Tousle Me (12 page)

The first girl, a blond sorority chick in a Hogwarts uniform, is sold to Robin Thicke for $23. He slaps her on the ass and winks for the photographer before leading her off stage somewhere vile and seedy. How exciting! I count down the queue: three more girls until it’s my turn.

The slaves are passing hipflasks up and down the line.

“You want?” says the redhead, holding it out to me.

“Oh, no thanks.” I wave the flask away. “Romance heroine—notoriously poor alcohol tolerance.”

She nods knowingly. “Fair enouth.”

A blast of applause ripples from the echoey basement as yet another young filly is pawned off to the highest bidder. I want to throw my hands over my ears, but I’m scared of an Archer’s eyebrows situation.

“Aren’t you, like, a bit nervous?” I ask the redhead in a low voice.

“Of courth not. Where elth can you find a forced theduction thenario in contemporary thothiety? It’th every girl’th dream.”

“I guess you’re right,” I mutter. “Come to think of it, I do quite like to say no when I really mean yes.”

“Precithely.”

Then redhead gets called up, and she’s auctioned off to a group of three frat boys who are carrying a large tub of Schaffer’s Helmet Polish. Looks like somebody’s in for a super fun night.

“Next to go under the hammer—if you know what I’m sayin’—is our very own Cammibelle Hicks!” announces butch lesbian in a tux.

I guess that’s my cue. Holy unicorn crap, I’m so nervous, I think I might pee.

Hmm. So I’m peeing. Just a little bit.

Good thing my Uggs soak it up. Hey—
now
I know why they’re so thick and absorbent!

Walking on to the stage of a slave auction is a little like being a cheeseburger at a Weight Watchers meeting: my buns are kinda sticky. Also, a bunch of dudes are staring at me with ravenous glints in their eyes.

“Now Cammibelle is a very special snowflake,” Butch goes on, “because she’s a virgin. In fact she’s both kinds of virgin—front and back.”

“And mouth,” I add, brightly.

“And mouth!” Butch yells. “So three kinds of virgin. Like fifty shades of grey, but with forty seven of them missing.”

“How about her arm pits?” yells a guy who looks suspiciously like one of my professors.

“And her nostrils?” calls another.

“Oh. Well.” Butch turns to me. “Ever had a cock up your nostril?”

I take a deep breath and put on my best Miss America voice. “I’m pleased to say that I have not.”

“So five kinds of virgin, technically,” Butch announces. “What a bargain. Gentlemen—we’re going to start the bidding at $5.”

$5 for my virginity? What? That’s like the price of a plate of nachos, or a bag of sparkly unicorn feed. Please, God in heaven and Yeezus on the Throne, let somebody bid more than $5 for the chance to pop my cherry.

For a moment, the basement is silent, bar a few coughs and the sound of Robin Thicke saying something in the back about hashtags. Then a hand goes up at the back.

“A hundred bucks,” says a familiar voice.

It’s Archer! What the chips is he doing here?

“Two hundred,” says the Prof.

Okay, ew.

Archer clears his throat. “Three hundred.”

“Three hundred and two,” the professor counters.

Archer winces painfully. “Touché.”

“Do we have any advance on $302?” asks Butch.

“Uh…three hundred and three?” says Archer, sounding desperate.

My professor gives a dark chuckle and adjusts his cravat. “Three hundred and
seventeen
. Trololololol!”

The crowd erupts in a haze of
oohs
and
aahs
.

Butch looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Looks like this is about to get interesting.”

“You’re bloody right, it is,” says a thick, creamy British accent.

I jerk up. The crowd snap around in their seats.

Standing right at the back and suddenly glowing in the halo of a random but poignant spotlight…is Hunter von Styles. He’s wearing a Burberry trench with the collar pulled up, and his hair is tousled so tastefully that I could eat it. He’s like sex flu Sherlock.

Archer takes one look at him and begins to bang his head against the nearest wall. Which is weird. I sure hope he isn’t having a seizure.

“Are you here to place a bid, Mr von Styles?” asks Butch.

He strides down the aisle toward me, his firm but soft but large hand outstretched. He strides with purpose and conviction. He strides with a smile. He walks like he talks, and he talks like he’s wild. “One million dollars for my gosling.”

“Oh, Hunter!” I gasp as he takes my hand, squeezing gently but also hard.

Butch gapes at him. “A
million
?”

