Home > How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours (HTDAD #1)(3)

How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours (HTDAD #1)(3)
Author: Sara Ney


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.”

Sauntering back to my table is a quick journey, and both my friends have amused expressions plastered across their idiotic faces. I drag out my chair, rejoining them with a glower.

“That didn’t look like it went so well,” Dylan ventures.

“Fuck. Off.”

“That’s not Violet?” Zeke asks.

“Nope.” I flip a topography textbook open. “Not Violet.”

“Hey OzMan,” Dylan muses thoughtfully. “I bet if you went back over there and put the moves on her, it would give her something to brag about for weeks. Give nerd girl a reason to live.”

Somehow, I doubt that. “She’d have to take her face out of her book long enough to acknowledge me first.”

“Bet you could get her to cream her white granny panties.”

“No shit I could. Like it would be hard?”

Zeke laughs. “Let’s be honest, she’s not wearing granny panties—it’s probably a chastity belt.”

Not that I mind white granny panties; they all slip down a woman’s thighs the same way: slowly and with a sweet satisfying sound when they hit the floor.

I smirk knowingly. “Yeah, probably.”

“Do you suppose she’s a virgin?” Dylan wonders out loud.

Zeke snickers, glancing over his wide shoulders toward the librarian, who’s walking the perimeter of the room. He lowers his voice. “Fuck yeah she is; look at her. She’ll be a post-gasm crier for sure when she finally takes it up th—”

“All right, enough.” I cut him off sharply; even I have my standards when it comes to degrading woman. Granted, they’re not high, but I have a few—and condescending them sexually is one of them. “You’re being a douche.”

I give the girl another glance over my shoulder, my tone softening. She really is kind of cute. “Besides, why do you even care?”

“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.

The truth is, I didn’t grow up going to the best schools. I was a talented wrestler from the beginning, but wasn’t able to afford extra training; our family didn’t have the money. When I was in middle school, my sister landed her first real job out of grad school but soon ended up embroiled in a legal battle—the details of which I won’t get into—that depleted much of my parents’ retirement.

Money for wrestling clubs and college went right along with it.

So yeah, unlike most of my friends, I’m not blessed to be here at the expense of my parent’s deep pockets. I have no limitless credit cards or monthly allowance.

Nope.

I might have been blessed with a God-given talent for pinning opponents to the wrestling mat, but financially I’m only armed with an athletic scholarship (one I can’t afford to fuck up) and a job. That’s right. A job.

As in J-O-B.

As in, when I’m not in class, at practice, or studying, I’m busting my ass working up to twenty hours a week, driving the fork lift during the night shift at some rinky-dink lumber yard fifteen minutes from campus. It pays the rent on the shithole I share with my teammate Zeke, a football player named Parker, and his cousin Elliot.

The job helps pay what expenses the scholarship and my parents can’t cover—utilities, gas, and groceries—with little left for much else.

And if anyone finds out, I’m screwed.

Technically, I’m not supposed to be working; my contract with Iowa prohibits it. But there’s nothing I can do—I have to work, usually at night, when I should be sleeping, studying, and resting my body.

The body that takes a regular beating and is my only ticket to a Big Ten education.

An additional few thousand grand per year in scholastic scholarships help—those are sponsored by the insurance company my dad works for—but I could really use the money Zeke just threw down, even if it’s only a hundred bucks.

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.”

 

 

Sebastian

 

 

“I thought we already established I’m not a tutor.”

The girl is hunched, boxed out over her textbook, highlighter poised above the right margin. She still hasn’t looked up, but at least she acknowledged me before I had to take drastic measures like clearing my throat and beating on the table.

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