Tousle Me (28 page)

“Cammie!” She yanks the bottle away. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Not a lot right now, Enid. Not a lot.”

“Well here’s a hint.” She unscrews the bottle. “Friends always share.”

At that moment, a guy dressed like a court jester bounds out and blows a horn.

Enid leans in. “You think they’ve got the costumes a little mixed up here?”

“Probably. But Hentai Pete looks kinda hot in that suit.”

“You are
so
not having any more of this liquor.” She sighs. “Oh well. I guess it means I’ll have to finish it. Bummer.”

“Ginger!” a deep voice yells.

I snap up from my slump at the bleachers to see Labron hurtling toward me, his face contorted with the worry of a conflict-inducing surprise emergency.

“Dude,” I say. “Wassuuuuuup?” Then I hold up a palm for a high-five, but he just stares at it like I’m asking for a line of blow.

“Is she…drunk?” he asks Enid, incredulous.

“The pressure got to her,” Enid explains, patting my knee. “Poor thing just can’t hack it as a romance heroine. I say somebody needs to take her place. You know. Like me.”

“Too late for that. Ginger! It’s an emergency!”

“In your pants?” I slur with a dirty grin. “Is the emergency in your pants, boo? Because I bet you’re packing some meat and potatoes, huh?”

“You know, I’d get mad and all, but I don’t even have time for that.” He takes my chin in his hand and looks me in the eye. “They’re meant to be ready for the joust in five minutes…but Hunter’s underground cage fight alarm just went off.”

Enid looks from me to Labron, and back again. Then she stands up and skewers somebody in the eye with her pointy hat.

“Fnnnaaargh!” grunts the poor guy behind us, clutching his eye socket as he plummets down the bleacher walkway.

Enid winces hard. “Sorry!” She turns to Labron, who still looks like Armageddon is imminent. “Hunter’s under-whatsy-wha-ha?”

“Underground cage fight alarm,” he explains. “He can’t ignore it. It’s like an instinct, a reflex.”

“It’s primal,” I say, warning gripping my tone. “Oh God. If he’s not here…he can’t compete.”

“Yeah. Hot diggety dawg.” Labron shakes his head. “I need you to talk him out of it. Or restrain him. Or…something.”

“You want
drunk Cammie
to save the day?” Enid snorts.

Labron glowers. “You got a better idea, blondie?”

“Yeah,” I chime in. “Because if Hunter isn’t here, he loses. And if he loses, Archer wins all rights to my snatch, which will officially take him off the market. You wanted me to be all…shenshitive. So here I am.” I throw my arms out. “Don’t let Archer win my schweet little ass.”

Slowly, Enid puts the vodka bottle down and unstraps her hat. She lays it on the bench with care. “Labron?”

“Blondie?”

“Get me to this pansy’s tent. I have balls to reattach.”

I’ve never seen Enid power-walk so fast. Of course, normally, I’m not staggering behind her like a zombie, but as I’m learning, I can’t be the best at everything. Most things, yeah—I just can’t help my wit and natural charisma—but hey, I’ll let this one slide.

Inside his medieval tent, Hunter is pacing around topless, tousled and dressed in his ripped jeans. ‘Eye of the Tiger’ rattles a tinny melody from his cell. His suit of armour hangs from a stand, bronzed and shining with a buffed layer of Schaffer’s Helmet Polish. Sparkles von Fancypants is in full black sequin saddle and reins, with a purple sparkly feather pluming from his bridle. He snorts with delight when he notices me.

“Gosling!” Hunter rushes toward me. “Have you seen—Jesus fuck, Labron! Where have you been? Where’s the limo?”

I take his hands in mine, though he yanks them out. “Hunter—”

“Dude.” Labron stands stiffly beside me. “I didn’t bring the limo.”

“But the cage fight! I’ve got eight minutes until it starts and we’re ages away. Shit. I can’t miss this, you know that.”

“But you have to compete in the joust,” I protest, my voice desperate.

“Neeeeigh!” Sparkles hoofs the floor in frustration.

“I can’t ignore the alarm!” he shouts. “You don’t know what it’s like…”

“Hey, Hunter.” Enid takes a deep breath. “I’m real sorry for this, okay?”

