The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag Book 5)

by Sara Ney

  Table of Contents

  The Lying Hours

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Sara Ney

  About Sara Ney

  How to Date a Douchebag

  The Lying Hours

  Copyright © 2019 by Sara Ney

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Uplifting Designs & Marketing

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  **Thank you Internet for providing the inspiration for the dating quotes at the beginning of each chapter.

  They’re all based on real conversations, pick-up lines, come-ons, and texts between actual people.**

  Abe

  The first sentence is always the toughest. The opener.

  The beginning…

  I stare hard at my cell phone, at the image of a girl smiling. Swipe my finger up her first photograph to scroll, viewing another of her with her head thrnoown back, laughing, sunlight catching her hair. Blonde, of course. Blue eyes. Slim. Tan in the middle of winter.

  Nice, round tits—probably fake.

  She matched with my roommate Jack Bartlett this morning on our campus’s LoveU App and wants to chat, and now it’s my turn to make a move. Well, technically, she’s waiting for JB to make the move, not me.

  See, JB’s girlfriend broke up with him a few months ago, and ever since, he’s been on a downward spiral of pent-up sexual frustration and emotional neediness that is seriously starting to get on my fucking nerves. He’s going through women like frat guys go through beer, like women go through tampons during their period.

  One. After. The. Other.

  So fucked up, but not unusual for dudes our age.

  I glance down again at what’s written in her profile.

  Shelby, 19, likes peanut butter, movies, and the color blue. She’s also looking for something long-term, which I don’t think Jack wants, but I swipe right to accept her invitation to chat anyway. He can’t pump and dump them all, can he? One of these chicks is bound to stick, and this one looks like she might be a keeper.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I shoot her a brief message.

  Me: Name three things you can’t stand listening to in a quiet room. Go.

  I set the phone next to the weight bench and recline until I’m lying flat on my back, three hundred and ten pounds of steel balanced on the bar above me. My spotter is missing, and I crane my head to see where the fuck he’s at. I can’t lift this weight off the rack until someone is here to make sure I don’t break my neck.

  And die.

  Before Ben Carpenter can hustle his bony ass back to my bench to help me, my phone pings with the familiar LoveU notification chime.

  Damn, our girl Shelby is quick on the draw.

  Shelby: Um, haha. I’d have to say…listening to potato chip bags. Haha. And snoring? Um. The wind is really loud outside my window and that’s super annoying. Haha.

  Okay, so our girl Shelby definitely overuses the word “um” and typed “haha” a few too many times, but it’s not like JB is going to give a shit. He’ll be too busy staring at her tits and trying to fuck her.

  I wonder if this is how Shelby will speak in person, and I’d bet money that it is. She also hasn’t mastered the etiquette of making conversation; everyone knows at the end of your damn response you’re supposed to ask a question to keep the flow of conversation going.

  Jesus.

  Instead, Shelby leaves me hanging. I’m going to have to pull another question out of my ass as I continue pretending to be my roommate.

  Me: I hate the sound of potato chip bags, too. And I don’t snore. Ha. Ha.

  At least I’ve never heard JB snoring from the other room. Maybe he does. Who the hell knows.

  I’m tempted to tell her I hate the sound of farting but resist the urge.

  It’s too soon, and the goal here is to be romantic, not gross.

  Shelby: That’s good, haha.

  This chick seriously needs to cool it with the haha before she drives me nuts. It’s only been two chats back and forth and she’s used that word—I scroll up and count—four times.

  Christ almighty.

  Normally I’m not this big of an asshole. In fact, I’m the least douchey of all my friends, but this morning, I’m not in the mood for any of this. I’m not in the mood to be JB’s lackey, not in the mood for Ben Carpenter to be fucking around instead of spotting me like he’s supposed to, not in the mood to be in the gym so damn early in the morning.

  Logging into my roommate’s LoveU account and lying to girls in an attempt to win them over because JB doesn’t have the confidence to do it himself isn’t my idea of a good time. Plus, it makes no sense, considering JB is ridiculously attractive when he’s not acting like a dick. Women usually fall all over themselves when he’s around. I have no idea what he needs a dating app for. He can get laid any time he wants.

  I don’t do so bad with girls myself, but I’m not the one looking for a fuck buddy; JB is.

  I’m more of a long-term relationship guy.

  Before I can reply to Shelby’s last message, Ben appears, sweaty and dripping wet.

  “Where the fuck have you been, dude?”

  “Sorry man, I overheated and had to dunk my head.”

  Well, shit. That’s not cool. “Maybe you should get someone else to spot me and sit this one out then.” The last thing I need is some rookie passing out while I’m lifting all this weight.

