”

“Yeah, but it’s his cousin and it’s their annual whateverthefuckit’scalled mixer so they need all hands on deck early. I think JB wanted to rush but his grades suck and they wouldn’t give him a bid. Every once in a while he likes to go and pretend to be a brother.”

“That’s kind of nice of him.”

“I mean, he’s there to get drunk and laid, so it’s not like he’s in it for the charity.”

My girlfriend laughs.

Girlfriend.

I toss the word around in my head, loving the way it sounds.

Now she’s the one kissing me. Booping me on the tip of my nose before shooing me off. “All right. See you at your front door in an hour.”





Skylar



“Why am I so nervous?” I pull at my sleeve, hating the way this shirt looks on my body. It’s pink and blousy and totally inappropriate for a Saturday night at some guy’s house, hanging out in his bedroom.

My boyfriend’s house.

Hannah hands me a different shirt. “Because you know you’re getting fucked.”

“Must you say it like that?”

“I speak the truth.”

As much as I protest, she is a hundred percent correct. I rub my thighs together, testing their sensitivity.

Not horrible. Not great.

I feel like I’ve done a million squats and thigh abductors at the gym and forgot to cool down and stretch afterward. Little bit tender, little bit achy.

Definitely throbbing.

I debate the wisdom of having sex tonight while I swap out shirts, tossing the pink blouse to my bed and pulling on the white t-shirt Hannah’s chosen. It’s basic, except for the sleeves, which are pretty badass—like ribbons at the shoulders, crisscrossing every which way.

I tuck the tee into my jeans, step into a pair of wedges, and let my hands fall to my sides. “How do I look?”

“Great, actually. Real cute.”

Hmm. A suspiciously sweet thing for her to say. I raise my brows. That’s it? That’s all she’s got?

“I’d bang you.”

There it is.



It’s weird approaching Abe’s door.

I fidget, pulling at the hem of my jacket, darting looks to the side yard and house next door, paranoid JB will come walking around the corner at any second. I rack my brain for an excuse.

“Would you like to buy some Wilderness Girl cookies?” I laugh to myself, saying the words out loud, sounding like a fool. “I was just passing by and remembered you lived here, and I happen to have a microeconomics question if you have a free minute?” Shift on the balls of my feet. “Join my cult? I have pamphlets in the car.”

Abe saves me from myself, pulling open the blue front door before I have the chance to knock, then the screen, making room for me to pass and bending to kiss me when our bodies brush against the other.

This just might be my favorite part of being a couple.

The hello kiss.

The goodbye kisses aren’t too shabby, either, but we’ve really only had one of those.

“Hello to you, too.” I ease past, removing my jacket as I stand in the little entry, which is basically just a patch of stained linoleum flooring surrounded by carpet at the door.

It’s evident no women live here. It’s tidy but boring and brown, decorated in secondhand chic. No offense to Abe or his roommate, but the whole living room is kind of depressing. Brown couch. One chair—a recliner. The television and some gaming equipment.

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