How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  That goddamn hair.

  It’s mussed and damp from the snow flurries outside, and kind of sexy as shit, even if a bit unkempt.

  I look away, but not before catching sight of an emerald green cardigan that’s probably some pretentious fabric like cashmere, pulled over a V-neck tee shirt, jeans, and—my eyes skim her body from tits to toe—black heeled boots.

  Yup. Way too many clothes.

  “What’s she doing here?” Zeke nudges me again, a bored inflection to his deep voice. “I didn’t think they let geeks out of the library on the weekends.”

  “Let’s be honest, she’s their DUFF,” someone else says.

  I cringe. Designated Ugly Fat Friend? Hardly.

  Everyone stands around laughing, and our friend Jared sputters, “She’s not their DUFF, morons. She’s not fat.”

  Or ugly.

  Not even close.

  Calmly, I shrug, not wanting to call any more attention to Jameson, but not coming to her defense, either. “Who cares? It looks like she came here with Parker’s booty call.”

  I might sound blasé, but inside I’m fuming.

  Now that I’ve kissed those lips, I know she’s not as prissy as she looks. I know her tits are real, her lips are demanding yet pliant, and her tongue does this magical swirly thing that makes my dick stiff. I know she likes sweaters, studying, and the library.

  And let’s not forget her sarcastic, shrewd little mouth.

  So it’s kind of pissing me off that these assholes are making fun of her.

  “Let it go guys.”

  Zeke shrugs his wide, NCAA wrestling championship-bound shoulders. “Whatever man, just letting you know she’s here. I’d keep my eye on that one if I were you; you know how the nerdy ones are. Clingy,” he pronounces knowingly, like he’s some goddamn Yoda for nerdy chicks.

  “Stage five clingers,” Dylan adds, trying to be helpful—until I jab him in the ribcage with my elbow. It’s one thing for me to degrade Jameson behind her back; it’s another completely for my friends to do it, and I’ve had enough.

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” Dylan coughs from the contact, sputtering on his beer. “Big fucking deal—she showed up at a house party.”

  “I’m running to grab another beer. Anyone want anything?” I ask, not waiting for their answers and already heading toward the kitchen. The solo keg on the yellow linoleum floor summons and I answer its call.

  Beside it? Jameson Clark.

  What a coincidence.

  “Here, let me get that for you.” I reach down for the keg nozzle, grab the red cup out of her hand, and give the handle on the barrel a few hard pumps.

  Despite the blaring music filtering through the house, I still manage to catch the sound of her foot tapping on the kitchen floor.

  “You owe me more than one measly foamy beer, Oswald,” she teases.

  Did she just call me—

  “Oswald?” I search the throng around us. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

  Jameson scrunches up her nose, causing the freckles across the bridge of her nose to wink at me. It’s kind of really fucking cute, actually—or is that just the three beers I’ve already chugged down talking?

  “Uh, you? Oz. Oswald.”

  I laugh then, a loud, booming laugh that echoes in the small, shitty kitchen.

  “You seriously don’t know who I am?”

  Lips purse, and she takes a dainty sip of the red plastic cup, tapping on the rim with her index finger as she drinks. A thin line of white foam coats her top lip. “I don’t know—should I?”

  I guess that answers that question.

  “Sweetheart, Oz is a nickname. Haven’t you googled me yet?”

  Amused blue eyes roll. “I’m sure you google yourself enough for the both of us.”

  Shit, she’s right. I do google myself a lot.

  Nevertheless, I persist. “There is no fucking way you don’t know who I am.”

  She gives me a sidelong glance, thinking. Taps her cheek with the tip of her index finger. “Are you an actor? Have I seen you on TV?” Snaps her fingers together. “I know—your father is an important politician. The president of something or other? No? Hmmm…”

  My grin widens. “You’re a sarcastic little asshole, did you know that?”

  “I take that as a compliment coming from you. Luckily, my sarcasm is usually a sign of affection when I’m warming up to someone.”

  “Wow, this is you being nice?” Over her shoulder, I watch Fuck Buddy and the other girl nudging their way through the crowd toward us. They stop when they reach Jameson’s side, both of them primping their long blonde hair with flirty, well-practiced flips.

