Tousle Me (2 page)

“Thanks.” I go to take it, but he yanks it out of the way.

“Oh no, you don’t. I’ll do you a little deal.” He grins The Grin again. “Your phone, in exchange for your number.”

“That’s an invasion of my privacy,” I huff.

“And if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll up that to a date.”

“I barely know you.”

He brings one finger up to my chin and caresses firmly. I feel a bit like a lobster he’s picking out in a restaurant. “Hunter von Styles. There. Now you know me.”

I bite my lip, but resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I didn’t say you could touch me. This is harassment.”

“But you like it.”

I nod slowly. I’m confused. “It’s strangely alluring.”

He tosses his head, tousled hair rippling in the breeze. “I get that a lot.”

“So…um. Do I get my phone?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

Pouty von Hotface is kind of mean. Which is also strangely alluring. “Okay.” I sigh, reeling off my number. “Happy?”

He chuckles. “Not until you’re underneath me, sweaty and despoiled.”

I blush. “My friend warned me there’d be guys like you up here.”

“Oh really? Well. I do a little cage fighting in my spare time—you know, for shits and giggles. Your friend can come
talk
to me any time he wants.”

I take this opportunity to swipe my phone back and frantically scroll through to the Goodreads app. Lemme see: Pegworth25 liked my last review, plagiarism scandal, an author I love loaded a new book up, and—hang on just one second. What holy crap is this?

“So…I’ll be needing a name to go with your number,” says Hunter, holding up his own cell. Which looks a lot more expensive than mine.

I’m still staring at my screen. I have. No. Words. I didn’t think they were allowed to do this.

Hunter clears his throat. “You know, it’s not often that a girl treats me like I’m invisible.”

“Sorry? Did you say something?” Then I snap back down to re-read the notification for the third time.

Goodreads has made the decision to remove your review of
The Coincidence of Clancy and Tarquin
on the grounds set out in our reviewer guidelines, section 42.7A
.

“I don’t believe it,” I utter.

Hunter puts a gentle—but strong—hand on my waist. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh…” I can’t help it. Have to talk out the panic before it consumes me, just like the cupboard. “Goodreads removed my review.”

He tuts. “Oh. I see. First world problems.”

“You’re really mean, you know that?”

He tosses his hair again, and smirks his Grin. “That’s how I roll.”

“You know what? If you’re going to be that much of a jerk off, you can roll right over to the edge of never and throw yourself off.”

“Ooh.” Hunter clasps his hands over his heart, feigning misery. Then he spots the tears that clamour in the corners of my eyes and his expression softens. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just like to…tease.”

For a second, I imagine his gentle-but-firm fingers teasing other places, but the tragedy at hand soon wins my attention. “Yeah, well. See how
you
like it when your review gets removed because it contains too many GIFs.”

Hunter’s brow dips in genuine sympathy. He nods, pauses, and then holds up a hand. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He had me at
give me a moment.
I have passive aggressive Tweets to compose, for God’s sake. As Hunter strides over to the other side of the roof, phone clasped to his ear, I bash out a hundred and forty characters of melodramatic vitriol. And then I start asking myself who to blame. I mean, was it me? Was it the other reviewers, who turn the GIF thing into some kind of battle to the death where only the strongest survive? Or is it Goodreads, who seem to have more control issues than Hunter? Is it—?

“Okay.” He reappears, one hand ruffling his hair. “It’s all sorted.”

“Huh?” I’m confused. Why am I always so confused?

“I bought Goodreads. Your review will be back up in about five minutes.”

I look at my cell’s screen, then at Hunter, who arches an eyebrow in a disturbingly predatory fashion. Then I look at the sky, all inky black and dotted with bright stars. Then I look back to Hunter—at his crotch, just a bit, because a girl has to inspect these things. Then back to my cell. My neck starts to ache from all the jerky looking, but I trudge on. To the floor, where a bit of gum has been pressed into the grooves of the wooden boards. And then—

“
Thank you
would be sufficient,” he purrs.

“Oh. Um.” I bite my lip. “Thank you.” Part of me doesn’t want to believe he has the money to just buy Goodreads, or that he can do it in five minutes flat. But the other part of me doesn’t care because, crotch. Pout. Crotchy von Pouty Pout.

