Tousle Me (17 page)

“Normally, I’d use the bang bang method,” he admits. “But since we can’t use that one yet, traditional measures suffice quite nicely.”

“Indeed.” I turn to plant a kiss on his beautifully pouty mouth. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Mmm. Now. Shall we watch that film?”

“With the scones?”

“And with clotted cream. And jam.”

I frown. “But what will we put on the scones?”

He rolls his eyes just a little. “I’m sure we can find a few things.”

“I’ve never seen
The Land Before Time
before,” I confess as we arrange ourselves on the sofa, his arm around my shoulders and my feet in his lap. “What’s it about?”

“Mostly, it’s a poignant tale of love and loss. Of finding friends. Of letting go. I like to consider it a commentary on western society; the big bads looking down on the little guy, people eating each other. Plus the songs are fucking catchy.”

“Oh. Sounds amazing,” I say as I reach for a scone. “What do you do with these, again?”

“You eat them.”

“Hardy ha ha. You’re hilarious.” Oh, Hunter. “Seriously.”

He takes the knife from my plate and skims the scone into two halves, revealing fat sultanas dotting the crumbly cake base. “You spread clotted cream on one half, jam on the other. Sandwich it back together, and then insert into face.”

I know a few things I’d like to insert into his face.

Hunter passes me a new scone. “Now you try.”

“What if I don’t like cream? Do you have low fat spread, or something?”

He glares in disgust. “Gosling. We do not besmirch the sheer majesty of the scone with…low fat spread.” I half think he’s going to spit, like Sparkles.

“Oh. Okay then.”

“You know, this reminds me of like, times on the tour bus. With the band.” His eyes fade slightly; his tone seeps into nostalgia with a bittersweet tang. “I would bake stuff and they’d be like,
oh shizer, das ist gut, ya
.”

“It must be hard,” I say, “leaving fame and fortune for…” I gesture around, shrugging.

“Are you bonkers? I wouldn’t trade this for anything. What would Ryan Gosling do if I hadn’t rescued him?” He gives my hand a squeeze as he glances at the snake tank. “But sometimes I do wonder what could have…been.”

I give him a faint smile. “Enough of this. Let’s watch your movie.”

“You’re going to love it. It’s been my favorite ever since I was a wee boy.”

With scones in our laps, we cuddle down on the sofa to watch the opening credits. There’s a little lizard thing swimming around in the sea; lizards are a teensy bit of a trigger for me, but it’s okay. Just a lizard. Breathe, Cammie. That’s it. Just breathe.

Then there’s a voiceover and some stuff about a changing planet. Sniff. Hunter didn’t warn me how sad this would be. I hate sad movies, and I can’t even pretend I’m going to pick up my octopus this time. Just breathe, Cammie. Eat the scone. See, not that bad, hmm? You can eat full fat cream just fine despite your lack of eating issues. And look, there’s a—

A DINOSAUR.

HOLY FUCK.

I scream. My scone flies into the air, the plate shattering across the hard wood floor. Hunter jumps out of the way in shock and then lunges in again to clasp my wrists.

“What the hell?” he says.

I can’t get the words out—I just have to get away. Panting hard, my pulse hammering like a—just a THING THAT HAMMERS, OKAY—I yank myself free of him and dive behind the sofa.

“Cammie.” Hunter rushes around and kneels beside me. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I…I…” I wheeze. How can I possibly tell him about this? He’ll leave me. He’ll think I’m such a weirdo. Only Archer and Enid ever understood about the cupboard. “Dinosaurs,” I manage in a croaky little voice.

“You have a dinosaur phobia?”

I barely manage to nod. Rocking in a corner sure is tempting. God damn you, modern décor with your placement of furniture so far from corners! Instead, I put my elbows by my sides and raise my forearms with crooked hands in a deformed attempt to impersonate a T-Rex. “Grraaar.”

Hunter leans over the sofa and uses the remote to switch the TV off. “There, there. It’s all gone away, gosling. Nothing to panic about.”

I wrap my arms around my knees and begin rocking anyway.

“Cammie.” He sits beside me and leans in for an enveloping hug. The split running down his rawker onesie hangs open a bit so I get a good view of his tattoo. And his pubes. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No,” I snort.

“I think someone’s pants are on fire,” he purrs.

I glance down, terrified, whilst simultaneously sniffing the air for smoke. “Whuh?”