“She’s worth a lot more,” Hunter murmurs, “but your dumb charity isn’t.”

Just like that, we’re having a McMoment, right there on the stage. I stare into his green eyes, stroke his designer stubble and know that in years to come, I’ll tell our grandchildren that I knew Hunter was the one for me when he prioritized our love over starving third world children.

“Gosling,” he says gruffly, “I missed you so much, I made a Pinterest board about it.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He fiddles about with his phone. “I mean, it’s mostly me and Ryan Gosling posed with macabre expressions, but I feel it conveys the intent rather well.”

I smile despite myself. “Your lovely snake?”

“Oh no. Actual Ryan Gosling.” He shows me the Pinterest board on his phone. “We were like,
hey girl. I really miss you
.”

I stare at the beautifully edited images of Hunter and Ryan: looking sad on a carnival ride, looking miserable beside a
Smurfs 2
poster at a movie theater. Looking forlorn in flat caps on a farm.

Then I remember exactly what Hunter did to me, and my face falls. “I—I can’t do this.”

He tugs me off stage by the hand. “Of course you can. Labron’s waiting for us, so get a move on.”

“I said no, Hunter!”

“Tough shit. You’re bought and paid for,” he says with a deviously sexy glint in his eye.

Oh God. I want him, but I don’t. I need him, but I don’t
want
to. My body says yes and my heart says no; with the SlaveAuc, the choice has been conveniently removed so I can validly go against common sense. Frankly, that’s all a bit deep for an English major, and I stand in the middle of the aisle with one hand in Hunter’s and the other waving frantically as if it will help me think.

“You don’t have to do this,” says Archer, striding toward me with his own hand outstretched. “I’ll walk you home.”

Hunter chortles. “Nice try, Archery Dick, but she’s mine.”

“She doesn’t belong to anyone—least of all, you!” Archer turns to me, his big blue eyes pleading. “Cam-Cam, why are you here? How is this thing even feminist?”

I shrug. “It’s got a lesbian.”

He looks pained. “Please, just come home with me.”

“Too late for that, Archery Dick. Gosling—you’ll come home with
me
, and that’s a direct order.” Hunter gives my hand a very firm squeeze and begins to pull me forward.

“Goddamn you British guys,” Archer seethes. “What do you have that I don’t?”

Hunter snorts. “A foreskin?”

We’re almost at the end of the aisle when I turn on my heel. “Archer?”

He looks up, his eyebrow still wonky. “Yeah, Cam-Cam?”

“Could you take my bag? It’s huge, and I’m kinda tired of carrying it,” I say.

“Sure,” he replies softly. There’s an air of defeat to the way he balances the massive tote on his shoulder. “If it will make you happy.”

“Thanks!” I call as Hunter drags me up the stairs and into the murky grey uncertainty of my contractual obligations. I can’t believe he actually owns me for the night—I’m simultaneously furious and aroused by the idea.

“This isn’t forgiveness,” I hiss as we climb into the limo. “This is me doing the starving third world kids a big favor. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do.” Hunter grins The Grin while he steeples his thick fingers. “You just keep thinking that.”

Ugh. He’s so patronizing. I’d forgotten how strangely alluring Mean Hunter could be.

He sniffs the air with a twitch of his upper lip. “What smells like piss in here?”

My Uggs, probably. Crap. “You can talk,” I mutter, “Mr I Accessorize with Shredded Weasel.”

“My stylist happened to think that was a serendipitous fashion win.”

“Let me guess,” I retort, “it was primal?”

“Ooh. Your balls have dropped, haven’t they, gosling?”

“You’re actually getting off on teasing me. Oh my God.”

He shuffles closer, taking my chin in his hand. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my collar bone. “You know how I like to…teas—”

I can’t help it. I don’t know what’s come over me but before Hunter can even finish his last word, I’ve plastered my lips over his. My tongue shoves into his mouth and my nails dig into his back. If he thinks
he’s
primal, he ain’t seen nothing yet.

“Bloody hell.” He draws back, touching his bruised lips and staring at me. “You really
have
missed me.”

“I…I need to know you aren’t gay,” I whisper, shocked at my own bold urges.

“Gay?” He gapes, incredulous. “What the hell gave you that idea? Is—is this why you ran out on me?”

