Tousle Me (16 page)

“You should have seen these guys,” Enid says through a mouthful of tuna salad, “they were really nasty pieces of work. They tied me up, and all I can think about is—”

“Cam-Cam!” Archer cuts her off, shooting up to give me a big hug. I almost drop my tray. “Are you okay? Enid’s been telling me about your ordeal last night.”

“Well actually,” says Enid, “I was kind of—”

“It was horrible,” I sniff. “But you know, I made it through. Still in one piece.”

Archer gives me the once-over with his big, beautiful blues. “And thank the Lord for that. You should have called me—I love a good quest. I would quest my ass off to save you.” He coughs. “Both of you.”

“I’ll be all right. I always am, you know, after…” I trail off, staring up at him. Archer is one of the few people I trust with what happened in the cupboard. “It doesn’t get much worse, right?”

He puts a firm hand on my shoulder and gives it a little rub. “I hope not, fair maiden.”

Enid makes a choking noise and then reaches for a big gulp of her smoothie. I arrange my tray next to hers and then sit down. “So what’s everyone up to this afternoon?”

“I’ve got to muck out the jousting horses,” Archer says. “Wax my bow. And study for a medieval history paper. Then I might read a little classic literature, you know, just for funsies.”

I love how Archer likes to read. If only he wasn’t so supportive and well-adjusted.

“What about you, Enid?” I ask.

“I…” She bites her lip. “I don’t know. Not feeling so good after yesterday, you know. Might just rest up a little, have a bath, that kind of thing.”

“I’ve got some empowering books where a weak abused girl is rescued by a bratty, mostly mute hot guy, if one of those would cheer you up,” I offer.

She takes another sip of her drink, looking a little queasy. “I’m good.”

“Heard anything else from Captain Purity?”

“Zilch. Which is for the best, I guess.” Though she looks awfully forlorn.

Archer nudges me under the table. “What about you, Cam-Cam? How’s the…unicorn?”

“Farty. But awesome.” I twist spaghetti around my fork. “Actually, I’d planned on…”

Excited gasps erupt from the food hall lobby, and we all twist to see what the fuss is.

Should have guessed.

It’s Hunter! In the actual cafeteria! I mean, food hall.

The excited girls part way and he strides out, looking sharp in his usual suit and skinny tie, complete with Converse that squeak along the floor. He’s carrying his own tray too. My heart thumps as he approaches our table.

“Great,” Archer mutters. “It’s douchebag o’clock.”

Enid leans over and gives his hand a sympathetic squeeze.

Hunter stands over me, grinning The Grin from beneath his mop of tousled hair. “Hello there, my little addiction.”

I duck, my cheeks heating. “Oh, Hunter.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

Archer puts up a hand. “Well actually—”

“Great. Thanks.” Hunter climbs on to the bench alongside me. I have to scoot down to make room for him which means Enid nearly falls off the end, balancing precariously on one butt cheek. Still, it’s always polite to put yourself out for guests.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He smiles as he unwraps his cheeseburger.

“Of course not,” I say, patting his knee.

Hunter catches my hand and gazes up at me from beneath his artfully dipped brows. A sliver of heat starts in my thigh and moves up slowly. All. The. Feels.

“I dropped a fry on your thigh,” he murmurs. “I want to move it, but it looks so perfect.”

“Probably should move it,” Enid says dryly. “Grease stains and all.”

“Cammie and I aren’t afraid of a little…grease,” says Hunter.

I blush even harder. We’re practically having sex on the table, right in front of everyone.

“So how are you feeling after last night?” I ask, concerned.

“Good as new. Just needed to sleep things off. Thank you for allowing me that time, gosling. I love it when a woman appreciates my personal space.”

I nod, finding it impossible to cage my smile. “I do try.”

He reaches around and pulls me in toward him. “Of course, the most important thing to realize about my personal space is that I like having you in it.”

Behind us, a sorority girl begins to weep into her seventeen-cal soup. You snooze, you lose, bitch.

Hunter notices her and swallows a mouthful of cheeseburger loudly. “That reminds me, gosling—we need to go Facebook official.”

Sorority girl weeps hard. I repress the urge to trolololol.

“Yeah. I mean, uh, I guess.” Try not to look too keen, Cammie. Stop thinking about licking the rims of his Converse again. Stoppit!