“What? Sorry for—”

Her fist lands squarely in Hunter’s face. He staggers back,
oofs
under his breath, and then passes out clean on the dirt floor in a heap of muscled flesh and cologne.

“Wow. Blondie, you are one fierce bitch,” says Labron, shaking his head in awe.

She flexes her fist. “Merci beaucoup.”

“Hunter!” I shriek, falling to my knees beside him. My Uggs will get all dusty, but who cares? My baby is injured, and he hasn’t even competed in…well…anything, yet. “Enid, what the chips did you do that for?”

“It will get him out of the cage fight funk,” she says matter-of-factly. “They do this all the time in movies. It’ll be fine.”

A marbled purple lump has begun to swell Hunter’s left temple. “You sure about that?”

“Well…no.” She shrugs. “But what else are we meant to do?”

“I’ll get some cold water,” Labron calls over his shoulder as he hurries out. “That’ll help him come around.”

I cradle Hunter’s head in my lap and stare up at Enid. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”

“Captain Purity taught me.”

“For real?”

“Fo’ real.” She grins. “What, like a girl can’t knock a billionaire cage fighter out once in a while?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” I mutter.

“Neeeigh.” Sparkles rubs his purple muzzle against Hunter’s cheek. “Neeeeigh, neigh.”

“What’s that, boy? You’ve really bonded with Hunter over the past day?”

“Neeeigh.”

“And you sure hope he doesn’t die of internal bleeding, a stroke or a seizure, all of which are commonly associated with head trauma?” I sniff a bit. “That’s so sweet.”

“I got the goods.” Labron comes running back in with a plastic bottle of water. “Four freaking dollars from the Gabriel’s Wrapture stall. Fuckin’ rip off.”

“Here. I’ll do it.” I snatch the water away, twisting the lid off and dumping the contents over Hunter’s pale face in several splurting glugs.

We all crowd around as he stirs a moment, and then begins to cough.

“Hunter!” I try not to weep. “Speak to me!”

He blinks through soaked lashes, his eyes glassy, and settles his gaze on Labron. “Genie,” he mumbles deliriously. “I wish you free!”

Labron rolls both eyes. “Heeeeere we go again.”

“Does he quote a lot of Disney?” I ask.

“He quotes a bunch. I try to blot out the lines from
Showgirls
.”

“Come on, you English douche,” Enid encourages, slapping Hunter’s arm. “You’re not getting off this easily.”

Jester Hentai Pete puts his head around the door-slash-curtain. “Two minutes until final calls, guys!”

“Oh, superpoop. We’re not going to make it,” I moan.

“We can make the dress for Cinderelly,” Hunter half-sings, his eyes closed. “Because we’re fucking anthropomorphic mice who can sew like McQueen…” His tone goes soprano-high on
McQueen.
“Or call Gaston. No-one sews like…Gaston.”

Enid glances at Labron. “Should I kick him in the balls?”

“I don’t think that will wake him up.”

She tuts. “Can I do it anyway?”

“Dang, blondie. You got a real nasty side to you.”

“Gaston,” Hunter slurs. “Now there was an utter bumder if I ever saw one.”

Labron sighs wistfully. “True dat.”

Sparkles huffs like an indignant elephant. “Neeeigh!”

“Oh my God. You glittery genius!” I grasp his hoof in gratitude. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“What?” Enid asks. “What?”

“Stand back.” I roll my shoulders, preparing to make a quick exit. “This could go horribly wrong.”

Enid and Labron exchange bemused scowls, but they move back anyway. I lean in and listen for Hunter’s next oblivious words.

“Bad llama,” he cheeps. “Baaad llama.”

“Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper.

“I wanna pop some vag,” he croons, “only got twenty Trojans in my pocket.”

“Dammit, Hunter, that’s not even Disney!”

His expression softens, and he starts to sing in that little boy voice. “Hakuna matata, what a wonderful phase—”

“Aha!” I yell in his face, triumphant. “It’s
phrase
! Not phase!”

For a split second, I’m terrified that it hasn’t worked. But then Hunter blinks a couple times, his brow dips in annoyance, and he settles his wicked green eyes on me.

“You and your fucking grammar,” he says.

I spin around to Enid and Labron, waving my jazz hands. I look like Tickle Me Elmo.

