How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  “That’s a lot of negatives.”

  It does sound like it now that I’m saying the words out loud. “When it comes down to it, I’d like someone who makes me laugh.”

  “I make you laugh.”

  Giggle. “You sure do.”

  “And I’m respectful,” he adds helpfully.

  Hmmm. “That’s debatable.”

  “I do what I say I’m going to do.”

  Rolling over on my back, I stare toward the ceiling. “No offense, but I don’t know why you’re telling me all this. Are you applying for the job?”

  “Probably because I’m trying to fuck you?”

  I roll my eyes heavenward, ignoring his vulgar answer. “Okay, what about you? Who did you give it up to your first time?”

  “Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday: I was fifteen and her name was Penny VanderWahl. She was my friend’s older sister and she let me screw her in the hayloft of a barn. Definitely was not a virgin. Does it count if I blew my load putting on the condom?”

  Gross. “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right; there was no actual penile penetration. It was just the tip.”

  “Oh my god. Filter! Filter!”

  His entertained snort cuts through the dark. “I hate to break it to you, Jim, but if you think that’s bad, you don’t even want to know what’s going on inside this head right now.”

  You’re so wrong, I can’t stop myself from thinking. So so wrong.

  I do want to know.

  “You’re as deep as a puddle, Osborne. Of course I know what’s going through your head right now. You make no secret of being what my grandmother would call a skirt chaser.”

  “Skirt chaser? Shit, I haven’t heard that one in a while. I like it though.”

  “It’s not a compliment, Sebastian.”

  He chuckles. “If you say so, Jim.”

  We lie there in silence, but I can hear him thinking. Feel his even breathing beside me. Feel his hand slide across the firm mattress, slide under the wall of pillows, and grasp my hand.

  Fingers entwined, he squeezes. “I’m glad I’m here.”

  “I…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Me too.”

  And I am.

  I’m glad he’s here with me, however high handed his antics were in getting here. Goofy, good-looking, and oddly kind-hearted Sebastian Osborne. My friend.

  “Thanks for the invite. I needed a vacation.”

  In the dark, I roll my eyes.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  “No?”

  “You’re a terrible liar, do you know that?”

  “Go to sleep, Oswald.”

  He gives my hand another squeeze. “Sweet wet dreams, Jim.”

  Jameson

  We snowboard the rest of the weekend, packing up on a Sunday afternoon for the one thousand eighty-five mile ride back to campus. Gray clouds linger overhead, threatening to snow, an occasional chunky snowflake falling from grace down to the ground.

  As I’m heaving my duffle bag out of our room, dragging it across the resort parking lot, a lone snowflake hits the tip of my nose and rests there. My eyes cross and I watch it momentarily before the heat of my skin melts it and it disappears into a tiny drop of water.

  One by one, the rest of them begin falling. Wet, silent, and beautiful, like millions of tiny wisps dancing through the sky.

  I draw in a breath, and as I inhale and exhale, the warmth of my breathing turns to a puff of smoke. Out of nowhere, Oz appears beside me, bending at the waist and reaching for my bags, swinging them over his shoulder as if they’re weightless and nudging me toward the bus.

  I trail along behind him, nothing to carry except my laptop bag and a small tote. Oz carries it all.

  Once the bags are stored in the lower level of the bus, he patiently waits while I fumble with my carryon tote. Waits while I climb each step, hand poised on the small of my back, guiding me. Follows behind me down the long, narrow aisle of the bus. Waits while I choose a seat.

  The bus isn’t full—not even close—so I can be choosy, and I head toward the back where it’s private, deciding on the third to last row, near the bathroom.

  I stow my bag under the seat and take the window.

  Oz tosses his duffle on the empty seat across the aisle, sliding in beside me, his head hitting the seatback with an exhausted thump. He spreads his legs as wide as his giant frame allows.

  “Tired,” he grumbles irritably. “Jim, can I lean my head on your shoulders? I just want to sleep for a bit.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Oz sits up then, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and pulling it up over the top of his head then rolling it up. His intended target? My chest.