Hunter smirks. “Now would be a good time to give me that name of yours.”

I could listen to his British accent all day. I have a sneaking feeling that I might get to do just that if this is going the way I think it is. Or if I ask his opinion on the poh-tay-to vs. poh-tah-to issue.

“Cammibelle,” I whisper, half to the stars and half to him. “My name is Cammibelle Hicks.”

“What a pretty name.” He puts another hand on my waist so he’s kind of holding me, and I feel his warm breath on my collarbone. Though I’m still holding my cell up between us, which is awkward. “I mean…it sounds a bit like
cannibal
, which is creepy as fuck. But apart from that, it’s utterly beguiling.”

“My friends call me Cammie,” I croak.

“So. Cammie. Now I have your name
and
your number. Whatever will I do with it?”

“You mean,
them
?”

“Huh?”

“What will you do with
them
? It’s plural.”

Hunter’s lips purse and his eyes dart about.

“I should probably tell you this now,” I say apologetically. “I’m a complete grammar geek, even though my actions suggest that my intellect is severely questionable.” My cell vibrates again; a new notification advises that my review has been reinstated, complete with a grovelling apology. “Woah,” I breathe. “You…oh, my God.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles again. “I get that a lot.”

I stare up at Hunter, my attention finally a hundred percent on him and zero percent on the hobby that up until now, defined my life. I have a strange feeling in my belly that this is how it’s supposed to be, and it makes me want to sink to my knees and drag my tongue around the ribbed soles of his Converse sneakers. Which is weird. Maybe I have a vitamin deficiency, or something.

“Is it me,” says Hunter, “or does it feel like we’re the only people up here?”

I lose myself in his big green eyes. They’re such a perfect shade; not like the green bit on the NBC logo, but deeper. More like the green bit on the Google Chrome thing.

And then Enid and Archer appear behind us—complete with hands on hips and disapproving glares—and we aren’t the only people on the roof. At all.

It may have taken Archer and Enid more than the claimed five minutes to come and find me, but it takes them only two to drag me back downstairs. I didn’t even get to thank Hunter for buying Goodreads.

“Are you okay?” Archer hisses, guiding me into a quieter corner of the common room and down on to a plush couch. “What did he do to you? Here—” He grabs my arm. “Let me check you for bruises.”

“Archie. Please.” Enid snatches my arm away. “She’s fine. I mean, look at her. All flushed cheeks, bright eyes, glazed look…” Her blue eyes narrow in suspicion. “No way. Did you meet an alpha hero?”

“Maybe,” I mutter.

Archer puts his face in his hands. “Him? Of all the people. Oh God.”

Enid strokes a soothing hand along his back. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay! He won’t even be a hero…he’ll be an…” He sniffs, then scowls. “
Anti
hero.”

Enid recoils, looking troubled. “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven.”

I look from Enid to Archer. “Are you guys meant to be having this conversation in front of me?”

Archer gives a defeated shrug. “Plot dictates you’d have heard us anyway at some point. Might as well cut to the chase.”

Enid tilts her head and nods sagely in agreement.

“Ah. I guess that works.” I’m about to bite my lip, but then I realize something. “Hey. What do you mean—not
him
?”

“Didn’t he tell you his name?” Enid says, incredulous.

“Well yeah. Pouty von Crotchy Cro—I mean, Hunter von Styles.” I smile blithely. “What’s the big deal?”

Archer yanks his cell out and brings up Google. He grits his teeth as he bashes in Hunter’s name, and then passes the result to me. “Knock yourself out.”

I frown at the screen. “How come you’ve got WiFi?”

“Stop pointing out inconsistencies and read the damn page,” says Enid.

Hunter’s Wikipedia page is long. And thick. And meaty. And, erm, maybe I’m getting a little carried away with myself here.

Hunter von Styles is the youngest son of Mason von Styles, Earl of Salisbury
…idyllic childhood, two older brothers, mother died in a stable fire, blah blah blah…
At the age of nineteen, Hunter joined the world-famous German rock band, Eine Richtung, on both lead vocals and acoustic guitar. But after three years of stardom, a dark and close-guarded secret forced him to leave
.

Wow. That’s like, at least three chapters’ worth of exposition, right there. No wonder Archer has WiFi.

