Tousle Me (23 page)

“Nah. It’s a re-enactment thing. But hey, if we find a cab driver who’s into that whole scene…we’re in luck, yeah?” He looks so pleased with himself in this adorable kind of way, his black hair slightly messy and the apples of his cheeks flushed. How can such idiocy come from such a pretty face?

I sigh. “Hand me your cell. I’ll call the cab company and ask if they have any medieval re-enactors on shift.”

Suddenly, there’s a loud crashing sound over by the cash window, and a heap of black careens into the dumpster.

“Jeez,” Archer hisses. “Stay back—I’ll check it out.”

“No need,” says a deep and emo voice as a figure emerges from the dumpster. Captain Purity pulls a string of old lettuce off his shoulder and tosses it gracefully to the floor. “Need a ride?”

“Captain Purity!” I race over to him, dropping my helmet with a jarring clang. It rolls off somewhere behind me and Archer lurches to catch it. “How did you find us?”

He puffs up his chest in the black onesie, his cape billowing behind him in the soft night breeze. My imaginary fog only adds to his air of mystery. “I followed the sweet scent of untouched bajingo.” He glances at Archer over my shoulder. “And the stench of desperation.”

“Can you really fly us back to the dorm?”

“Fly?” He looks at me as if I just suggested a threesome. “I fell off the roof. My car’s out back though, if that’s what you mean.”

“A car will do nicely.” I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

Archer hurries up, clutching the helmets. “Is this dude actually giving us a ride?”

The Captain nods. “To the Chastemobile!”

I guess if a car that attracts girls is a pimped up sports model with an engine that sounds like Lenny Kravitz, the Chastemobile lives up to its name: a trashy old station wagon with an eight-track deck, and duct tape holding the wing mirrors in place. Dude sure isn’t getting any pussy in
that.

“Nobody sees me coming in this,” Captain Purity explains sagely.

Even Archer sniggers at that one.

When we get back to the dorm, the Captain follows us down to my room.  I suspect this is because he lives next door, but still—feels a little stalky.

He pauses by the doors, pointing at Archer. “No funny business, you hear?”

Archer frowns. “Whuh?”

“He means toward me,” I say. “He’s saying you’re not allowed to threaten my purity and stuff.”

Archer shrugs and gives a weak little smile. “Oh. No danger of that.” His fist falls limply into his palm. “Apparently.”

Then the Captain disappears into his room, and it’s just the two of us. It’s time to talk about what just happened. Or not. Eugh. I fall back against the door in hope it will conveniently fall open, swallow me, and instantly swing back to lock again. I could use a comedy McMoment right about now.

“So.” Archer presses his lips together.

“Thanks for getting me back home,” I say softly. “And for, you know, things.”

He gives a little nod. “It’s a pleasure, fair maiden.”

I lower my eyes, trying to hide my blush. “Will you get home okay without your bike?” I’d offer for him to crash with me, but it would be plain awkward after The Kiss That Sucked—plus Sparkles takes up most of the bed anyway.

“I’m gonna chance it with my magic buttons. Besides, I need to take care of Enid.”

I manage a half-smile. “I think she’d like that.”

“I—I could try,” he blurts out suddenly, “to be good enough for you. I could try, Cam-Cam.”

Ah, superpoop. We are
not
having this conversation. Except we are. “Oh God. It’s not like that. I just…I guess I like a guy a little more rough around the edges, is all.”

“But I joust! You should see me beast those mofos,” he protests.

“I mean like, emotionally. Some damage. Maybe if you developed a drug problem I could help you with, or someone you loved died in a horrible accident…”

He goes quiet for a second, as if he’s considering these options. “I don’t know how to be that guy.”

I beam at him. “Precisely.”

“So I guess it’s good night, then?”

“Yeah.” I fumble about for the door handle and press down. It squeaks loudly in a pleasing announcement of a hint. “Good night.”

“Night.” He bows his head, shoves his fists into his pocket, and begins to walk down the hall.

“And Archie?”

He spins on his heel. “Yeah?”

“You’re one of my best friends. You know that, right?”

“I know.” His voice cracks, and his bottom lip trembles. “Turns out
beta
isn’t always better, huh?”

* * *

“Woah there, Sparkles! Good boy!”