“Excellent. I’ll have Labron take care of it.”

Archer snorts, and though he tries to hide it behind his bowl of pasta, he fails miserably.

“You have a problem with that, Archery Dick?”

Archer smirks. I’m not used to seeing that look on him; it unnerves me, and I dig my fingers further into Hunter’s knee.

“Nope,” says Archer. “I got ninety nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one.”

Hunter gets to his feet. “You calling me a bitch, Yankee Doodle?”

“Hunter!” I pull him back down, my heart racing. “Can we please have one day where you don’t get into a fight?”

He harumphs to himself, glowering. Then he slams down the rest of his cheeseburger and sinks back to the bench. Phew. Hunter and Dr Emuson was one thing; Hunter and Archer decking each other covered in bolognaise and mustard? I’d be needing new panties, stat.

All around us, murmurs of words like
pussy whipped
and
around her little finger
pass across the tables. Hunter shoots them all flashing glares.

“So are we doing anything tonight?” I find myself asking him. Wow. When did I get so brave? Does the security of his attention give me confidence, or something? Maybe that’s just what I’ve always needed—a hot, tempestuous British guy to boost my self-esteem.

“I thought we’d try our little night in again,” he says. “You know—wear onesies, watch
The Land Before Time
. I baked scones earlier just for you.”

“You bake?”

“Yeah. Probably in lieu of more extensive character development, but my scones are bloody good regardless.” He arranges two fries in the shape of an X—a kiss—over my mouth, and then leans in to eat them.

Archer puts a hand over his face and looks away. Hehe. Get a room, Cammie and Hunter! Soon, please, let it be soon…

“I love fries with a side of face,” he mumbles into my clavicle.

“You know what I love?” Enid says.

“Cock?” I supply helpfully.

Enid groans behind her tuna salad. “I give up.”

I don’t know why Enid bothers denying her love of the spam truncheon. She posts about it on Facebook like, all the time.

“How’s your blog going?” Archer asks me.

“Actually, I’m working on an article right now about publishing and stuff.”

“My gosling is so clever,” Hunter says, his face still buried in my neck. I can hear him chomping fries and it’s kind of like a cat purring, only the cat is a motorbike and the fries are small children in its path.

“You know how people started publishing fan fiction?” I say. “It’s about how some of the most read fan fic on the Internet now is about Harry Styles from One Direction. So my article is like, that’s what the next big publishing phenomenon will be.”

“Huh.” Archer stares between me and Hunter, and the whole table has gone a bit quiet, like there’s something very obvious staring us all in the face.

I look down, annoyed. “What?”

Hunter clears his throat loudly. “So. My place later, yeah?”

“At eight?” I ask.

“At eight.” He kisses me on the forehead before turning back to the remains of his burger. “Don’t forget your onesie.”

“It’s a fashion risk,” Enid warns.

“I know. But for Hunter, I’ll take it.”

Hunter regards me with a dreamy smile. “That’s what makes you beautiful.”

* * *

When I get back to my room, Captain Purity has left a sketch on my door. It shows Sparkles von Fancypants charging horn-first into an innocent, bookish young girl. He’s written “metaphor” on it in fancy cursive writing that suggests he’s a strong, silent type with emo bangs. Which he is. He’s initialled it “E.Z.” in the corner, as usual.

I fold up the sketch and use it to prop up my desk. I hate to be wasteful.

I spend the afternoon suffering through a load of Goodreads admin before giving up and reading one of my new books:
Broken Wicked Beautiful Twisted For Fuck’s Sake Clean That Up.
The heroine is kind of a doormat and the plot is mostly ridiculous, but it’s not like I can talk. It would be like the pot calling the kettle a unicorn owner. Or something.

Speaking of unicorns, Sparkles has spent most of the afternoon watching ASMR massages on YouTube. He’s also now got a Twitter account and I suspect he has an Internet addiction problem. Especially since all his tweets just say “Neeeeeigh.”

I try addressing this with him. “Sparkles von Fancypants want to come away from the laptop?” I coo. “Come for a little walk. We’ll find something to Instagram.”

He snorts and shakes his tinsel mane. “Neeeigh.”

“Not even for a cupcake?”

He turns his long muzzle toward the sad little cafeteria cupcake I proffer. Then he frowns a bit, spits on it, and turns back to the laptop. He Tweets “neeeeigh,” at Lady Gaga three times.