  Even with both of them at her side, Jameson resumes her teasing.

  “Of course I’m being nice; you owe me two hundred and fifty dollars. Or have you already forgotten?”

  “How could I possibly forget when you’re hell bent on reminding me? Instead of cash, why don’t we get creative?”

  She lifts a well-manicured brow. “Creative?”

  “Yeah. There are other ways I can pay you, starting on my knees with my tongue. Or if you’re not a fan of orgasms, I’ll let you—”

  “Stop!” Jameson shouts in a rush, hands going up in the universal sign for time out. “Stop talking! Jesus. Okay, fine. How about you just pay me when they pay you?”

  “You didn’t let me finish what I was going to say.”

  “Trust me, I know where that was headed.”

  Fuck Buddy’s mouth drops open.

  “Uh, James—not to interrupt, but…why is Oz Osborne trying to pay you in sexual favors?” Her chest sticks out, tits on full display in a bright pink top with a scoop neck, her bleached blonde hair artfully curled and spilling down her back. She flips it over her shoulder again and smiles wide.

  Nice. Very nice.

  Very friendly, I’ll bet.

  She’s so smoking hot it’s no wonder Parker fucks her on the regular.

  If Jameson notices me noticing her friend, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she takes a healthy swig of beer, leaving another coating of foam on her top lip. I avert my eyes, removing them from her friend’s breasts, then watch as Jameson’s pale pink tongue slips out. Licks the foam. Laps more foam from the top of her red cup like it’s whipped cream.

  Jameson collects herself, fanning her face before introducing her friends. “Uh, Oz, these are my friends, Allison and Hayley. Allison and Hay—well, you obviously already know who this is, and I’m assuming you didn’t have to google him.”

  The girls glance between us, rusty wheels turning inside their beautiful blonde heads.

  “Um…” the blonde in pink drags out. “What’s going on between the two of you?”

  “Nothing,” Jameson deadpans, recovering her quick wit. “If you don’t count the fact that he owes me money for services rendered.”

  Her duh inflection has me sputtering in surprise, the beer in my mouth dripping down my chin in the un-sexiest dribble when a delighted chuckle leaves my throat. I can’t remember the last time I choked because something was funny, let alone on alcohol.

  Or maybe I’m just getting drunk.

  Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I lift it to wipe the drool, noting with arrogance that both Allison and Hayley are hungrily gawking at the solid, tight, six-pack abs on display. I take my sweet time lowering my shirt.

  Let the ladies look their fill.

  Hell, I’d even let them touch.

  “I simply need to pay you for them.” I remind Jameson.

  “Sure, okay. But only because you were begging for it.” She blinks innocently, sipping from her beer cup.

  “Sweetheart, begging is something I never do.”

  Beside her, her blonde friends’ perfectly groomed eyebrows simultaneously shoot into their hairlines, and for a brief moment, I wonder what else on them is perfectly groomed.

  Probably everything.

  Eyebrows. Legs.

  Puss—

  “I’m so co
nfused,” Fuck Buddy interrupts. “What is going on?”

  We ignore her.

  “Long story short, Oz won a bet and he has me to thank.”

  “That’s it? What services were you talking about before?” Allison probes, her eyes roaming the room. “Would one of you please explain what’s going on?”

  Jameson shakes her head. “Sorry Al, but this is between me and Oswald here.” She grabs Fuck Buddy by the arm and tugs. “Come on, let’s find Parker—that is the reason we’re here, isn’t it? So you can paw at him shamelessly while hopped up on liquid courage?”

  Allison blushes prettily. “Yes.” Still, her eyes skim the front of my jeans, landing on the bulge there. “Nice finally meeting you in person. I hate doing the walk of shame down your hallway, Oswald.”

  Shit, that’s right. I’ve only ever seen her ass in the morning walking out the door—and I occasionally hear her moaning Parker’s name during their loud, dirty fucking.

  Oswald?

  Damn if the sound of another girl saying it doesn’t grate on my last nerve. I cross my arms and nod, watching as Jameson drags her friends off, her rapid retreat kind of...insulting.

