Tousle Me (24 page)

I snap up from my laptop to find Labron peering from behind a book case. “Dude! You’re free!”

“Well yeah.” He pulls out a seat at the desk. “Of course I’m free.”

I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “I heard you were put in the slammer.”

“For about twelve hours.” He adjusts his skinny tie. “Hunter got me out as soon as he could. I have to go back to court, but I’m trying not to think about being somebody’s bitch in prison.” He sighs. “Wouldn’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Dang,” I say, with conviction.

“True dat. Anyway. I need your help.”

I press
publish

on my review, and close the laptop. “I’m listening.”

“It’s Hunter. You know how he is with horses.”

“He says he doesn’t have horse issues.”

“Hot diggety dawg. Dude’s lying through his teeth. He can’t stand them—not after that thing with his mom.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So you want my help with…?”

“I need you to go to him. Hand him the trust he needs, Ginger. It will give him the confidence to compete.”

“It’s not that simple,” I mumble. “I mean, Hunter’s a murde—”

“Hush yo’ mouth!” he hisses, panicked. “Anybody could hear.”

“Sorry.”

“Look. I’m not going to push you, but you know what you have to do.” He makes to get up.

I bite my knuckles. Mmm…Twinkies. “Labron?”

“Yeah?”

“How’s he holding up? Just in general.” I pray that no more innocent HobNobs have been slayed. And I sure hope Ryan Gosling is okay.

“He’s a wreck without you.” He tuts quietly. “But then you know that.”

“He has to be. It somehow excuses him otherwise being a jackass.”

Labron’s left eyebrow lifts quizzically. “Yeah, I noticed that. It’s weird.”

“Welcome to my world, homie.” I give an exhausted sigh. “Welcome to my world.”

Enid is making me exercise.

Fucking bitch.

“I don’t know if you realize this,” I heave as I pound the treadmill, “but as a romance heroine, I am naturally slim. I do nothing to get this body. NOTHING.”

“Well I’m not. I work my ass off.” She glances at her behind from the next treadmill. “Literally, I hope. Besides—exercise is good for you. Gives you endorphins.”

“I don’t know what those are. I don’t
want
to know.”

“Aww. Poor Cammie, finding out how fit she absolutely isn’t,” Enid croons. She adjusts her pink sweatband. “Come on, you can do a few more laps.”

Laps? What am I lapping on a frickin’ treadmill? Back when we started college last semester, I swore to myself that I would never visit the campus gym. This is because billionaires do not visit public gyms; they have their own private ones so they don’t have to sit on bike seats covered in second hand butt sweat. And if there’s no chance of falling into a hot billionaire, what’s the point of going anywhere, really?

Granted, bad boys do go to gyms. And if I have to settle for less than a billionaire, he’d better be screwed in the head. Nobody really appreciates how hard it is to find a combination of rich
and
emotionally damaged; sure, they’re ten for a dime in books, but in the real world, guys who make lots of money are usually just workaholic bores. And bad boys can err on the “crap teeth, smells like fried chicken,” side of the tracks.

More and more, I come to see how Hunter is perfect for me…even though he’s a murderer. Hell, it actually kind of adds to the appeal. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I need therapy. But therapy’s fashionable, as is dating someone morally questionable.  These things make it all okay.

“Woo.” Enid presses the cool down button on the treadmill and clasps the hand rails as she slows down. Sweat drips from her temples and turns her blond hair damp. “Now that’s what I call a session.”

“Why do people put themselves through this? Why?” I demand. I think my ankles are about to run away from my body in protest.

“Because most people can’t live on cupcakes and still be a size six.”

“I don’t live on cupcakes,” I mutter. “You forget all the tacos. And enchiladas.”

“Oh yeah. Silly me.”

“Speaking of Mexican food—is Archer coming over tonight?” I’ve been missing him like crazy, and we’re meant to have dinner at Gabriel’s Wrapture before going back to mine for the
X Factor
results.

She eyeballs me, her big blues suspicious. “No. He’s being all evasive. What did you do, Cammie?”

I’m still heaving with forceful, unfit breaths. “I…uh…may have kissed him.”

Enid leaps off her own treadmill, hurrying round to get close to me. She grasps my handlebar. “I’m sorry—what?”

“And then turned him down.”

“WHAT?”

“Eniiiiiiiid!” She’s leaning on the freaking speed button! “I—stoppit!” I think my thighs are about to disintegrate.

