How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  Like me.

  The unspoken words hang between us.

  “What’s your record?”

  “This season? We just started, but I’m eight and oh.”

  Undefeated, badass mother.

  Impressed, Jameson’s pretty blue eyes get wide as fucking saucers and a small gasp escapes her lips. “Sebastian, that’s amazing.”

  Sebastian.

  My name sounds like praises from her lips.

  I sit up straighter in my chair, a little more cocksure than I was ten seconds ago. I mean, it’s not like people aren’t telling me on a regular basis how fucking amazing I am, but a compliment coming from Jameson Clark somehow feels like winning at life.

  She doesn’t dole out compliments on the regular.

  She doesn’t suffer fools, and she’s not easily impressed.

  “It really is amazing.” I puff out my chest and posture. “You should see me in action sometime.”

  “I have.”

  This is news to me. “You have? When?”

  “I mean, there’s a chance I googled you—after you demanded that I google you, of course.”

  “You actually stalked me online? I’m in shock.” Why am I having such a hard time imagining her at her computer searching for shit about me? Possibly in the dark, hopefully touching herself inappropriately, preferably wearing something lace. And see-through.

  The thought has my dick twitching.

  “Would you stop it? It was not stalking. You told me to google you.

  I don’t stop.

  “Yeah, but when was this alleged stalking? Be specific.” I tease, using air quotes.

  She looks horrified. “Please stop calling it that.” Hesitates. “And it was right before we left for Utah. I wanted to know what level of egomaniac I was dealing with.”

  I push the textbook across the table and out of my way, reclining back in the chair my ass has been planted in for the past hour. “So what, pray tell, did you discover during this research?” Again with the air quotes.

  A grin widens my face when her face turns scarlet, the skin beneath her sweater a bright, furious pink.

  “Well,” she begins deliberately, clearing her throat, each syllable measured. “I know you’re from Illinois—same as me. I know you have a sister, and that in high school, you were a star.”

  James hesitates, blowing out a puff of air. The long, wavy hair hanging in a cascade lifts off her face. “You’re here on a full ride. I know you’re a heavyweight wrestler at six foot one, but you’re two twenty-eight pounds of solid muscle with a body fat percentage of seven.”

  “True facts.”

  “You’re considerate—and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re funny. And you care more about grades then you want people to know, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

  I grab my yellow Iowa water bottle as she sucks in her bottom lip and nibbles nervously before raising her blue eyes to study me across the table. “Um…you smell good. Like fresh air and peppermint.”

  My brows shoot up.

  Yes. This. That’s the shit I’m talking about.

  I lean toward her, interested, but otherwise sit perfectly still, longing to hear her speak.

  “Go on.”

  “You…have the strongest arms I’ve ever seen.”

  Yes.

  “You have a leg fetish.”

  I nod, water bottle poised at my watering mouth. “Fact.”

  “You knew I wasn’t a tutor the day we met but you came over anyway.”

  “Twice,” I confirm, chugging on my water, the room-temp liquid pouring down my throat.

  “You like working with your hands, and despite what everyone thinks—what I thought when I first met you—you’re not a total man whore.”

  I sputter, choking on the laugh, spitting out a mouthful of water in the process until it dribbles cold and wet down my chin. Yanking up the hem of my cotton tee, I wipe my face with a few swipes.

  “How do you know I’m not a man whore?”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t, I said not totally. For one, you didn’t make a move on my roommate Sydney when you had the chance and she probably wanted you to—and for the life of her she can’t figure out why. And two, you didn’t make a move on me in Utah even though we shared the same bed.”

  “And you weren’t wearing pajama bottoms.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why would you do that, by the way?”

  She sighs, loud and long and breathy. “Ugh, are we back to that?”

  “Fuck yeah we’re back to that!” I’m indignant. “You knew damn well what you were doing. Cunning femme fatale. Not wearing pajama bottoms was shady and ruthless.”

  She giggles a soft, tinkling laugh, sweet and delighted, toying with the buttons of her pale pink cardigan. “Femme fatale?” James rolls her eyes. “Hardly.”

  My gaze lowers, settling on that second glossy button where her long, lean fingers push it in and out of the buttonhole, right in the center of those round, fantastically full breasts—the breasts I tried to get a sneak peek of at minimum one dozen times on the trip.

  “Please.” I snort, crossing my arms over my broad chest. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing flouncing around with no pants on.”

  Her grin spreads wide. “You’re crazy.”

  “I call bullshit. You knew that was driving me nuts.”

  “Well yeah, but…it could have been anyone running around pants-less and you would have tried to sleep with them.”

  “Did we not just establish that I didn’t make a move on your roommate what’s-her-face?”

  “Sydney. Right, yes, but—”

  “And I did make a move on you.”

  “You did? When?”

  “Remember when I said I was trying to fuck you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s not making a move on me. That’s blatantly telling me you want to sleep with me.”

  “Not sleep. Fuck. Huge difference, Jim.”

  “You know, just when I think you have some deep-rooted sensitivity just dying to get out, you ruin it by talking.”

  I shrug my broad shoulders. “You can’t blame me for being honest.”