  I feel slightly offended that she just left me standing here by myself.

  Weird, right?

  That almost never happens.

  Fine. It never does.

  Intrigued, irritated, and slightly enthralled, my competitive nature has my senses instinctually tracking her whereabouts throughout the whole goddamn evening.

  It’s rather inconvenient.

  I catch glimpses of her: James and that damn prissy sweater that’s somehow come unbuttoned. A sober James with Jack Pryer, a first-year football redshirt, giggling it up in the corner. A sober James with Fuck Buddy near the keg. A sober James tipping her head to tie that silky brown hair back, walking in and out of the front door, presumably for fresh air.

  James, James, fucking Jameson Clark and the annoying-as-shit strand of pearls around her neck. The more I stare, the more aggravated I become, especially when I spot her in the living room with my roommate Elliot.

  Elliot, who’s actually a decent guy. Stable and reliable, he’s the serious academic sort—finance and pre-law—and probably a better fit for Jameson than I am.

  Better fit for her? Shit, what the hell am I saying?

  I must be drunk.

  The beer flows and so do the shots.

  By midnight, I’m shitfaced enough to stop monitoring her every movement all night like a stalker. Shitfaced enough to stop watching every monotonous move she makes. Shitfaced enough to curb whatever possessive instincts are welling up inside my drunk ass—not because I like her, but because the poor thing looks so out of place in her boring ass cardigan, and for some ungodly reason, I feel a fucked up sense of brotherly affection.

  Affection? Affliction? Affection—horrible adjective, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

  She spares no such courtesy for me as she continues flirting with Elliot.

  Inhaling another beer, my attention wavers only when a hand snakes around my waist, slides over my hard abs. Warm lips meet the side of my neck, and Christ if that doesn’t feel good. Reaching around, I grab the unidentified round ass behind me, giving it a firm squeeze.

  “Oz baby, it’s me,” a throaty female voice purrs in my ear. “Did you miss me?”

  The owner of that voice moves to my front, dragging her talented hands across my middle, over my lower abs, fingers tugging at the denim waistband of my jeans. “Can I get you alone, baby? There’s no one in the last bedroom. I checked.”

  Say baby one more time, I intone sarcastically. Or better yet, shut the hell up.

  “Maybe.” I drag the words out as she toys with the fly of my pants. “If you stop talking.”

  She nods, red hair and breasts bobbing enthusiastically. We stumble backward, toward the hall, and I back her against the wall, fingers grappling with her tight leggings, stroking the smooth skin beneath her belly button. With an exaggerated moan worthy of a porn star, she shoves her tongue in my mouth with a husky, “I want you to screw me, Oz.”

  I cup the back of her head, dragging a sloppy kiss across her lips, voice devoid of any emotion. “How about you blow me instead?”

  With another eager head bob, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gives me a light shove toward a bedroom door three feet to my right…or is that the closet?

  “Not in the hall, though, kay?”

  Well, no shit not in the hall. I’m more of a gentleman than that. Jesus Christ.

  Still, I let her work my zipper, pulling and tugging while I fumble sloppily for the doorknob. She drags it down slowly, right in the hall for anyone to see, her practiced fingers working their way inside my jeans. The door handle gives way just as a shock of emerald appears in my peripheral.

  Bright green sweater, gleaming pearls, dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes come to a stunned halt in the corridor. Turn toward us. Stop dead in their tracks, frozen like a deer in headlights.

  Or like a virgin in sacrifice.

  “Crap, sorry,” comes an all too familiar voice.

  Shit.

  Winter hat back in place, pulled down over that long, silky brown hair, it frames her innocent face and pisses me the fuck off. Too wide-eyed, too inquisitive.

  Too sanctimonious.

  Nonetheless, she does the last thing I expect her to do:

  Watch.

  Jameson’s perceptive perusal misses nothing as it begins a slow descent down the length of Red’s arm, following her grasping hand into the bulge of my pants. Her warm palm vice-grips my hard cock.

