Tousle Me (22 page)

“Archer,” I say in warning.

“It’s okay, gosling.” Hunter tosses his tousled hair. “I get that a lot.”

Archer turns to me, takes my arm again. “Let’s just get out of here, yeah? Before Styly Cyrus embarrasses himself some more.”

“That was a decent pun,” says the co-ed from earlier, still brandishing her cell phone. “Kudos.”

Archer smiles modestly. “Thanks. I’ve been waiting to use it.”

I’m still making sex eyes at Hunter when he steps closer to peel my fingers from Archer’s arm. “Can’t you see what’s happening here? This pillock thinks he’s won you. He think you’re a prize to be won in a tur-fuck-a-ducken contest.”

“Don’t be silly,” I chide.

“He’s wrong.” Archer’s voice grows deeper, more defensive. “But you know how I
will
win her? Jousting. Nobody draws in a joust, and sure as hell, nobody beats me.”

“Are you suggesting I enter the campus tournament next weekend?” Hunter asks, cocking his head.

“Archer! Don’t drag him into your own issues,” I scold. I mean sure, Hunter’s gone though some pretty serious injuries in the past few days and has recovered suspiciously fast; he’s strong enough to take a lance or two. But that isn’t the problem. “You’re not being fair.”

“I bet pretty boy here wouldn’t last five minutes on a
horse
,” Archer says, sounding uncharacteristically sadistic and smug. “We all know why you use the back entrance, you pussy.”

Hunter flinches just a tad at the h-word, but recovers with speed. “I bet I’m the only pussy this nancy’s ever seen.”

“So it’s settled. You’re going to compete.”

“If wasting your sorry little arse is the same as competing? Then yeah. Count me in.” Hunter takes a deep breath, and bites his pouty bottom lip. “May the best man win the prize.”

“It’s like three hundred bucks in Gabriel’s Wrapture vouchers,” says Archer, impressed. “We struck it big this year.”

Hunter glances between me and Archer. “Now who’s the dumb one?”

“We’re leaving,” I say quickly, desperate to get away from his scrutiny. “Come on, Archie. You can take me home.”

“Gosling, I—”

“Just save it, Hunter,” I whimper, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t understand you anymore.”

“You hear that?” Archer slips his arm back around my shoulders. “She’s leaving with me.”

He’s such a gentleman. He’s like the big brother I never had (or do I? I haven’t mentioned any siblings in like, a hundred thirty pages…maybe I just forgot…uh…I’ll get back to you on that one). So yeah. Archer is like the big brother I possibly have, but if I didn’t, he’d be that guy.

Hunter stares in disgust. “You’re going to let him brandish you like something he picked up in a fucking Viking village raid?”

I blink. “You’re overthinking this.”

“Oh really? Go home with him then, gosling. Go riding on his motorbike, your hair flying gayly in the wind. Just you remember.” He licks his lips slowly. “He may pillage…but I besmirch.”

* * *

I wait in the corridor while Archer goes to grab the motorcycle helmets. As the crowd leaks out of the front entrance, I spot Enid being carried down the hall by three male members of the UCLAP catwalk posing team.

“Enid!” I shout. “Don’t you dare!”

She bursts into giggles as they approach in a cloud of Burberry for Men. “But look at them, Cammie. They’re like David Gandy and Friends.”

“That’s not the point.” Or maybe it is. She’s right. These guys have abs you could cut glass on and cheekbones you could cut it on some more. “Three…how does that even work?”

Enid grabs a bit of my hair as she passes, and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a little game I like to call cock Tetris.”

“You’re sick. And drunk. Did you guys know she was sick?”

“They’re catwalk posers,” she scoffs. “You think they’re put off by a girl who barfs? They’ll be joining in with me in the morning. I’ve been waiting all semester to hook these guys, Goddammit.”

“Somebody shut her up,” mutters Gandy #1, glowering like some kind of chiselled bewitched snowman.

“I know a few ways you can shut me up,” Enid slurs, “if y’know what ahm sayin…” The guys drop her a little and she slumps over Gandy #2’s shoulder.

“This is not happening.” I spot Archer making his way past the pot plants. “Archie! Quick!”

“What’s wrong?” He glances at the posers. “Enid? You need your bed, babe.”

“She needs Captain Purity, but we both know he only saves the innocent ones,” I mutter.

“I need Archie,” she croons. “Archer, rescue me with your big helmet! Or one of…your big…helmets.”

