How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,1

of being a bouncer. Shark had given me the rundown the first night. “You gotta patrol those back corridors, man,” he’d said. Then he’d started counting off things on his fingers, each one more horrifying than the last. “Anyone puking—gone. Anyone snorting or injecting anything—gone. Anyone bleeding—gone, assuming they can walk and they don’t need an ambulance. If they’re making out, just break it up, unless he’s being too aggressive. You learn to get a vibe. No fingering, sucking, blowing, or eating out. Definitely no fucking. No pussies or dicks. If her tits are out, cover them up and call her a cab. If her panties are down, instruct her to pull them up, but don’t do it yourself or we’ll have a lawsuit. You got all that?”

I’d thought he was joking. I really had.

That first night, I’d poured two drunk girls into cabs after they’d puked, and yeah, one of them had her panties down. I did not pull them up for her.

In the nights since then, I’d called the cops once—the guy was so wasted he was scaring the fuck out of everyone, and he refused to leave—and chased a guy who didn’t pay his very high bar bill across the parking lot and down the street. I’d bounced at least three guys who were giving Edie the creeps and broken up a lot of makeout sessions. I’d seen a lot of puke. I’d covered up several sets of tits.

What the hell, I wondered, was I doing?

This wasn’t what I’d pictured myself doing even six months ago, let alone in high school. In high school, I’d been the golden kid—football player, good grades, no problems. The teachers had loved me and the girls had followed me through the halls. That was when I was eighteen. Now I was twenty-four, and—what the fuck was this?

I was never this guy. The big guy who loomed over everyone else, making sure you knew just how big he was. The guy who picked fights and bloodied noses and scared people. The guy who flexed his muscles and tried to be a badass. I was big and strong—the Marines is not a fucking cakewalk, let me tell you—but I was always Jason Carsleigh, the good guy. I held open doors for people and said hi to my teachers in the halls. I knew who my neighbors were. I mowed the lawn for the old lady on the corner. I was nice to my mother and my little sister. I played fair on the football field and I took girls on proper dates. I was fucking nice.

I didn’t know where that guy had gone. I didn’t feel nice these days. I didn’t feel much of anything.

It wasn’t the breakup. Charlotte and I had been together for four years, and most of that time I’d been deployed. I’d gotten home and realized I barely knew her. So of course I had proposed, like an idiot. I’d felt a freaked-out nausea when I did it, but I’d pushed the feeling away, just like I’d pushed away everything that made me uneasy. Since the breakup I’d been coasting along, wondering what was next. Wondering if it was this.

I ran a hand through my hair and watched the college kids writhing on the dance floor. Something touched my elbow where it rested on the bar, and I looked down to see Edie passing me a shot. She gave me a smile. She had ink-black hair cut in straight bangs across her forehead and falling glossy down her back, and a nose ring. Big hazel eyes with dark eyelashes. Guys came on to her nonstop because she looked like the kind of girl who liked it, but the fact was it pissed her off. She was here to pour drinks and make tips, and that was it.

I gave her a smile and picked up the shot. Edie appreciated it when I stationed myself at the bar, I knew, because she had less trouble. I wafted the shot under my nose. Tequila. There were technically rules against drinking on the job, but as of yet I hadn’t seen a single person following them. When you were bound for Puke Patrol at the back of the bar, a shot of tequila seemed like a fair deal.

I tossed it back, wincing, and then I noticed a guy and a girl arguing on the dance floor. He was in her face; she had her arms crossed over her chest and she kept moving