  “No, but jeez, Oz, sometimes a girl doesn’t want to have it shoved down her throat like that. She’d like to have an actual conversation. Be romanced.”

  The phrase ‘shoved down her throat’ makes me want to giggle like a thirteen-year-old. I manage not to, but barely, although I cannot resist mentioning it. It’s too damn good.

  “Do you have any idea what you just said? You said shove and throat, and I immediately thought blowjob. So don’t even—hey, sit down. Where are you going?”

  She’s packing up her laptop with a roll of her eyes. “Home. As much as I’d love to stay, I really do have some serious work to do.”

  “You get so fucking huffy. Would you sit back down please?”

  “I do not get huffy!” James sets her bag back on the table and crosses her arms. “I’ll stay if you can give me one good reason why I should sit back down and let you continue to distract me. One. I’m pretty sure you can’t do it.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  A decisive nod. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Terrific.” Because I got this. “You’re on. What are the stakes? Make ’em good.”

  “How about you choose mine and I choose yours.”

  Bad idea, Jim.

  Horrible, horrible idea. So horrible, in fact, I’m practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

  “Good. Ladies first.”

  “If you can’t come up with one legitimate reason to keep me in this room, you have to…” Jameson furrows her brows in concentration. “You have to…” She makes a little humming thought. “Hmmm. Let me think.”

  “Take your time,” I coax, leaning back in the study room’s big leather office chair. I spin around a few times, watching her scrumptiously from the corner of my eye as she bites her lip, thinking hard. “I have all nig
ht.”

  She’s quiet for an entire two minutes then snaps her fingers. “All right, I’ve got it! If you can’t come up with a reason I approve of, you have to cook for me.”

  Is she fucking serious?

  I try not to yawn at her mind-numbing idea, but it’s so lame I let one slip out.

  “Cook for you? That’s it?” To say I’m disappointed is a gross understatement, and it must be palpable because she nods with a smirk. “Cooking as in Let’s eat! or cooking as is You bring the chocolate body drizzle, I’ll bring the tongue?”

  “Cooking as in home-cooked meal.”

  I lean forward in the chair, the smooth leather seat and wheels creaking and straining under my weight when I give it one more spin. “All right. My turn.”

  I let the silence drag before slapping my hands together with a satisfying clap, rubbing them together gleefully. “If I win—when I win—I get to pin you down again. Get you down on the mat. Get you sweaty.”

  On the mat, in the gym, in the dark, when no one else is around.

  Jameson rolls her eyes, but I can see the doubt materializing behind her flippant gaze. It becomes tangible when she swallows apprehensively. “Uh, okay. You can pin me down again, I guess.”

  I begin ticking off reasons she should stay with me; they spill from my tongue like the sweat dripping off my forehead during a match. Fluid, molten, and drenched.

  “One reason for you to stay? I want you to. Second reason: you’re driving me to distraction and I can’t concentrate unless you’re with me. Three: I want to pop the buttons on your damn sweater. Fourth: glasses. Five: I might need your help with an answer; you seem really smart.”

  Her mouth forms a straight, unimpressed line at that last one.

  “But the real reason I want you to stay?” I draw out the sentence, emphasizing the last few words. “You’re the only girl on this campus I have any respect for.”

  I push back on the table and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms and letting those factoids sink in.

  “Well.” James gulps. “That’s—”

  “That’s the truth. I respect the hell out of you, and if you leave, I’m leaving too, and then I won’t get anything done. I’ll fail my homework, fall behind, and flunk out, thus making me ineligible for my scholarship. Do you want that hanging over your head?”

  That cheeky smile I love returns. “No, certainly not.”

  “Good. Then sit down and get out your calendar.”

  “For what?”

  “I win, which means I’m going to pin you to the mat and you’re going to like it, so we need to pick a date.” Her mouth falls open, incredulous. “Now sit back down and do your homework, Jimmy.”

  Sebastian

  I don’t know how I find myself outside Jameson’s house, on her street. On her lawn. On her front porch, knocking. But by the grace of God, the universe decided to grant me a favor, and for the first time in my collegiate years, my classes were done by late morning.

  Practice ended early. I don’t have to work.

  The team bus doesn’t leave until late.

  So here I stand on Jameson’s porch, fist raised to knock.

  I give it a few brisk raps and wait. Footpads approach the door and I straighten to my full height, paste a smile on my mouth, and wait for the deadbolts to slide free. The knob turns. Door gets cracked open a sliver and a giddy twitter emerges.

  It’s not Jameson.

  My smile falters, but I quickly recover. “Hey Sydney. What’s up?”

  I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my lightweight winter jacket and bounce on the balls of my feet.

  “Oz! Hi!” Sydney exclaims, all blonde hair, tits, and excitement. “Did you get my text? I texted you!”

  Yeah, no shit. Ten texts, all of them annoying and unanswered. I try to act startled by this revelation. “You texted me! Weird. None of them came through.”

  Lies, lies, lies, and they roll off my tongue like honey.

  She screws up her heavily made-up face into a pout. “Really? Shoot. There must be something wrong with my phone. I’ll have to take it in to have it looked at.”