My pet unicorn comes galloping back into my dorm room, several delicious baked goods speared on his horn. Since my wallet got stolen, I have no cash until my new bank card arrives. That means sending Sparkles to loot booty with his handy facial lance.

“Lemme see…” I pat his tinsel mane as he knees next to me, slowly removing the goodies. “A croissant…baloney on rye…Twinkies…ooh, nice work.”

“Neeeigh,” he says smugly.

“You’re a handy guy to have around.”

“Neeeeigh.”

“Hey, douchebags,” Enid trills as she sails into the room, a bottle of liquor under her arm. “Ready for
X Factor
night?”

“Am I ever.” I hold up the Twinkies. “I’ve got snacks.”

She rolls her eyes. “You got von Fancypants here to raid the cafeteria again?”

“Yup.”

“I guess no other campus can claim to have a vigilante unicorn.” She snorts. “Anyway—throw me a glass already. I’ve been sober for like, forty-eight hours, and this drastically needs to be rectified.”

I wince as she sits beside me on the bed. “Archer made you play rehab again?”

“He made me eat
vegetables.
” She feigns terror. “And seeds.”

“How very dare he?”

“I know, right?”

It’s been two days since the turducken bobbing party. I’ve heard nothing from Hunter, besides the fact we’re not Facebook official anymore; I’ve been sure to load up extra-suggestive selfies each day though just to show him what he’s missing (plus my mom always likes those). I know I’m the one who won’t take him back, and so this logic is slightly flawed, but he’s a murderer. I have to be seen to take time to, uh,
think
about that.

Also, thanks to Archer, Hunter now has to win me via jousting. I’m a woman of my word. Not that I agreed to this, but the boys agreed to it for me and that’s more or less the same thing.

“Isn’t Archer coming?” I ask, slightly wary of the answer.

“You know he isn’t, Cammie.” Enid purses her lips. “I don’t know what went on between you guys, but it’s really bummed him out.”

“Will you tell him I miss him?”

“Of course. Though he’s pretty tied up with this tournament next weekend. I’ve never seen him practice so much.” She screws open the liquor and pours a tumbler full of amber liquid. “He’s getting pretty damn aggressive with that lance.”

“I…can’t possibly think why that would be.”

“Me either. Dude wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Sparkles lies on the floor in front of us and daintily crosses his hooves. “Neeeeigh.”

“What’s that, boy? Time to turn on the
X Factor
and watch Cognac Façade slay the competition on postmodern jazz week? Why, your wish is my command.”

We settle down to an hour and twenty minutes of quality viewing, Twinkies and booze in hand. I haven’t had a proper drink in a while due to my notoriously poor alcohol tolerance; I’m drunk in the space of two ad breaks. I know this not because the room is spinning (that comes later), but because we’ve spent the past minute discussing which parts of Simon Cowell we’d like to lick.

“His sternum,” Enid declares, throwing her hand out. “There’s something very masterful about a strong sternum.”

“I’d lick his meatus.”

Enid gulps a mouthful of liquor. “His what?”

“Meatus. I don’t actually know what it is, but Hunter said it once and I thought it was funny.”

“Let’s ask Siri.” She digs out her cell. “Hey Siri. What’s a meatus?”

“Here’s what I found,” says Siri’s robotic voice.

“It’s a Wiki link,” Enid declares. “Wheatus…pop rock band of the early nine—Jeez, Siri!
Meatus
!”

“Here’s what I found.”

“Meatus…natural body opening…urinary meatus…situated on the glans of the peni…ew.”

“Maybe not Simon Cowell,” I decide. “Or definitely not
his
meatus. Maybe the bass guy from Cognac Façade instead.”

The band’s montage just started on the TV. They’re all talking about how the prize is so close, they’re in it to win it, they’d be devastated to go home—all lines that sound suspiciously like they were scripted by JimBob Obvious. Still, they deliver it with their usual touching emotion and perfect tone. Ahhh.

“He’s hot.” Enid tears open a Twinkie.

“Neeeeigh.” Sparkles tosses his mane in agreement.

“Sparkles says he’d do him. But not before Min Ho.”

“Wise words.”

“Bass guy’s voice is so low, it would totally melt my panties. Which would be interesting when he actually came to screw me,” I muse. “He’d have to peel bits of disintegrated nylon off my crotch.”

“Like a second hymen.” Enid sniggers, half-choking on her Twinkie.