  He comes at me, attempting to jam the wadded up sweatshirt under my chin.

  I dodge the bundle headed in my direction, toward my face. “Whoa buddy. Whoa. Um, what are you doing?”

  He gives me a look. “Uh, making a pillow. Sometimes shoulder bones are lumpy.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh. “Fine, but I don’t necessarily want to be suffocated by you cramming your sweatshirt under my neck. Here, let me do the honors; I don’t need you crushing my trachea.”

  Oz hands over his makeshift pillow and I refold it then roll it up. Reclining against the seat, I fold up the armrest to make more room and fit the hoodie in the crook of my neck.

  Ahh, perfect. “I’ll close my eyes, too, I guess.”

  A short nap can’t hurt.

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  His large frame shifts to get comfortable, long legs stretched, feet under the seat in front of us. It’s like fitting a square peg into a round hole; he just doesn’t fit.

  More flip flopping, more disgruntled sighs, and his body gets twisted into a fetal-like position—no small feat for a man of his size in the cramped space we’re given.

  I pause at that word: man.

  Oz is a man. A solid, sexual, funny, clever, smart man.

  Whose cheek is buried in the crook of my neck, the silky strands of hair on his gorgeous head tickling my nose when I tilt my neck to accommodate him.

  He really is huge.

  I gasp when his torso twists and he flips to try to find more room, shifting positions, nose buried in my chest. Slips his bulky, tattooed arms around my waist to get comfy, my arms shoved uselessly above his back for lack of place to put them.

  “Relax Jimbo. It’s just a nap,” his lips murmur into the hollow of my neck, arms giving my waist a squeeze. His hot breath strokes my collarbone. “And it’s okay to touch me.”

  He’s right; I need to relax.

  I allow myself a brief moment to appraise him, curled up in his seat, leaning into me. Embracing me, really, cuddling me like his favorite teddy bear. The smell of him assaults me: peppermint breath, masculine shampoo. Clean. Male. The scent of him makes my mouth water and my body ache.

  The smell of him makes me thirsty.

  Soft cotton short-sleeved shirt bares his powerful arms. Black and flesh-colored tattoos cover the entire left bicep, wrap around his forearm, and end at the wrist. His hands are large, calloused. Working hands.

  Those hands tell a story. They’re solid. And…dependable.

  They cause pain.

  Bring pleasure.

  Slowly, of their own violation, my palms find purchase on his deltoids, sliding up the smooth fabric of his shirt in one languid motion, memorizing the hard planes beneath. The pads of my fingertips trace each curve curiously, learning the shape of him.

  Those same fingertips dig into the corded muscles of his thick neck. Kneading. Massaging.

  Memorizing.

  “Damn Jim, that feels good,” he croaks into the wadded up hoodie still jammed between us.

  “Go to sleep, Oswald,” I croon into his hair, feeling more for him at this moment than I’ve allowed myself to admit.

  I know better than this. This guy is an energy-filled livewire of testosterone; he’s the opposite of w
hat I’m looking for despite not really knowing what that is.

  He sleeps around. He’s callous. Crude. Rude. Insensitive.

  Totally inappropriate.

  Pensively, I stare down at the crown of his hair, resisting the urge to inhale. Regardless, I catch an intoxicating whiff of his shampoo—actually, it’s my shampoo because he stole it—and close my eyes, savoring the differences between us.

  His hard to my soft. His outspokenness to my tact. His virile to my…

  Holy crap, I need to get laid.

  But Sebastian Osborne is the last thing I need. The last person I need to…lay me.

  There was a time I used to worry about never finding the one. Worry I was going to be alone forever with no one to come home to at night but the dog. Or cat. Or fish. In fact, most of my friends were happily single. Wanted to be.

  On purpose.

  Free to do whatever and whomever they wanted.

  I think I woke up one morning and decided it didn’t matter any more; not having a man in my life wasn’t going to define me, wasn’t going to make me feel less whole or undesirable.

