The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(50)

“Why?”

“Because everything I’ve researched is telling me to let the whole thing go. It’s depressing.”

I shrug. “I mean…you could. Those idiots are never going to learn their lesson.”

“Oh, and then there’s this!” She clears her throat dramatically. “Let karma handle the situation.” Anabelle snorts, reading. “You are not starring in a movie—this is real life. You might think you have the tools to pull off revenge flawlessly, but you do not.”

The book flops down in her lap, and my roommate tosses the yellow marker onto the coffee table. It hits the hard surface and bounces to the floor.

“How do the authors know I don’t have the tools to pull off revenge flawlessly? They don’t know me—they don’t know my life.”

“Do you have the tools?”

“No, but they don’t know that.” Anabelle tosses the book to the side next to her on the couch. “Ugh, I want my money back! This book is garbage!”

“Anabelle, don’t you think it’s time to tell your dad?”

“Probably, but I want to explore all of my options first—and correct me if I’m wrong, but getting back at those guys was your idea.”

“No, I want them to be held accountable for the shit they’ve been doing, not get revenge on them. They keep getting away with their crap. Telling your dad would finally put a stop to it.”

“Elliot, I went out with the guy, remember? He’s harmless enough. Honestly, I just think he’s rather impulsive.” Anabelle’s arms go above her head, stretching. She changes the subject. “I am so sore, my shoulders are killing me. I thought I was in better shape than this, but these soccer games are kicking my butt.”

“Should we chill out and watch TV? I can massage your back if you want.”

“Yes, oh my God, would you? I would love that!” She sits up, animated, scrambling to her feet. “I’m getting my pajamas on. I know it’s early, but I’m beat, and then you can give me a back massage.”

She does a happy dance on her tiptoes in the center of the living room.

“Seriously? That’s all it takes to get you excited? The promise of a shoulder rub?”

Her finger points in my direction, one eye narrowing. “You said back massage.”

“Semantics.”

My roommate rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Whichever way you want to rub me, I’ll meet you on the bed in ten minutes. I’m not missing this opportunity—I haven’t had anyone work on my back in ages.”

Whichever way you want to rub me… Meet you on the bed…

Head out of the gutter, St. Charles. That’s not what she meant.

I know, but I can’t help it.

I trudge along behind Anabelle down the short hallway to my room, shutting the door behind me and peeling off the clothes I wore to my classes and while studying in the library, where I just came from.

I’m pulling on a pair of navy mesh shorts when she knocks, giving the elastic waistband a snap and opening the door.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were still, you know…getting dressed.” She’s gaping at me, intense blue eyes swiftly raking my bare chest and abs, standing in sleep shorts and a tank top. “Do you want to throw a shirt on or something?”

“It’s fine, I’m good. Come in and make yourself comfortable—you always do.”

She doesn’t take offense at my good-natured teasing.

“Haha, but also, don’t mind if I do.” She almost literally throws herself on my bed, landing on her stomach, head at the foot, facing the television. Props her chin in her hands, waiting for me. “I brought this.”

Magically, a bottle of lotion is produced, tossed on the comforter next to her. She stretches like a cat waking from a long nap. “For real, this is so exciting.”

“You’re the easiest person to please, I swear.”

“Basically.” Anabelle raises her head. “If I don’t fall asleep, I’ll return the favor, promise.”

“You better not fucking fall asleep—I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone massage my back.”

This interests her immensely and she perks up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”

“No?”

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what the hell, Elliot? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress. “Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”

I wave my hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so lie down.”

“And you call me the bossy one?”

“Quit stalling and get on the bed, St. Charles.”

Obediently, I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees, approaching my side.

A finger glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on you. Hope that’s okay.”