“You kissed Archer? Why would you do that? Why?”

“Eniiiiiiiiiiid!” I’m sliding to the end of the treadmill. It’s like being on a bucking bronco and I’m about to be thrown off. “The speeeeeeeeeeed butt—”

“Cammie, I can’t believe you!”

“I—didn’t—know—he—felt—like—waaaaah!” One minute I’m desperately clinging to the handles, and the next, I’m landing painfully on my ass. “Jeez!”

She crouches beside me, offering a hand. “You never noticed that Archer has the mutha of all crushes on you? Really?”

“Why would I?” I grumble. “I’m oblivious the vast majority of the time.”

“True.” She sighs, dusting my ass off with quick sluices of her hand. “But I hope you realize how completely torn up he’ll be if he doesn’t win this joust.”

I double over. My abs are screaming. “Can you at least, like…ask him to come later for the results show?”

“You know how he feels about Sparkles.”

“Do I?”

“In his words—” Enid deepens her voice, layering it with spite. “Why’s he bought her a unicorn? It’s just a horse, but the dickhead version.”

“Oh.” I never realized Archer felt so strongly, and now I feel awful. Not just because the run nearly killed me or because I think my ass is broken. “He’s wrong, though. Sparkles is more than just hor…” OH MY GOD.

“Hmm?”

“Okay. I have to go.”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Enid grabs her water bottle and points it at me accusingly. “We still have the cross trainers and the free weights.”

“You don’t understand,” I pant. “I’ve had an epiphany.”

She thinks for a second and then scowls. “This is my not caring face.”

“Looks a lot like your normal face.”

“Ha fucking ha.”

I grab my towel and bottle. “I’ll call you later, ‘kay?”

“No, not okay! We’re having a masochistic workout morning. Cammie!”

“We’ll do it another time.” I pat her sweaty shoulder, and scrape my own wet hair from my face. “Plenty more endolphins in the sea.”

“Oh yes. Hilarious. You think that’s going to be your last line in this scene, huh?” she calls as I walk off. “Well I have news for you—it’s not! I have a whole ball sack of
epic
last lines up my sleeve and I’m not afraid to use them!”

“You have a ball sack. Up your sleeve.”

“METAPHORICALLY!”

“Huh. Okay.” I laugh as I turn the corner to the staircase.

“Don’t start doing that smug laughing thing. I can hear you, you know!”

I pause.

“You keep walking and I’m going to crawl into your bedroom one night and shit on your Kindle!” she shrieks.

Several gym dudes are watching and listening, their eyes wide and their random sweat patches wider.

“You would not shit on my Kindle,” I say slowly.

“I will load up on Indian food and everything!”

Okay. Enid gets the last line. I’m walking very fast in the other direction before I incite any more faecal/e-reader violence.

Anyone would think Enid was bummed that Archer kissed me.

* * *

I’ve been hammering on the back door of the west wing for nearly ten minutes.

“Labron!” I yell, my temper rising. “I know you’re in there—the limo’s in the drive!”

I had to step over the fetid corpse of Perez Hilton just to get this far. Two reporters were picking at it and passing around the mustard. It’s all getting a little
Dawn of the Dead
up in here. I mean, people have said the recession bites, but…

The door finally heaves open. “Ginger?” Labron gives a great sigh of relief. “Thank the baby Jesus. Get your ass in here.”

I throw a smarmy grin to the grumpy reporters as I waltz into the lobby. Ah, hello beautiful staircase. Where have you been all my life? Aside from the west wing of the Pi Pi Pi house. Mmm.

“Is there a reason why you’re lying on the stairs?”

I’m draped over the red carpet of the lower stairwell, my legs and arms outstretched. Nom nom nom. When I blink my eyes open, Labron is staring down quizzically.

“Just need a moment of nirvana,” I say.

“Right.”

“Come join me.” I pat the carpet. “I have good news.”

He purses his lips. “Is your news that you’re taking Hunter back so he doesn’t have to joust?”

“Nope.”

“Then screw you. I’m standing.”

I roll my eyes. Then I roll them back in the other direction while he just stares at me with this weird look on his face. “Labron. I am not going to mess up the main conflict—that would just be inconsiderate. But what I
am
going to do is save the day.”

Reluctantly, he sinks to his knees, loosens his tie a little, and then lies back to join me. “I’m listening. But this had better be good.”