  Undesirable. What a ridiculous thing to say at the age of twenty-one.

  Undesirable—maybe it’s too strong a word because men did desire me; I just didn’t desire most of them back. Sure, I was up for the occasional meaningless one-night stand; I probably had my hand down my own pajama bottoms more often than Oz did down his.

  But maybe a hookup to take the edge off wasn’t enough.

  Not any more.

  Or maybe not a hookup with him.

  Although I sit here, wrapped in the arms of a guy who wants to screw my brains out—a guy who’d screw me into a twelve-hour coma if I let him—I couldn’t make myself say the word yes.

  Yes.

  What was stopping me from letting him?

  The heat pooling between my legs has me fidgeting in my seat.

  “I can hear you thinking,” Oz murmurs. “Babe, relax.”

  Babe.

  He’s called me that a few times before, but this time it’s almost like he means it, if that makes sense.

  It’s then that I feel his large mammoth palms begin their ascent, wandering up my back. Up and down, straying from my waist in what little room they have to roam. They feel so warm and good I arch my spine to give him more access, arch it just a little, because…oh god that feels good…

  “You can’t hear me thinking,” I argue weakly with zero conviction.

  “Yes I can. I read body language as a sport, remember? Relax, James—I can’t sleep with all this nervous energy.”

  Body language as a sport.

  Pining down an opponent in nothing but that singlet wrestlers wear, hot and sweaty and hard. The catalogued image of him in that tight spandex unitard—the pictures I’d googled when curiosity finally won out—have me uneasily squirming in his hold.

  I wonder if this is what it’s like to be pinned down by him.

  Wonder if this is what it’s like to be beneath him in bed.

  Not in it, on top of it.

  No covers. No clothes.

  Oh god.

  “James. Relax.” He tips his face up then, our lips a fraction of an inch apart. Full, pink lips that I’ve tasted. Sucked on. Stuck my tongue between.

  “I’m trying,” I breathe. “But it’s hard.”

  “It’s going to be hard if you don’t stop moving around.”

  I can’t even summon up the energy to lecture him on propriety, so focused on his lips. Before I can flop my head back against the window, before I can shut my eyes and pretend to sleep, warm lips press firmly against my mouth. One. Two kisses. A wet tongue quickly darts out and flicks the corner of my mouth.

  His large palm supports the back of my neck, pulling me down, pulling me in and resting his lips on mine. My heartbeat keeps time with the seconds our lips bond. One, two, three, four…

  Lids briefly close and Oz pulls away, settling his cheek onto my chest.

  Peppermint lingers on my gaping pucker.

  “What… Why’d you do that?” Even to my own ears my voice is barely audible, throaty. I want to press a finger to my lips, but my hands are otherwise occupied, pressing into the solid, corded muscles in his back.

  “Because I wanted to. Now chill out and take a nap with me. Be my calm.”

  Be his calm? Be his calm.

  “I’ll try,” I say breathily.

  Oz’s head angles up and our drowsy eyes meet. “You’re cute.”

  He’s always saying that.

  Cute.

  I hate it.

  Feminist or not, I still hate that I’ll never be hot, or sexy, or coy.

  Inept at flirting, I say nothing, let the moment pass until his gentle snores fill the small space we’re occupying for our ride home.

  The first to wake, I’m able to sit up when Oz shifts, his legs spread wide and arms crossed as he rests.

  I study his profile, eyes faltering on his handsome face, letting them travel the fine line of his nose, up his strong jawline, my perusal tracing his earlobe with every sweeping pass.

  His lip twitches. “Are you watching me sleep?”

  Ah, so the beast is awake.

  Yes. “No.”

  “Liar.” A smile tips his lips but his lids remain closed. “You’ve been watching me sleep all weekend, haven’t you, you little creeper?”

  “Did you watch me sleep all weekend?” I tease, not expecting him to agree with me.

  He pauses, cracking an eyelid open and studying me. For a second I don’t think he’ll answer honestly. “I might have once or twice.”