I stare at the motorcycle helmets slung over his arms. “That could be messy.”

He rolls his eyes. “If I’d have known, I’d have brought my lance.”

“I’ll take the helmets,” I say. “You take Enid before she’s carried off to the Haus of Gaga, or whatever.”

“Consider it done.”

“No!” Enid shrieks as Archer deposits the helmets into my arms, and yanks her off Gandy #2’s shoulder. “No fair, you meanie poop!”

“Argue,” Archer says to Gandy #2, “and I will rip off each bit of your designer stubble until all it’s designing is my ass.”

The Gandy frowns. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It doesn’t need to. It just sounds cool. Have you learned nothing from Will.i.Am?”

“Mostly?” Gandy #3 strokes his strong jaw. “You can go hard or go home.”

“Well Enid’s going
home
,” Archer spits, throwing her over his shoulder while she squirms and squeals. “Guess you’ll just have to be hard on your own.”

The Gandys exchange thoughtful expressions.

“Doesn’t sound so bad?” says one.

The others nod. “I’m down with that.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as they walk away. A few beats later, they freeze by the ornate mirror.

“Vogue!” one of them shouts. Then they all strike a pose.

I join in. Sue me.

“Cam-Cam?”

I’m still posing, my jazz hands frozen in a poignant expression of surprise. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna lock Enid in my bedroom while I take you home. Hopefully, when I get back, she’ll be sober enough to keep her panties on.”

“Meet you out by the parking lot?”

He nods. “See you in five.”

“Not faaaaaair!” Enid cries as Archer carries her back down the hall. “If you get to bob for turduckens, I get to be a turfucken! I don’t tolerate sexism in the twerkplace, Archer. You hear me? Archer!”

Ten minutes later, Archer and I blaze through the crisp night air on his motorcycle. I have my arms and legs wrapped around him, and a shuddering hot monster of a bike at my gusset—sure hope I’m still a virgin.

‘Run to You’ by Bryan Adams is playing through the motorbike speakers, but it’s kinda hard to hear it over the engine. Plus Bryan Adams sounds a lot like an engine. Archer wears his old leather jacket, the one he’s had since junior high, and the musky smell is comforting. It’s been a hard night, and comfort is exactly what I need.

As if seeing Hunter wasn’t bad enough, then there was the stress of the bob-off. It could have gone all kinds of wrong. While the wind whips through my hair, I squeeze Archer tightly between my thighs and think about how Hunter said he wanted me back. Or at least, that he wanted my trust. I think about the curse Labron mentioned; how Hunter has to earn the love of a pure young rose. Is that me? Is trust love? How do you tell the difference between the two? And what
does
the fox say?

I also think about poor Labron in the slammer. Sure, it’s a crime to drunk drive. But if Hunter can get away with murder, Labron should be forgiven his DUI.

On the way back to my dorm, we pull into the gas station so Archer can fill up. It’s late now—like past eleven—and the forecourt is deserted. The only light is by the hole in the wall where the cashier huddles behind a barred screen.

“This place gives me the willies,” I mutter. “It’s like a ghost town.”

Archer pats me on the helmet. “I won’t be long, okay? Just stay with the bike.”

Archer shoves the nozzle into the bike’s gaping hole and lets the gas glug in noisily. For some reason, this reminds me of Enid. God, she’s a train wreck at the moment. Anyone would think she’d had a bad time lately, or something—maybe if she stopped being such a whore, she’d stop being punished for it.

Archer plods off to the cashier’s window.

I mean, look at me. All I did was get
close
to sex and I lost Hunter. Now I’m far away from it, he’s coming back again! I hope. I think. Please let him be good at jousting. All he needs is a decent montage and he’ll be champion material—that’s how it works in the movies.

Bryan Adams is audible now, and I ease off my helmet so I can further enjoy his gravelly tones.

“Oi. Treacle,” says another gravelly voice.

I turn slowly. “Uh…Bryan Adams?”

“Do I look like fucking Bryan Adams?” A tall, stocky figure in a cap and hoodie is pointing a gun right at me. He has a blight of acne and his sneakers look about ten years old.

Holy Haus of Gandys.

“Give me your purse,” he demands. “And you cell.”

My mouth falls open. My tongue lolls around a little, flapping against my chin.

“I said, give me your—”

“Cam-Cam?” Archer hurries over, his face wrought with worry. “What’s going on?”