“Not actually on fire, gosling. It’s a saying. You know, liar liar, pants on fire.”

“Oh.” I sniff, still rocking. “You’re not very good at this comforting thing.”

He glances about, looking dubious. “I’m British.”

“Do you have anything you want to….tell
me
?”

“What are you getting at?”

“You’re asking me to bare my soul, Hunter. But you won’t bare yours.”

“Yeah.” He grins The Grin. “You know…you had me at
bare
.”

I sigh, folding my arms and swivelling away on my butt.

“I made it all up,” he insists. “I have no dark secret, really, but I felt like it was important to conform to the stereotype. Girls like it when you’re fucked in the head.”

“True. But now whose pants are on fire, huh? You were talking about your mom after you got knocked out last night!”

He pauses, his eyes darting about. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“I was obviously delirious.”

“You were traumatized. You sounded like a little boy.”

“I was probably practicing my falsetto,” he goes on. “I do that sometimes. In my sleep.”

“You are LYING.”

“Ooh.” He leans in with playful eyes, his tousled hair falling into them. That can’t be comfortable. “Is this our first fight? You know what that means, don’t you, gosling?”

“Uh…no?” Please don’t let him take Goodreads away!

He gives me a devilish smile. “Make-up sex.”

“But…but my test,” I say. “It didn’t come back.”

“I suppose we could always use a condom,” he muses, “but that feels a bit too much like wasting an excuse for conflict.”

“True.”

“Not a problem.” He whips out his iPhone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m consulting Dr Google.”

I scoot beside him to peer over his shoulder. “What?”

“I’m searching for anal thrush. I’m like, is that even a thing?”

I blink. My heart thumps. My butt hole thumps, throbs, and then thumps some more. “I’m sorry. Did you say
anal
?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You have a problem with it?”

Um, yes. I have a problem with him mashing anything remotely cylindrical into a hole where things only go
out.
Also, poop. I mean…ew.

“I bought all of your virginities last night, and don’t think for a second I won’t be taking advantage of them. You know,” Hunter says, reaching for my hand, “I love the idea of banging you up the arse. Lemme see now…paging Dr Penis!” He presses my hand over the engorged cock tenting his onesie. “Hmm. Diagnosis boner.”

“Sounds like one of your old songs,” I mutter, trying very hard not to smile.

“Oh, you want me to sing, do you? Is that how this works?”

“You’re the alpha hero,” I retort. “You’re meant to tell
me
how it works.”

“So I am. Hmm.” He takes a deep breath, and begins to sing. “Hey, I just bought you, and this is crazy, but here’s a stiff one, felate it maybe?”

I give his cock a light swat, and he groans. “Great. It’s Hunter von Gangnam Styles.”

“Like I’ve never heard that one.” His phone beeps. “Ah, fuck.”

“What?”

“Anal thrush. Definitely a thing,” he says forlornly.

“Oh.” I nudge his shoulder and he shows me the screen. “Bleugh.”

“Paging Dr Penis! Dr Penis, come back!” He feigns tears. “Quick, he needs mouth to mouth.”

I cough. “He doesn’t have a mouth.”

“Mouth to meatus.”

“Does he fancy a scone?”

“You know, I’ve never met a girl who talks as much as you, gosling.” He strokes a thumb down my cheek. “Sure, I’ve met girls with self-esteem levels that are massively disproportionate to their level of attractiveness. Girls who are shockingly clumsy in a cute, dumb kind of way—more clumsy than I thought possible. But nobody ever got a pet dead octopus just to impress me. Nobody ever ignored me just so she could check her Goodreads account, or read a book. Nobody ever dressed up as an erotic Gruffalo just because she knows I have a furry onesie fetish. You, Cammibelle Hicks, are something else.”

I blush deeply in both sets of cheeks. “Oh, Hunter.”

“So I suppose we’re still waiting for the sex. And we can’t watch the dinosaurs for a frankly unconvincing reason. But I just want to be with you—tonight, nobody can take it away from us.”

“Take what away?”

“It.”

“It…?”

“You know.” He gives a knowing nod. “
It
.”

“Right.” I do not know.

“Want to curl up with Ryan Gosling and watch the Kardashians?”

I can’t fight the smile that spreads slowly across my face. “Do I ever!”

