The Studying Hours

Relaxing my fingertips on the edge of the solid wood table, I wait for her to glance up. Notice me. Say something. Blush.

But she doesn’t. In fact, if this chick senses my presence, she’s Level: Expert at hiding it.

Clearing my throat, I throw out a casual greeting and try to look bored. “Hey.”

Her hand continues to move across her notebook, finger trailing the middle handwritten paragraph. Head still bent, her quiet voice murmurs, “I’m not a tutor, so don’t bother.”

I guess that answers my question. I turn toward my friends, both of them giving me a thumbs up, and shake my head. Negative Ghost Rider. Zeke furrows his brows, pissed off as usual, and glances down at the folded paper in his hand with a frown. He wads it up and tosses it to the floor.

Well.

I guess that settles it. Except…

“Your name’s not Violet?” I press for more information, willing her to look up at me.

She doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

I force out a chuckle, leaning on the table with my hip and crossing my arms. “Just checking. My friend over there got stood up by his study buddy and now he’s moping.”

“Why didn’t he come over here himself?”

“Too lazy to get up.” My tone is matter-of-fact.

“Not to be rude, but if he needs a tutor, maybe laziness is part of his problem.”

Good point. “Good point.”

“All right, now that we’ve established I’m not this mysterious missing Violet, I really do need to get back to studying. You’re killing my mojo.”

“Right. Sorry to bother you.” The apology slips out and manages to sound sincere.

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.