Okaaaaay then. Time to get my shower on.

An hour later, I’m climbing into the limo with Labron, who is dapper and subservient in his black suit. I’m all excited for my evening in with Hunter because this could be it: night of the living sexytimes. Dawn of the boned. Insert more shit movie puns here, my friends—in fact just insert things, anywhere. This could be Leonardo DiCaprio in
Insertion
, only really it will be Hunter von Styles, in
me
.

In me. In me. I say it over and over again, just wondering at the sound of it.

“In your what?” Labron calls from the drivers’ seat, confused.

“Uh.” I shift about, suddenly feeling very awkward. “In
your
endo, you pervert.”

“Dang,” he mutters. “Someone’s panties are in a bunch.”

“A bunch of what?”

“I…nothing.”

When we reach the west wing of the frat house, I walk with trepidation through the back entrance to see that Hunter has covered the sweeping staircase with rose petals. It looks like the red sea. Or a period.

“Wow.” I reach down to pick up a handful, letting them run through my fingers. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It should be,” says Labron. “It took me all freaking afternoon.”

“Hunter’s so sweet.” I wonder if I could just lie down for a bit and make a petal angel. In my Gruffalo onesie, it would be like a scene from
Where The Wild Things Are
, which has all sorts of  slightly unnerving connotations with the fucking dirty sex I’m about to have.

“He’s waiting upstairs,” Labron says. “Have a good night, Ginger.”

I step through the petals slowly. It’s actually quite hard to climb a staircase which is covered in small, slippery bits of plant, but we all know that romance trumps health and safety. I just hope I don’t have to come back down after a couple glasses of wine.

Hunter is splayed across his white sofa, his tousled hair especially tousled over the satin cushions. He’s wearing a proper rock star onesie, which is black and split down the chest like he’s in AC/DC or something. Only he’s brushed his hair sometime this century.

When he spots me, his entire face lights up. He flicks the remote at the TV and switches off
Supernatural.
“Gosling. Look at you—mmm.”

I obey, looking right down at myself. I’m very…furry.

He pulls himself up to standing and wraps a strong arm around my waist, drawing my mouth to his. “We meet again.”

“Do you come here often?” I giggle.

“Do I come in your mouth?” he mumbles against my lips. “Not yet, but a boy can dare to dream.”

“I do require a little more protein in my diet.”

“Maybe you could give me a hand job,” he grins The Grin, “and we’ll call it a protein shake.”

“Oh, Hunter!”

“Oh, gosling.”

He kisses me like we’re going to war. Our tongues are swords duelling to the death, our noses the shields, our hands the fighter jets, his massive erection the battering ram. Embarrassingly, I’m already starting to sweat—which is probably because my Gruffalo onesie is made of polyester, but still.

“We should stop,” I pant. “Aren’t we still waiting?”

Hunter gasps for breath. “Your results…haven’t come back yet.”

I try to hide my disappointment, but fail miserably. “Oh.”

“I called the intensive care unit and Dr Emuson still hasn’t woken up.”

“How terrible.”

“I know. I need to fuck you before my balls fall off. This coma is just bloody inconsiderate.” He sighs, tracing my jaw with his thumbs. “But I won’t let your questionable thrush status keep us apart, gosling. Not when I’m busy trying to own you. We might not be able to have actual intercourse, but I can still touch every last inch of your naked skin, whispering that it’s mine.”

“It
is
yours,” I breathe. “I’ve been yours since the night you caught me on the roof. Since I opened my eyes and there you were, looking so…tousled.”

He tosses his hair, grinning. “I get that a lot.”

“I mean it.” Oh God—I’m really baring my soul here. “I stared at your big broad shoulders and your strong jaw and your glorious messy locks, and I thought, I want him so much, I almost want to
be
him.” I look away, nervous. “Hunter, I just want you to tousle me.”

“Then I will,” he whispers. “Just let me find the afro comb and styling spray.”

Ten minutes later, I stare into the mirror at my effortless new bedhead style. I am most definitely tousled, and inside, the cupboard finally begins to close. I feel fresh and new. Washed clean. Does Hunter know the healing power of his styling prowess? He has recast me, made me whole.

“I love it!” I exclaim, my hands flying toward my mouth without a hint of worry about an Archer’s eyebrows scenario.