* * *

My cell phone rings in the dim light of the moon that spills over Hunter’s bed. At first, I’m massively annoyed to be woken, but then I realize that I get to do curwning. All is not lost.

“Y’ellow?” I mumble into the receiver.

“Ginger?” hisses Labron.

“Oh hey. ‘Sup bitch?”

“Yeah. Not now. Have you heard anything from outside the window?”

I pull myself up to sitting, rub my eyes, and peer over at the large arched window. “Don’t think so.” Beside me, naked and gorgeous Hunter rolls over and gives off a single, loud snore. He’s even more tousled when asleep.

“Okay.” Labron takes a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is it Sparkles? Is he still harassing Gaga on Twitter?”

“It’s actually worse than that.”

My heart stops. “Oh God. Labron. What is it?”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “There are paparazzi outside. For Hunter.”

“Like, photographers and stuff?” I say in disbelief. “But they don’t follow him anymore. He turned his back on fame.”

Labron gives a bitter little laugh. “And fame done fucked his ass. There are like, three reporters outside. And Perez Hilton.”

“Seriously?”

“Uhuh. Thing is…Eine Richtung have announced that they’re reforming.”

Now I sit bolt upright. “
What?
But Hunter didn’t mention anything, he—”

“Because he doesn’t know. They’re doing it without him.”

I can barely breathe. This is bad, very bad. “How can they possibly do that?”

“They’ve drafted in Darren Hayes to replace Hunter. Calling themselves Savage Richtung,” says Labron, his tone pitiful. “Cammie, we’re fucked. This will break him entirely.”

“But he loves Darren Hayes,” I whisper.

“Not anymore,” Labron snipes. “Not anymore.”

What the chips do I do? “You’re the help. Suggest some help!”

“Dang, Ginger—I’m his best friend. Not his motherfucking butler. Could you be any more offensive?”

I cock my head. “I’ve got a few dead baby jokes, if that’s your thing.”

He gives an exhausted sigh. “Look. When Hunter wakes up, don’t let him read the news or turn on the TV, or anything. This is all over the media. Keep him busy while I figure something out.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Keep him busy. Because I might have the thrush,” I say.

“First: hashtag TMI. Seriously. And second: ever heard of a blow job? Or just a plain ol’ hand shandy, whatever. Do the unicorn right in front of him, for all I care. But you do not leave that room until I come for you guys. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” I say meekly.

“Okay. You can go back to sleep now. Sorry I interrupted you.”

“This time tomorrow,” I whimper, “we’ll all be sorry.”

Do the unicorn right in front of him
.

So how would that—

No, no. God.

But maybe…I mean, his horn is kind of big, and he’s got that strangely alluring mean thing going—

NO, Cammie. Just NO.

* * *

“Gosling?”

I roll over in Hunter’s bed and slap my hand up to wipe drool from my cheek. “Whuh?”

He’s sitting up in bed, the sheets puddled in his lap, and is staring down with a proud smile. “I’ve got morning glory. Come on, have a feel—it’s throbbing, seriously.”

I’m trying to sleep. Hunter, you’re lovely, but I’m an independent woman with my own mind, and I vant to be alone.

Plus I’m trying
really
hard to hold a fart in, and one wrong move will release the beast.

He grabs my hand, drags it toward his crotch. “You wanted me to
bare
myself to you and all that shit. Well here I fucking am, sunshine.”

I blink the grogginess from my eyes as my hand closes around something best described as a tube of Pringles.

It is not a tube of Pringles.

I have to admit, nothing wakes you up quicker than realising your boyfriend is packing a whole football team’s share of penis.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispers, sinking further into the mattress to press his cock harder into my stiff palm. “Blimey. How did he grow this monster?”

“S-something like that,” I manage.

Hunter now has his best
Anchorman
voice on. “And you’re thinking, how will he take my virginity without smashing through my ovaries like an episode of
Extreme Pelvic Makeover
?”

As he talks, his cock smacks heavily against my hand. Like it has a life of its own. My girlcore contracts along with it. There’s sexual dubstep in my panties—is this worrying? Or is it a Billboard hit waiting to happen?

“Gosling,” he murmurs, “don’t you want to say good morning to WOMOC?”

Yes. No. “How…how do I, uh, go about that?”

He drapes an arm around my shoulder and rests his fingers on the back of my neck. Then he begins to press. “You put him in your mouth. Right the way down. And then you say,
good morning
, over and over and over…”