  He scratches at his head, water dripping from the short, black spikes of hair. “You sure?”

  The dude is a mess.

  “Yeah. Send JB over.”

  My roommate is doing squats on the far side of the weight room, watching himself in the mirror as he bends his knees, a bar behind his neck holding over three hundred pounds of weight. I can hear him grunting out his count from here.

  Fifty-four.

  Fifty-five.

  Fifty-six…

  “He’s almost done, Carpenter. Grab him when he hits seventy-five, would ya? He’ll be glad for the break.”

  My phone chimes again, and I glance down at the screen. Groan out loud, perspiration dri
pping down the valley between my pecs.

  It’s two more LoveU notifications.

  Good news, JB! You’ve matched with Tiffany C and Kristy M. Swipe right to begin a convo!

  I curse.

  Then I swipe right on both of them.

  Abe

  “I don’t know what you’re doing setting me up with these airheads, man. You have to start screening them a little better.”

  I swivel in my desk chair when JB appears in my doorway, lingering at the threshold, large frame leaning against the jamb.

  “Or. You can start doing this yourself.”

  He scoffs, running a hand along his jawline. “You’re so much better at it than I am.”

  “It’s basically texting. I think you can handle it.” I stare him down, tapping a pencil against the surface of my desk. “Haven’t any of them noticed you can’t remember jack shit about what they’ve told you?”

  “No. They’re too busy twirling their hair.” He laughs. “This one tonight though—she was pretty hot.”

  Kristy M.

  I remember her.

  Brunette. Local. Loves kitties, glitter, and her sorority sisters. Oh, and she would, like, die for a decent sushi restaurant in town.

  “If she was so hot, what was the problem?”

  “I wanted my dick sucked, not to listen to her talk about her two fucking cats all night.”

  This makes me laugh. “But you like a little pussy.”

  “Not the same kind of pussy Kristy likes.” He smirks, still lingering at the door. “Too hairy.” JB sticks out his tongue and licks the air.

  “Here’s a thought, maybe you should stop going out with girls you think are hot. Maybe—and call me crazy for suggesting this—you should try having something in common with them?”

  “But I’m not the one talking to them. You are.” He sounds confused, bless his clueless soul.

  “Right, well.” I toss my pencil on the desk, swiveling around until I’m presenting him with my broad back and shrug. “I thought you wanted a girlfriend, not an easy lay.”

  “I want both.”

  “Then stop trying to screw every warm body you take on a date.” I still won’t look at him.

  “They’re not dates. We meet for drinks.”

  “That’s what you’re calling it? Meeting for drinks?” What a crock of shit. “Semantics.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I hear him shuffle his feet as I pop open my laptop, powering it up. “If I have to abort the mission, I don’t want the commitment of having to eat an entire meal for another half an hour, especially if the chick is a stage five clinger—fuck that would be painful.”

  I’ll give him this one—that actually makes sense. But still.

  “I get that, but you should still be the one talking to these girls, not me. It’s fucked up on so many levels.”

  “You’re better at English than I am, dude. Plus, you’re better with girls.”

  “How the hell am I better with girls?” I haven’t been on a date in over a year, which means I haven’t had sex in over a year, which means I haven’t seen an actual pair of tits in a year.

  My dating life is fucking pathetic.

  “Dude, I read what you said to that Tiffany chick—it was brilliant. That shit about everything happening for a reason and beauty being on the inside? Genius.”

  “Yes. I’m a genius all right.” I mean, I kind of am. I’ve been on the dean’s list for the past three years. My current grade point average is three point nine. Not too bad for someone who barely has time to wipe his own ass, let alone study. “So when are you going on your date with Shelby?”

  JB rubs the spot behind his neck that’s always cramping, working out the knot while he considers my question. “I don’t know. She’s been pretty annoying.”

  Yeah, she has been.

  “She told me she wasn’t looking for a pen pal, whatever the fuck that means.”

  I saw that but haven’t replied to it yet. “It means she doesn’t want to keep talking. She wants to actually meet you so she can figure out if she’s wasting her time or not.”

  “I don’t know, man. Do I really want to sit through a date with someone who uses the words um and haha eight thousand fucking times in one day?”

  Nope.

  “That’s up to you, man.”

  I wouldn’t date her, but I’m not JB, and it’s not my LoveU account. I might be the puppet master pulling the strings, but he’s the one dancing up on stage.

  Jesus, I’m crap when it comes to analogies.

  As if he can hear my thoughts straying, my roommate lets a long, loud sigh drag from his giant body. “Cut her loose, would ya? Let’s start looking for quality, not quantity.”

