The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(67)

JB homes in on it.

“Is that underwear?”

I feign ignorance. “Is what underwear?”

“That thong on the floor.”

I scoop it up and shove it in my pocket.

“You fucking liar.” He stands. “Let me see.”

I wave him off. “I’m not showing you the underwear.”

“I don’t even believe this—you were banging some chick in here and won’t tell me. Was she a barker? Is that why you’re hiding her?” He walks to the closet, pulling the doors open. “Where is she hiding?”

Out the window, in her car, and back to her apartment—that’s where she’s hiding.

I don’t know who to blame for this fuck-up, myself or JB.

I watch as he checks out the closet, feeling around for a body. Dips to peer under the bed.

“Why would I be hiding a girl in my room? We’re not in high school anymore and this isn’t my mom’s house.”

“I don’t know why you’d be hiding a girl, but you are. Where the fuck is she?”

My lips tighten as my brain mentally weighs the pros and cons of being honest. “Gone.”

“Gone? How?”

Simultaneously, our eyes stray to the window.

“Shut the hell up, she did not go out the window.”

I shrug.

“Dude, what is she, MacGyver? What’d you fucking do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything. She didn’t want you to see her here.”

JB pauses, wheels spinning. “Why? Have I already put my giant purple eggplant inside her?”

Jesus he’s drunk. “No.”

“Then why did she leave? Who the fuck cares if I see the two of you in bed—this is college, not a fucking convent.”

“I tried to convince her to stay,” I lie. “But she bolted.”

Shit. Now I’m throwing Skylar under the bus, and if she heard me she’d be totally disgusted.

“So she’s a psycho.”

“Would you please leave so I can go back to sleep? It’s one o’clock in the morning.” I stand next to my bedroom door, holding it open with my hand on the doorknob.

Jack doesn’t budge. “Not until you tell me who it is.”

“Why do you even care?”

“I’m curious—humor me.”

I’m silent.

“So it’s someone I know.”

Silence.

“Is it Tasha?”

“What? What the hell—no, it’s not your ex-girlfriend.”

He’s quiet, thinking. “Is it someone I’ve dated?”

More silence.

“Shit. You just boned a chick I’ve dated? The fuck—who was it? That Miranda girl?”

He’s never dated a girl named Miranda. He’s never dated a Mindy, Michelle, or Mary, and it would be great if he could fucking remember their names without me having to remind him half the goddamn time.

“There is no Miranda.”

“Dude, you’re pissing me off. Just say it.”

I stalk out of my bedroom and head to the bathroom, directly across the hall. “Oh—I’m pissing you off? Ask me if I give a shit.”

He follows, unable to let the subject die. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I run the water in the sink, stab toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and start scrubbing. Watch him behind me in the mirror, leaning against the doorjamb.

Suddenly, I want to smack his arrogant face.

I scrub my teeth harder.

“What’s her damn name?”

“Go to hell,” I mumble around my toothbrush, foam dripping from my mouth, frothy like a rabid dog.

“You want me to find out myself?” he booms, stepping into the room.

I roll my eyes. “Please. You can’t do jack shit without me.”

“What’s that supposed to fucking mean?”

I face him in the mirror, raising a brow at his reflection. “If I didn’t hold your fucking hand, you wouldn’t even be able to jerk off at night.”

“Fuck you, Abe.”

I spit in the sink, rinsing my toothbrush with water.

“No—fuck you, Jack. Find a new errand boy. I’m done.”

“You’re so full of yourself, Davis, do you know that? You think you’re so much smarter than everybody else. Well I’ve got news for you—you’re not.”

“Boohoo, big deal.” I laugh, practically in his face. “Like I give a shit what you think of me.”

“What is your damn problem?”

“You’re my problem.” My voice rises a few octaves and I finally turn to face him. “You’re my fucking problem. You are.”

“Oh, I’m the fucking problem? How about this? You’re the fucking problem.” He stabs a finger in my chest.

We sling the words fucking and problem and fucking problem around a few more times—sounding like absolute idiots—so many times I’m actually starting to get confused by the lack of control I have over the situation, and the argument.

“I’m fucking Skylar, okay? Are you happy now? We’re dating and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

There.