“Oh, it’s good.” I grin so hard that my face aches a bit. “You know how Hunter bought me that unicorn?”

“Sparkles von Fancypants?”

“Yep. Well one of my friends said something…and it made me realize that he’s kind of a horse. Like, enough of a horse to compete in the jousting.”

Labron shifts on to his side. “What are you saying?”

I sit up on my elbows and gaze up at the chandelier. So gorgeous. Ah, staircase! Lobby! “Hunter has horse issues, right? But—conveniently, some would say, I guess—he’s not afraid of Sparkles at all.”

Labron’s eyes grow wide. His whole face brightens. “That
is
convenient. Conveniently awesome!”

“I know, right?” I say gleefully. “All we have to do is to get him training. Get Sparkles training. But this could be the solution we’ve been looking for.”

“Ginger, you a genius.”

I glare at him. “I thought I was as dumb as a stack of pancakes.”

“You
are
dumb as a stack of pancakes. But also, you a genius,” he says, completely serious.

“I’m glad we agree on something.”

“Now all you have to do is pull Hunter out of his rancid pit of despair.”

“Oh.” I sit up properly. “Any tips?”

He picks at a cuticle. “Protective headgear. Trojans. An axe?”

“Yeah. You’re a bucket of help and a half.” I leap to my feet, brushing remnants of old rose petals from my gym gear. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, come look for me.”

“I will sound the motherfucking alarms.”

I give him a little salute—the right one, this time. “You’re the best.”

After being away a while, walking down the hall to Hunter’s room is a little unsettling. Memories creep up on me and tap me on the shoulder, winking at me like old perverts: my first time here, feeling awed by the staircase and slightly dubious about the Savage Garden posters; the last time I was here, running away as Hunter yelled at me from his trashed wreck of a bedroom. The mere thought makes me shudder.

Cupboards. I must not think of cupboards.

CUPBOARDS!

Get lost, subconscious! Can’t you see that I’m busy? This is a Very Important time.

I pause outside Hunter’s door, noting the distinct smell of…uh. I’m guessing old turducken and gasoline, but I could be wrong. With a deep breath, I knock.

“Labron?” Hunter calls, his voice pitiful. It’s that little boy tone that makes me weak in the knees.

Well, there’s a line I must never say again. Ew.

“Hunter, it’s me,” I reply softly. “Your gosling.”

There’s a shuffling sound from somewhere in his bedroom. Slow footsteps thump toward the door, and my pulse joins in. Thadonk-a-donk-donk. Who knew tension could be so ratchet?

He appears before me in a cloud of eau de personal tragedy. A few days of stubble coat his cheeks, and his dress shirt is crumpled and stained. For the first time, his hair is not tousled—it’s combed back flat against his scalp. Oh God.

“Gosling?”

“Oh, Hunter!” I throw myself into his arms, but he steps aside. I land face-first on the floor of the bedroom, right in a puddle of…something.

“Mind the mess,” he says flatly.

I pull my face out of what appears to be barbecue sauce. “I see you haven’t cleaned in a while.”

He lowers his eyes, sheepish. “When I get depressed, I tend to have saucy parties.”

I glance around from the floor; one wall is covered in mustard. Above his bed, he’s scrawled
Whore of Babylon
in garlic mayo. Ketchup swastikas decorate the wardrobes. The rest of the room is much the same as I remembered—trashed TV, ripped drapes. Great. Typical
beast
alpha behavior.

“You think I could get a moist towelette or something?”

“Oh.” He dashes off to the ensuite. “Of course.”

For the third time that day, I stagger up to standing and observe the damage. I’m sweaty, covered in bits of rotting flower and as well as my new brown makeup, my sneaker is covered in gentleman’s relish—which is not a euphemism. I hope.

“Here you go.” Hunter pats me down with a wet wipe, using long, teasing strokes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You weren’t to know I was coming, hey?”

“But I’d hoped.” He stops, chokes back tears. “God, I’d hoped.”

My heart warms at the sight of his misery. That came out wrong, but you know what I mean. “I come bearing news.”

“And what might that be?”

We’re meant to be broken up and all, but come on—the end of the book is nigh, so it’s only a matter of time before we get back together. One little embrace can’t hurt.

“I wondered how you felt about jousting on the unicorn,” I say, wrapping my arms around his broad and manly shoulders.