  With half-hooded eyes, I watch Jameson Clark watching me drag my teeth over my lower lip, watching as I groan, watching when Red removes her hand from the front of my jeans, playfully zipping my fly up and down to regain my attention. Down. Up. Down. The metal teeth slide effortlessly.

  My alcohol-induced haze remains on Jameson even as Red works over my cock.

  James’ pale collarbone.

  Her flushed cheeks.

  “Leaving so soon?” I ask as casually as I can, fly hanging open, underwear bunched up at the zipper.

  Jameson never misses a beat. Schooling her features, she takes a relaxed sip from her red plastic cup, staring over the rim with narrowed eyes. “Is this how you’re earning the money to pay me?”

  What a bitch.

  “Maybe,” I half scoff, half moan. “Are you calling me a prostitute?”

  “No.” Back ramrod straight, she arches an eyebrow. “I’m just saying…you might consider charging. You could turn a tidy profit selling that body of yours.”

  “That sounded oddly like a compliment.” Bracing a hand against the wall so my weak knees don’t buckle, my eyes rake Jameson up and down. “Interested in being my first paying customer?”

  She laughs, the loud sound carrying over both the booming music and the redhead whining in my ear. I ignore her when she gives my arm a tug toward the bedroom.

  “Interested?” Another laugh from down the hall. “Gross.”

  Gross? “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “At what point do you stop using your body to prove a point?”

  Am I drunk or is she enunciating every other word? Groaning, my head dips and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

  “Hey Jim.” I sigh, limply pointing down the hall. “If you want to take a piss, you went the wrong way.” I moan when Red’s hand resumes fondling my balls through the denim. “You went the wrong way,” I repeat. “It’s by the kitchen. Unless of course you want to join us in the bedroom.”

  For a few unsettling moments our eyes lock.

  For a few unsettling moments her eyes soften, regard me with an unrecognizable emotion and downturned mouth.

  She’s disappointed.

  In me.

  I know it as sure as I stand here supporting myself against the wall, sloshed off my ass and twice as turned on. For the first time in almost twenty-one
years, a second passes that I’m actually disgusted with myself. It’s fleeting, but those soft, sober blue eyes—thoughtful and unaffected by all the fangirl bullshit surrounding me—make me feel…

  Drunk as hell and dirty and chauvinistic.

  Self-conscious.

  Judged and found lacking.

  A minute goes by before Jameson finally spins in her ballet flats and disappears from sight.

  I shake my head, disoriented but determined not to give her another thought, and…not going to lie, it’s at that moment I pull Red through the bedroom door. Instead of a blowjob, I fuck the shit out of her against the wall.

  Because I don’t want to care.

  Because it feels good.

  Because I can.

  Sebastian

  I sense her before I see her.

  Don’t ask me how, but when Jameson skirts by my table, determined to avoid me, my bulk sits up straighter.

  On high alert.

  No greeting, she artfully weaves her way through the tables to the embankment of bookshelves at the far side of the library, firm ass sashaying in tight navy leggings, wearing tall brown boots and a brown leather tote.

  Beneath my lashes, I trail her movements—her path direct, marching purposefully to the far recesses of the commons. My hands pause above the keys of my MacBook, pause to watch as she thumps her tote onto the hard table. Eases her laptop out. Plugs it in.

  Aligns her pens and pencils, pushing each one into place with the tip of her finger, lining them up as if they each have a rightful spot on the desk. Calculator on the right, computer in the middle.

  She takes out a small stack of notebooks, shuffling them. Spreads them out next to the pens.

  My brows go up, interested, when she gently peels the rubber band from her dark hair. It shines when she gives it a shake under the dim glow of lamp light on her table then tussles it with her fingers. Black-rimmed glasses get perched on her head.

  Fuck if it’s not sexy.

  Good choice, Jimbo.

  Ten minutes later, I’m still watching her from under the brim of my standard issue Iowa ball cap, as if I don’t have a crap load of studying to do myself. Oblivious to my surveying, she hen pecks at her computer then lowers her head to write. Scribbles something. Drinks from the straw in her water bottle. Pushes loose strands out of her face before reaching back and quickly braiding her hair.