Hoodie guy waves his gun in the air. “Wallets, dude.
Capische
?”

“We’re being held up,” I croak, my voice wavering.

Archer gulps. “I noticed.”

“Wh—what do we do?”

“You do what I fucking tell you!” Hoodie snaps, stepping closer. The muzzle of his gun flashes in the street light.

“Do what he says,” Archer mutters, groping around for his wallet.

“I…okay.” I yank the purse from my bag and pass it to Hoodie guy, my hands shaking.

“And the cell,” he hisses.

Wordlessly, I comply. Archer hands his wallet over.

“
Really
should have brought my lance,” he mutters.

I squeeze my eyes shut; death feels so close that I can taste it. Death tastes bad. Think of puppies and rainbows, Cammie. Think of cupcakes and cheap books and all-afternoon masty sessions.

“Now give her a kiss,” Hoodie guy orders, still brandishing his gun.

I blink furiously. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Are you deaf? I said give her a kiss.” He shoves the gun into Archer’s shoulder. “Now.”

Archer glances left and right, his eyes dubious. Then something alights in them, something warm and surprised and hungry. Like a dog’s face when it farts in your lap and is very, very proud of itself. He puts a hand up to my face, stroking away fuzzy tendrils of helmet hair. The stereo has fortuitously switched to ‘Everything I Do, I Do It for You,’ another of Bryan’s intense power ballad hits.

“Archer,” I say quietly. “This is lunacy.”

“But I hate these blurred lines.” He runs a hand through his messy black hair. “I know you wa—”

“Jeez,” Hoodie guy bleats. “Come on. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in eight fucking hours, for crying out loud.”

“Oh? Hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Sore throat.” He adjusts his collar. “Thanks for asking. Now kiss this pansy before I blow both of your brains out.”

“Is he for real?”

Hoodie guy rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. “There won’t be another plot point that forces you together. Take the fucking opportunity. Do not mess with me, bitches—my last name is Machina.”

I turn back to Archer and put my hands tentatively on his shoulders. “I guess you can’t argue with a gun,” I manage.

“Cam-Cam,” he says softly. “Let me save your life.”

And then he kisses me. His mouth is hot compared to the cool night air, and wet compared to my noticeably dry panties. I wait for all the feels to start but they’re on vacation. I even wait for my butthole to thump or a weasel to pop, but alas, nothing.

Archer draws away, a soft smile playing on his lips. He appears to have forgotten about, you know, THE GUY WITH A FREAKING GUN.

“Nice work,” says Hoodie Machina. “I dug that. Maybe get her a proper helmet if you like her that much, dude, huh?”

I stare down at the motorcycle helmets, perched on the asphalt. “Um…what?”

“They’re like something from a museum,” Hoodie says, incredulous.

“Archer!” I screech. “Are these your armour jousting helmets?”

I’ve never seen him look so sheepish. “Maybe.”

“You told me they were for motorcycles! You said they were health and safety approved!”

He knots his fingers together, chewing his bottom lip. “I thought they looked really cool.”

“We’ve been riding around looking like a pair of complete dipshits!”

“Well.” Hoodie smirks. “On that note…glad to have helped you out there. Have a nice life.” Then he hurries off into the fog, a notorious highwayman with his sack stuffed with booty.

There isn’t actually any fog but hey, really adds to the atmosphere of the scene, right?

“That’s never happened to me before,” I blurt, my heart thumping with lingering panic.

“Me either.” Archer touches a fingertip to his mouth. “I mean…wow.”

“I meant the stick-up.”

“Oh.” His face falls. “Right.”

I step away from him, fumbling around in the floodlights for my armour helmet.

“So you want the good news or the bad news?” Archer says, his voice flat.

“Why do I get the feeling that there isn’t any good news?”

“The bad news is that my bike keys were in my wallet.” He folds his arms and exhales heavily. “The good news is that I still have my cell, since he wasn’t so bothered about it, weirdly.”

“Weirdly.” Yeah, a lot of things happen in this book
weirdly
. Or for no God damn reason. Or just for funsies, or whatever. Has anyone else noticed this? “I need to get back to let Sparkles out. Can we call a cab?”

“Well sure we can. We can also pay him in magic buttons.”

“No need to be harsh.”

“Seriously.” He fiddles around in his pocket and pulls out a handful of glittery sequin things. “Magic buttons. I always carry them for emergencies.”

I’m trying very hard not to sneer. “You want me to believe that they’re actually magic…?”