“Some guys would be into that.” I give her a teasing nudge. “Captain Purity would approve of additional hymens.”

“Yeah. My vag would not.” She shudders.

We fall silent to watch Cognac Façade’s postmodern jazz take on
Bohemian Rhapsody
. It’s a heartfelt rendition, and with only twelve extra dancers, a really stripped down performance compared to their usual efforts. I particularly like the way they get the lead singer to do the
I’m just a poor boy
bits because his backstory is utterly tragic, and it’s so fitting—his mum is on crack and they live in half a trailer (his dad took the other half in the divorce). I always think it’s very fortunate when you find yourself on hard times but have a pitch-perfect singing voice to exploit.

“Neeeigh,”says Sparkles as the performance comes to an end, they dim the studio lights, and the judges give a standing ovation. There’s a single tear sliding down his muzzle.

“I know what you mean.” I sniff. “God, watching that kind of thing really makes me wonder what the hell I’m going to do with my life,” I whisper.

Enid finishes her liquor. “You don’t have any idea?”

“Of course not. Why do you think I came to college?”

She clutches her belly and chortles.

“I always figured I’d, you know, meet a guy. Like Hunter. But now it’s all gone to shit and I’m lost. Lost, I tell you.” I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them.

“Plenty more fish in the sea.” She pats my hair gently.

“I fucking hate that phrase, Enid.”

“Plenty more cocks on the block.”

“I guess that’s marginally better.”

But none of the cocks are like Hunter’s. Hunter’s cock
is
a block, and a half.

I miss being the fox in his box.

* * *

The sound of my cell ringing wakes me at ridonkulous o’clock. Why does this keep happening to me? I remember the good old days before I signed up to be in this dumb book—I got plenty of that thing called “sleep.”

“Y’ellow?” I say sleepily.

“Gosling?” Hunter rasps.

Oh my God
. “Oh my God.”

“Gosling? Are you all right?” he says in his terribly British fashion.

“I…I think.”

“You’re
thinking
?” His tone cracks. “Bloody hell. You’re not right at all.”

“Hunter, it’s like three in the morning. Why are you calling?”

“No reason.”

“Really.”

“Uhuh.” His breath clouds the receiver with static. “Just, you know, wanted to know how you are.”

“Asleep, mostly,” I grumble. “How’s your jousting coming along?”

“Oh, uh…great. Spiffy. I’m a total boss.”

I pull myself up against the pillows. White sheets are always a headfuck in the dark. “Sure? Because you do have those, um, horse issues.”

“Gosling.” He clears his throat. “I do not have horse issues.”

“Then I guess we’ll see each other at the tournament next weekend.”

“I’m looking forward to winning your trust. Literally.”

“I’m looking forward to it too,” I murmur, suddenly twirling a strand of hair around my finger.

“I’ll leave you to sleep now.”

“No, Hunter—”

Dial tone. The bastard hung up.

* * *

I’ve neglected my book blog of late due to being obsessed with Hunter. I’ve also been neglecting my business inbox for Goodreads. Turns out the “C” in “CEO” stands for “crap” in my case. Oops.

The campus library has the fastest WiFi, so I’ve decamped to a quiet corner for the afternoon to catch up on my reviews, admin, and procrastinate on fuglycovers.com. It’s an awesome building and all the levels are edged with wide windows to let in natural light. As a lover of books, the library is like my mecca (or at least I think it is. I have no idea what mecca actually is—it would be racist to ask a Jew—and I can’t ask Siri in case she’s also a Jew. Apple should totally make her ethnic background more clear to avoid this kind of awkwardness).

I upload my review for
Avoiding Denial
and spend a little while browsing for appropriate GIFs. After a few minutes, I settle on some classic grumpy cats, and then some dude from a sitcom dancing like someone put a firework up his ass. You know, I’ve really missed my
me
time on the Internet. Now all I need is to waste half an afternoon talking shit on Twitter, and everything will be back to normal! Pre-Hunter!

Pre-Hunter. God, I’d put all my memories in a cupboard if I could actually stand the cupboard, metaphorical or otherwise. I’d feed them all to raptors if I could stand the dinosaurs without screaming like a pussy. And if raptors were still alive, obviously. They’re not. Huh. LIFE IS JUST FULL OF DISAPPOINTMENTS.

“Ginger?”