The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag, #1)

by Sara Ney

Today, I can’t concentrate. I spot them long before they spot me, allowing myself a brief study respite to watch the largest one with a critical eye. With shocking dark hair and darker eyebrows, he hasn’t looked down at the open book in front of him once. Rather, he’s been glancing around the library’s reading room. Just as I’m doing. Arms folded across a broad chest, his legs are spread, his expression impatient—almost as if he can’t be bothered with homework. As I conclude he must be waiting for the sky to open up and the universe to do the work for him, our gazes clash; those severe, ruthless slashes over his eyes shoot into his hairline while the lips surrounded by five o’clock shadow curl. Discriminating eyes so pale I can’t discern their color from here begin their gradual descent down the column of buttons on my sweater before settling on my chest. I shiver. He smiles. The sadistic creep knows his stare is making my skin crawl. He relishes the fact. Guys like him? Surely college will be a short blip on the roadmap of his life, a pit stop on the way to bullying co-workers, business partners, and probably women. This guy? He’s a douchebag—one with a capital D.

“All right, now that we’ve established I’m not this mysterious missing Violet, I really do need to get back to studying. You’re killing my mojo.” “Right. Sorry to bother you.” The apology slips out and manages to sound sincere. The girl hums out a dismissive, “Mmm hmm,” and resumes pushing her fingertip along the lined notebook paper, all without glancing up at me. It’s really fucking annoying. I mean, my pride is taking a real beating here. It’s not everyday that I’m dismissed, and certainly not by some nobody in the damn library, a dull classmate with a long stick shoved up her entitled ass. Do I just turn and walk away? Or do I try to get the last word in? I stand here, not really knowing what to do, and shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans. This chick has managed to annoy the crap out of me in less than a minute and has the balls to reject me—and I’m not quite sure how to handle it. “You can walk away now.” She reads my mind, a slight edge to her voice. The fuck is wrong with this chick? “Chill,” I grind out. “I’m going.”

“I don’t. I’m just saying, for all the fucking bragging you do, you couldn’t get that chick to bang you, I guarantee it.” He tips his head in her direction. “I saw the way she blew you off, and it’s not the blowing you’re used to receiving.” True. Take last night for example: it took me almost no effort at all to get laid on the back porch of the hockey house. Some small talk, a few flirtatious smiles, and I’m against an outside wall screwing some girl who didn’t even give me her name. “…and I bet you couldn’t get her to put her mouth anywhere on you. I’ll even pay you a hundred bucks.” Wait. Rewind. One hundred bucks? That gets my attention and my head snaps up. Why? Because I’m broke.

So. I find myself studying the girl again, scrutinizing her with renewed interest. Buttoned-up cardigan. Serious face. Sleek, dark hair. Mouth pulled into a straight line, pink tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner, indisputably from concentration. I guess I could stand to have her mouth on mine for a few seconds. I give Zeke a stiff nod, and because I know he’ll pay, I say, “Make it five hundred and you have a deal.” He snorts. “Done.” Leaning back in his chair, my teammate crosses his bulky arms, urging me on with a flick of his fingers. “Best hop to it, Casanova, before she catches you staring and runs off with her tail between her sewn up legs.”

What the hell? “This is bullshit. You seriously won’t kiss me for free?” “Absolutely not.” She looks up and down my chiseled torso, eyes taking in my dense biceps and tattoos with only mild interest. An eyebrow cocks. “You’re not exactly my type.” Liar. “Kitten, you couldn’t be less my type even if you were sitting in that chair wearing nothing but that goddamn necklace.” Liar. “Please don’t ever call anyone kitten. It’s worse than sweetheart. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“First you crash my trip, now you’re crashing my room. You can take the floor.” “The floor?” He picks up his duffle bag and suitcase, shouldering past me. Surrendering, I let him pass without an argument, trailing after him. “No can do, Jim. This body is a temple.” “We are not sharing the bed.” “Is it because you don’t trust yourself with me?” “No. It’s because I don’t trust you.” Oz snickers. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” “I honestly am going to kill you.” “Why do you keep saying that? Oz, I’m going to kill you,” he mimics in a feminine voice. It’s actually somewhat disconcerting. “That’s the second time you’ve threatened my life; I’m beginning to think you mean it.” I grin. “What can I say? You make me want to strangle you.”

“If you would have at least let Erik give me his phone number, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You were really freaking rude to him.” “He was wearing a yellow sweatshirt!” I hardly manage to keep the disdain out of my voice. She stares blankly. “So?” “So? So! You can’t trust anyone wearing a yellow sweatshirt.” Her brows rise and she points to my yellow sweatshirt. “You’re wearing a yellow sweatshirt.” “Thank you! I just proved my point.” I flick an imaginary piece of lint off my hoodie. “Besides, Erik had small hands.” No reaction? Fine. I prompt her, “Small hands? Small…” “Dick.” “See? You get it.” “No—you are a dick.” God

God she’s perfect. Clever and beautiful and smart. With perfect lips and perfect tits, she’s got me all kinds of fucked in the head. We’re friends and anti-lovers, with sexual tension chucked into one fucked up non-relationship relationship that’s all my doing because I said I couldn’t commit. I suck so hard at this.