  Well this is certainly a new development. JB getting serious about dating someone? Color me surprised. “Any special requirements?”

  He gives it some thought. Inhales and stands up straight. “Probably a girl I could take home to my mom if I wanted to, but who also wants to fuck a lot.”

  Right. Cannot forget that.

  “She’s out there waiting for you, champ.” I laugh, shooting him a look over my shoulder. “Somewhere on this campus is some buttoned-up cutie just waiting to be boned by the great Jack Bartlett.”

  “Goddamn I hope so.”

  Poor kid can’t even tell when someone is being sarcastic anymore. Clearly his brain has been addled from the strain of his face being pressed against the wrestling mat one too many times.

  JB is a decent wrestler. Good, but not great.

  He used to be until Tasha broke up with him; since then, his pins have taken a nosedive and he’s shit about practicing.

  His grades have definitely gone downhill. One could even say they suck. Long story short: Jack should be less focused on finding a replacemend for Tasha, and more focused on wrestling and school. At the rate he’s going, it’s going to take him another year to meet the university’s requirements to graduate with a degree.

  If he wants to climb up my ass and beg for favors, he should be begging me to tutor him, not find him a girlfriend.

  Whatever.

  It’s not my place to judge, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back on track. Back to winning, back to a better GPA, back to being involved. If that means sitting on a dating app and pretending to be him a few hours a week, so be it. I want my friends to be the best they can possibly freaking be.

  What he does in his free time is none of my damn business, as long as he pays his share of the rent on time and stays out of my shit—but I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for him since he’s my roommate and teammate. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

  His parents give him a hard time for all the fucking around he’s been doing lately—and they don’t know the half of what their son’s been up to.

  I don’t mind having the bastard around, so I’m willing to help keep it that way.

  “I think you should go in for a concussion test on Monday,” I joke.

  “Nah. I just had one a few months ago.” He picks lint off his hoodie and flicks it onto my carpet. “I should be good.”

  Dang. See what I mean? The kid cannot tell when someone is being sarcastic.

  I clear my throat and end the conversation. “All right, if that’s all you needed…” My sentence trails off when I hold up the textbook that’s been lying open on my desk next to my laptop. The spread on my desk makes it look like I’m about to do some serious cramming, but the truth is, school comes pretty naturally. I’ll only be at it for an hour to review some notes, tops. “To summarize: quality girl, not quantity. Down to fuck.” My brows go up. “I don’t think I’m missing anything.”

  “Nope, that’s perfect. I’ll log in later and swipe on whoever.”

  Whoever.

  And there’s the problem.

  “Yeah, thanks for the extra hand.”

  He shoots me a pair of finger guns, pushing off from the doorjamb. “No problem.”

  Then he’s gone, pulling my
door closed behind him, the steps of his big feet echoing down the hall.

  I stare out my window, out into the dark, at the house next door, every window in the two-story glowing. The bathroom sits directly across from mine, its interior obscured by two billowing white drapes hanging there. They’re sheer, just opaque enough that I’m unable to see through them—not that I’ve tried.

  It’s a houseful of girls, none of whom I’ve ever spoken to.

  The few times I’ve stepped outside at the same time as them (they always seem to travel in clumps), I’ve immediately put my feet to the pavement, head down to avoid them and dodge direct eye contact.

  Pretty. Outgoing, most of them. Friendly, if their waves and polite greetings are enough to go by. Tons of makeup and loud laughing. Their place always has the music blasting, and I’m almost positive one or two of them are football cheerleaders. One is a dancer. Another few are in a sorority.

  Why do I avoid them? They’re not my type; they’re Jack’s—not that I discriminate based on extracurricular activities. That would make me an asshole, and I’m not one of those, either.

  I like to think I have a good head on my shoulders, not one in the clouds.

  The shadow of a figure appears in front of the bathroom window, her outline a silhouette behind the curtain. My fingers pause over the textbook page I’ve been reading and, with a guilty stare, I study the shape of her body. I can tell she’s removing a shirt, dragging it up over her head slowly as if she knows I’m sitting here watching. She dips, probably removing her bottoms and Christ, I feel like such a fucking creeper.

  I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. The bathroom window is right fucking there in front of me, front and center, and this is the first time I’ve ever really noticed anyone in that room taking their clothes off. Honest to God, I barely pay attention.

  Ashamed, my eyes cast downward, trained on my textbook, mind spinning. Sex on the brain.

  Do not touch your dick while you’re watching, Abe. Do not touch your fucking dick.

  I don’t touch my dick.

  I’ll wait and do it later when I’m in bed, when the cloudy image of a nameless, faceless girl with giant boobs removing her clothes is erased from my brain by the biology literature in front of me.