Troubled by the demise of his band, Hunter moved to UCLAP, and has focused his rage by competing in underground cage fights. His famous ex-girlfriends include Taylor Swift. He’s no good for you, Cammie Hicks. He’ll rip your heart out, lick it a bit, make some weird walrus noises and then stuff it right back in again
.

“Woah.” I pass back Archer’s cell. “That last part’s a little harsh.”

“But it’s on Wikipedia,” says Enid. “It must be true.”

I freeze. “Hang on a minute. Rich guy who used to be in a band…Archer, is this the douche member of Pi Pi Pi?”

Archer drops his head back on the top of the sofa. “Yep.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Enid pulls a neon pink lipstick from her purse, cracks out a mirror and starts to reapply. “So despite the fact that Archer’s a big boy—a very big boy—” Her eyes drop, and she blushes, “and can take care of himself, all those girls that Hunter knocks and drops don’t fare so well. You’re going to stay away from him. Aren’t you?”

“But…but I thought you wanted me to get laid…?”

“Not with him. No laying. Absolutely no laying of—or with—Hunter von Styles.” She finishes applying the lipstick, and blows a kiss at a frat boy who’s loitering nearby. “He’s mixed up in all kinds of shit.”

I glance at Archer, whose dark looks are smouldering with the most unbelievable sulk. He checks around to see if anyone’s looking before briefly readjusting his balls. Good thing I was only staring at him from the corner of my eye.

This has to be some kind of mistake. I read enough romance novels to know that every hot guy comes with a big fat side order of misunderstanding. But what if it’s true, and the guy whose green, grinning eyes I’ve just completely fallen for is also a complete grumpypants? And what’s with this dark secret he has? Is he afraid of cupboards too, or is it something…else? Maybe that’s why people think he’s so rude; I mean, having a troubled past makes it really easy to be misunderstood, even for paranormal reasons. But I can’t let Hunter off because he’s a vampire—the author got rid of that plot point when she changed all of our names.

I look at Archer and Enid, my best friends in the whole world, and sigh inwardly. That gives me wind, so I let out a burp.

Enid grimaces. “Ugh. Cammie, do you mind?”

Archer suppresses a smile. “I thought it was kind of cute.”

“Hunter von Styles won’t want to date a girl who sounds like Homer Simpson,” Enid chides. “See? Not meant to be.”

I make a silent promise myself to sigh outwardly in the future.

Not that I’m planning on dating Hunter, of course. I’m too strong a character and too loyal to my friends to ever consider a thing like that.

* * *

The following morning, I wake to the sun pushing its way through my curtains like a fat chick at Burger King. I’m smug at my lack of hangover, but also confused. I’m always so confused. Still, it’s Sunday morning—time to get with the program. I’m not sure what the program is, though just thinking about it is comforting.

As I brush my teeth, I tell everyone on Facebook that I’m brushing my teeth. Then I post a mid-shower selfie. I have to blur out my nipples with an Instagram filter, and I sigh because no filter can hide my obvious ugliness. Archer “likes” the photo almost instantly. So does my Mom. Enid just comments about a film called
Psycho.
Somebody else retorts NO, ENID—YOU’RE THE PSYCHO, and then we all have a little LOL party right there in the comments section. My friends are so cray.

I’m just wrapping a towel around myself and padding back into my room when my cell begins to ring with an unrecognized number. Huh. I have to stop giving my digits to homeless guys when I’ve run out of change.

Exhaling heavily, I answer. “Y’ellow?”

“Good morning, madam,” a deep, dark British voice murmurs.

I freeze. Oh my God. It’s
him
. “Hunter, is that you?” I manage to blurt.

“And how did you sleep, gosling?”

“Uh…gosling?”

“It’s like
kitten
or
little bird
, but more original. I’m very original, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, you’re original, all right.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I get that a lot.”

Silence. I pause. He breathes down the phone and with every inhalation, it’s like he’s undressing me. I feel naked.

Wait…I am naked. My towel fell off.

“So guess what you’re doing this evening?” asks Hunter.

“Uploading my review for
Bind You in the Park
, accusing some rookie bloggers of stealing my content, and…uh…might eat half a pack of cheese.”