  “Yeah, good idea. So…” I cut to the chase. “Is Jameson home?”

  “Jameson?”

  “We didn’t have plans but I thought we’d hit the library or something.”

  Mostly or something.

  Anything.

  “She’s not here and I don’t know when she’ll be back, but I happen to be free.” Sydney coyly twirls a blonde tendril then flicks the entire curl over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get ice cream. Lucky you! It’ll be fun.”

  Yay, lucky me.

  I stand idle, debating about whether I should go for ice cream or not while Sydney slips back inside, emerging a few seconds later with a jacket and purse as if the whole thing was settled.

  Shit.

  She spins on her heels, calling back into the house before shutting the door behind her and stepping out onto the porch. “Allison, Oz and I are going for ice cream! If James comes back, tell her we’ll be back whenever!”

  Or don’t, I almost groan out.

  Cause the last thing I fucking want is Jameson finding out I went out with her damn roommate again. I don’t know jack shit about women, but I do know she’s going to hear about this and get the wrong impression.

  Sydney hauls me to my truck—the truck I worked my ass off to own and paid off in full last month—hopping into the passenger seat with delight.

  In a hurry to end this ice cream social as soon as possible, I make short work of the trip. Order a cone—chocolate, hold the sprinkles. Grab it to-go. Get back in the truck. Drive back to Jameson’s place at warp speed with Jameson’s roommate blathering nonstop beside me.

  Touching my leg. Giggling. Trying her damnedest to be funny and engage me in conversation.

  Instead of drawing out the excursion, I dump Sydney off in her front yard before reaching the bottom of my cone.

  If she notices the hustle, she’s too polite to let on, smiling brightly the entire, hideous time, until the very moment we pull back in front of the house.

  “Oh look! James is back!”

  Oh, goody.

  Sydney is out before I can object and yanks open the driver’s side door, yanks on my arm, and drags me out. “Come inside and say hello.”

  Every step up the walkway is like being marched to my execution with cement blocks chained to my ankles. A pit forms in my stomach, and I feel…

  I attempt to pinpoint how I actually fucking feel, and…it’s shitty.

  I feel shitty.

  Kind of sick.

  We’re on the stoop now and Sydney is marching through the front door, chatting away. I hesitate, feet rooted to the concrete steps on their covered porch, not wanting to proceed any farther.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Sydney asks, holding the screen door open when she notices I haven’t stepped into the house behind her.

  I shake my head. Negative. “I should get going.”

  “But…” Pause. “Should I get James for you?”

  No. “Sure.”

  Her disappearance into the dimly lit living room is followed by voices, a few doors opening and closing, and the appearance of—

  “Jim.”

  She’s standing under the entry, hand braced against the doorjamb. “Hi.”

  The first thing I notice about Jameson is that her hair is down, hanging around her shoulders, kind of windblown and messy, like she’s just been driving with the windows down. It’s sexy.

  The second thing I notice is that she’s not wearing a cardigan, a sweater, or a cardigan sweater. Snug jeans hug her curvy hips, and I can’t help but linger on the threadbare V-neck shirt with the plunging neckline.

  “Hi.”

  Jameson rolls her eyes, nothing but passive aggression etched across her pretty face. “What’s up?”

  “I came by earlier to see you.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “You weren’t here.”
>
  “Nope.” She looks me up and down warily. “I was running errands. Got back right after you left. With Sydney.”

  With Sydney.

  With fucking Sydney.

  Goddammitall.

  My hands plunge immediately into my pockets. “I had free time today, so I thought…”

  “You’d get ice cream?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “No you didn’t get ice cream?”

  “Yes. Yeah, we did.”

  Her sad smile is forced. “How nice. Was it good?”

  I study her then, gauging her mood. I mean, clearly she’s pissed, but calm, cool, and collected Jameson doesn’t fool me. Scares me a little, yes. Fools me, no.

  Too bad I have no idea how to proceed without getting myself into trouble. I mean, she’s jealous, right? That’s what this is?

  She’s upset and now she’s going to trap me into admitting that leaving with her roommate was a dick move.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I proceed with caution.

  “I came here to see you.” Not your freaking roommate, who I’ll admit is smokin’ hot, but whom I have zero interest in. Not even for a quick lay. “And maybe take you out.”

  Jameson spreads her arms wide, gesturing into the open doorway. “And here I am.”

  “Like I said, I have a bunch of time. Not much homework, no papers due.” I shuffle my feet on the stoop. “Practice ended early. Our bus doesn’t leave until later.”

  “Lovely.”

  Her short answers are throwing me off. I inhale and push on. “Anyway, since I have all this time, I thought we could, you know, do something—”

  “Wow, that is soooo weird,” she interrupts.

  Yup. It’s a trap; I can hear it in the way her voice suddenly became too chipper. Too bubbly. Too fake happy while shooting stabby daggers of death my way.

  “What’s weird?”

  “Well, you say you came here to see me, but…gosh, I don’t know. You left here with Sydney, so…I’m a bit confused about how this whole thing works.”

  “I did come here to see you.” How many times do I have to explain it? I remove the phone from my pocket and check the time. “I’m already packed for my trip, and it’s still early if you want to…”