  Seriously? “Seriously?”

  His head lolls to the side, toward me. “Seriously. You’re gorgeous when you’re asleep.”

  Okay then.

  “So wait. You didn’t watch me sleep?” His demand jars me from my slumber and he gives me a nudge with his elbow. “Hey, wake up.”

  “Leave me alone.” I don’t even crack an eyelid, just swat blindly in his direction. “I already told you this at least five times.”

  “Right, but I just assumed you were full of shit.”

  A groggy smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

  Sebastian

  Is it weird that I miss her?

  She’s not a fuck buddy. Not a girlfriend. And if I’m being perfectly blunt, she’s not even a friend.

  And yet…

  I want to see her. Talk to her. Give her shit just to see her face turn red with embarrassment.

  I sent her the first text at dawn this morning after a conditioning jog around campus, knowing she was probably still in bed but wanting to message her anyway. Not having a legit reason to message her, I went with:

  Did you make it home okay?

  I stop running when the phone in the pocket of my athletic shorts buzzes, pacing around the cement jogging trial to keep my muscles warm but wanting to see if it’s her.

  Jameson: We got home two days ago, weirdo… But more importantly

  My phone buzzes again.

  Jameson: DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!?

  Oz: Yes. 5:47 and I wasn’t expecting you to actually answer, so you can’t get mad. Don’t you have your phone on silent when you sleep like a normal human being?

  Jameson: NO!

  Oz: Since you’re up, want to join me for a run? I know where you live…

  Jameson: Don’t even think about it. I will murder you if you show up at my door. Murder.

  Oz: Or I could climb into bed with you. I’ve gotten used to sharing a bed with you and your tower of cockblocking pillows.

  Jameson: Those pillows did their job. Wait. Why am I awake? Why are YOU awake?

  Oz: I’m standing on the jogging path near campus, texting you.

  Jameson: The sun hasn’t even come up yet…

  Oz: It’s just coming over the rise. I should keep moving. I have to get to the gym in 5

  Jameson: When’s your next wrestling meet? Match? Rumble? Throw down…? WHY DID YOU WAKE ME UP />
  Oz: Lol it’s called a match, and it’s Thursday, so we leave late Wednesday night.

  Jameson: Sigh. Where is it?

  Oz: Pennsylvania—Penn State

  Jameson: WOW! I mean, I’m really tired so all I can say is WOW but… WOW

  Oz: LOL. Will you be at the library today?

  Jameson: Yawn. Who wants to know?

  Oz: Me

  Jameson: Well in that case

  Oz: Yes? I’ll text you after class tonight, yeah?

  Jameson: Sure, but only because you caught me at my weakest. I’d say yes to anything right now to be left alone.

  Oz: ANYTHING?

  Jameson: Dream on pal. Anything but THAT

  Oz: One of these days you’re going to change your mind Jameson Clark.

  Jameson: I’m going back to sleep.

  Sebastian

  “So you leave tomorrow night, huh?” James asks while tapping on her keyboard, her lithe fingers flying over the small black letters at a rapid pace.

  I look up from the ethics textbook flipped open in front of me. “Yeah. We have to be on the bus at nine. Which is going to suck. We lose an hour with the time change.”

  The room is quiet as we both go back to our homework. But then…

  “Do you ever get nervous?”

  My eyes stop running along the rows and rows of text, and I pause to consider her question. Do I ever get nervous? Hell yes. All the time in fact—the adrenaline rush before a match combined with everything I have riding on my wins has had me nauseous on more than one occasion.

  But no one has ever asked me, so I consider how I want to respond. I go with a simple, “Yes.”

  “When?”

  I pause again. “When my opponents are the same weight class but bigger. Bulkier. Or smaller. Or come at me with a chip on their shoulder I can see when they come onto the floor.” And now that I’m on a roll, I stare absentmindedly at the painting hanging on the far side of the room. “Some guys are so desperate to win you can see it in their eyes. The hungry ones with everything to lose with each loss.”