The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag Book 5) by Ney Sara

Author:Ney, Sara [Ney, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Sara Ney
Published: 2019-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

Me: Look. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from…

Skylar: That is correct.

Skylar: Save your apologies—I didn’t want them in the car, and I don’t want them now.

Me: I’m not texting to apologize; I’m texting you to ask if we can start over.

Skylar: haha.

Skylar: No

Me: Skylar, please. I told Jack to piss off, removed the app from my phone, and want nothing more to do with it.

Skylar: The app isn’t the point here. The point here is that you lied. I know nothing about you, Abe. Everything you told me was about JB.

Me: Then let me get to know you—please.

Skylar: I said no. Don’t make me block you from my phone, too.

Me: I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.

Skylar: Yup.

Me: There’s no way I can make it up to you so we can start over…none at all?

Skylar: Hard pass.

Me: All right, then I guess…

Me: Goodbye?

I stare at my phone, at the blue bubble from my last text, willing her to reply.

She doesn’t.

I had the last word, and it was Goodbye, and she doesn’t bother with the courtesy of a response back.

I feel sick.

And guilty. And like a complete, fucking douchebag.

How did I end up as the bad guy in all this?

I can’t concentrate on my meet, where there are thousands of wrestling fans in the stands. The auditorium is loud, thrumming with energy, none of which is coming from me.

Instead of warming up like I’m supposed to, I’m staring off into the dark recesses of Iowa’s stadium when a giant hand clamps down on my shoulder. It’s mammoth, and it’s attached to someone even larger. Someone larger than life.

“What the fuck are you doing just standing here?”

Zeke Daniels is an alum, a champion himself who comes back to help the coaching staff during meets at home every now and again—and he’s glaring at me, disgusted.

“I’m distracted.”

“Distracted enough to get your ass handed to you in thirty minutes by a guy who wants the pin more than you do?”

Yes. “No. No, I’m good. I’ll shake it off. I just…”

Not one for beating around the bush, Zeke sighs impatiently, knowing instinctively I have a personal problem but not wanting to address it. He doesn’t give a shit, but he has a job to do—and that job is to fix my head and get me in the game.

He’s blunt. “What the fuck is the problem?”

“Nothing. We’re good.”

“You look like you’re about to puke all over those pretty little shoes of yours.” He runs a tan hand through his black hair. “Is this about some woman? Did some chick get into your fucking head? Spit it out, we’re losing daylight.”

Yes. “No.”

He doesn’t believe me. “Jesus Christ, don’t lie to me. You’re running out of time before they blow the whistle. If it’s not a girl and your dick hasn’t fallen off, why are you standing there looking like someone pissed in your bowl of Cheerios?”

This guy is brutal, no time wasted on peppering his speech with flowery sentiment. Zeke Daniels isn’t into mollycoddling, and he certainly isn’t going to start with me.

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