“Why else would I?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, looks down. “Thought maybe you might’ve found something out about my tortured past, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, we’ll get to the metrosexual floating rose later—don’t you worry. But you can start with why Labron was sucking you off,” I snap.

“Sucking me? Oh, gosling.” He takes my shoulders for a firm squeeze. “Is that what you thought we were doing?”

“You didn’t see how it looked!”

Hunter sighs, shaking his head. “Cammie, I was just getting changed. When I take my shirt off, we like to see how many quarters Labron can bounce off my abs.”

I take a deep breath, remembering not to sigh inwardly. “Seriously?”

“Well yeah. Have you
seen
my abs?”

“I have, but…” I blush. Of course I’ve seen them—they’re branded on to my eyeballs, and without him this past twenty four hours, I’ve been looking through prison bars. Of abs. “Just seems rather convenient that I walked in and thought, you know…”

“It was bound to happen. You and I, we were getting so deep, so fast; a dramatic split has the comforting air of predictability that readers love so much. We should have anticipated it.”

“Thank God there was a forced seduction scenario to bring us back together.” I smile, relieved. “You’re so right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Except for grammar,” I add sagely.

“You and your grammar can fuck right off, gosling. And then fuck off some more. When you get to the corner of fucked off, please take a right into more fucking off, cross the fucking road, and keep walking until you’re too fucked off to go any further.”

I giggle. “Ooh, someone’s got a sore point!”

He glances at his crotch. “I get that a lot.”

Oh God. We’re going to have make up sex. In fact we’re going to have sex, full stop. Visions of cupboards fill my head and I take ten tiny breaths, trying desperately not to panic. For a moment, I contemplate calling Captain Purity; surely he’s the only one with the power to get me out of this now. But I left his card in my super large tote bag, and besides, he’s probably still boning Enid.

Labron opens the door for us and greets me with a playful salute. I return it, feeling ever so slightly like a Nazi. Wait…wrong salute. Well that was awkward.

“Let’s go straight up to bed,” Hunter whispers, leading me up the stairs.

“Okay,” I manage.

“It’s not a request, sweet thing. It’s an order.”

He’s so wonderfully bossy. Perhaps I should just let my submissive urges take over, strip and let him do what he wants with my untouched fanjita. Then I cast my mind back to the advance chocolate review copy of his monster cock, and my fanjita snaps shut. I may be naïve when it comes to sex but I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between losing your virginity and being obliterated to Mound Zero.

“You k-know,” I stammer as we enter his bedroom, “I remember you saying that you were cool if we waited.”

“That was like…” He counts on his fingers. “Three chapters ago.”

“It was yesterday,” I point out.

“Twenty-four hours is a long time for any man to wait for gorgeous you.” He wraps strong arms around my waist and presses me against his huge erection. “This has been incubating for at least twenty hours of that time. Now be a good girl and don’t let it grow any bigger.”

Penises have to incubate? Wow. Every day’s a school day.

Hunter kisses me furiously, his breath ragged and hard. “I’ve never had a million dollar fuck before.”

“Best make sure we’re safe then.” I snicker. “We don’t want a million dollar baby.”

I’m too busy feeling smug over my witty one-liner to notice him rip his shirt off, so when I open my eyes and see him topless, my heart thumps in my mouth.

“Oh, Hunter,” I gasp.

“You’re on the pill, right?” he mumbles into my neck. “You virgins are always on the pill or something.”

“Yeah. And what with me being a virgin and all, I’m clean of the icky diseases.”

“I was conveniently tested last week,” he grunts. “I’m clean too.”

He’s so thoughtful. He even pauses to check if I’m okay after he literally throws me at the bed. I mean, I’ve had comfier landings, but who cares? Hunter is almost naked and I’m actually controlling my anxiety—all I can think about is his luscious bod.

He lands on top of me and begins to peel off my clothes. “Do you like to talk dirty, gosling?”

“I…uh…maybe.”

“Because when I start besmirching, things get
dirty
.”

Oh, sweet Lord—we’re getting all besmirchy. I think I’m going to wet myself, but in the sexy way.

Hunter yanks off my leggings, socks and damp Uggs. He’s in his tight Calvins—his
warning: choking hazard
tat on show—and I’m in my best panties from Target, the ones that say
Kermit for President
. My nipples are swollen up like Cap’n’ Crunch, and my warm pink tunnel is like a freshly toasted Pop Tart—crunchy on the outside, smooth on the inside.