Hunter eases himself up to standing with the elegance of a cougar on crack. Which is not much elegance, and actually kind of creepy, but accurate. Where was I?

“You can take your fucking grammar,” he continues, dusting himself off as if nothing happened, “and march it down to the bus fucking stop, where you can jump on the mutually fucked number sixty nine to Fucked Off Road and get off just a stop away so you’re extra fucked. When you get to extra fucked,” he shimmies out of his jeans and reaches for his armour, “you can take a moment to appreciate just how utterly fucked off you are, at which point I will send out my fuck gnomes, eighteen of which will simultaneously punch you in the fucking fanny because they can’t reach your fucking face.” He’s calm, so measured and meticulous. And yet so virile and violent and cold. I don’t think I’ve ever been as attracted to him as I am in this moment, and not just because he’s in his underwear.

“Dang.” Labron pats me on the shoulder in congratulations. “He’s
back
.”

Enid gives my hand a squeeze. “Now that was awesome.”

“So were you.” I smile at her fondly. “I should have guessed that girl power is always at its most potent when we’re acting like guys and just beating the crap out of people.”

Labron strides toward Hunter to assist with the armour. “Let’s get our joust on before we get disqualified. Like, now.”

Three seconds later, Hunter is completely dressed in his suit of armour and sitting atop Sparkles von Fancypants, who trots proudly into the stadium with his muzzle high in the air. This is partly because Hunter has pulled the reins too tight and the bit between his teeth is making him grin like he’s been stuffed, but also because I promised I’d Instagram a pic straight away.

Click.
Upload
. Ooh, tasty filter.

The horns sound, and the crowd stands up to applaud the competitors.

“Cammie!” Enid hisses, elbowing me as we sit back down on the bleachers. “Here’s Archer.”

I gulp. I’m not sure I want to see. “That vodka still here?”

“Afraid of sobering up, are we…?”

“Yes,” I say shamelessly. “Have you got any Xanax?”

“Like I carry that around.”

“Hunter would give me Xanax,” I mutter, disappointed.

“Hunter is fifty shades of hell no. And a half,” she retorts, looking not undisturbed.

No fair. I have the sex flu, and I need medicine!

Then I make the mistake of looking over to the other side of the stadium, where Archer is making a grand entrance on his stunning chestnut mare, J-Lo. I can’t see his face beneath the freshly-polished helmet, but I can tell by his stoic posture that he’s feeling confident. Hopeful, maybe. All I can think of is how Enid must be feeling right now, knowing the dude she digs is about to fight for
me
.

Wow. Am I actually becoming a better friend? I have to give myself snaps for that. Hey subconscious—winsies!

This feeling doesn’t last long because Hunter and Sparkles prance through the opposite entrance, and I’m consumed with excitement and lust and pride. I bristle with sex flu fever as a light sweat breaks out across my brow.

“Got your hanky ready?” asks Enid.

“What are you implying?”

She waves her red silk handkerchief and shoves her tongue beneath her bottom lip. “For the cheering, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah.” I yank my white one from my left Ugg. “I knew that.”

Behind us, a couple of co-eds wave foam fingers and cheer. The guy Enid injured earlier is now wearing an eye patch, and he keeps throwing her dirty looks like a really pissed off Captain Hook.

Chaucer strides out with a microphone in one hand and a bell in the other. He rings the bell with a flick of his wrist. “Hear ye, hear ye, for the first round of our UCLAP Ultimate Jousting Tournament! On the left, we have team leader and Pi Pi Pi champion, Sir Archer Riddick! A true knight if there ever was one. He has, as his supporters regale me, honour…spurting from every orifice!”

Archer takes his side of the picket fence tilt barrier, and gives the crowd a little wave of his lance. A shield with his coat of arms—the sword plunging into a heart that matches his tattoo—sits on his forearm.

“And on the right,” bellows Chaucer, “is a most fearsome opponent. Many of you will know him as Sir Hunter von Styles, an honest member of the English gentry. He makes UCLAP history today by competing on the world’s first real unicorn, and makes Pinterest history by being the first ex-band member to be repinned in a suit of armour five hundred and seventy two times!”

“Hunter!” I scream with delight, jumping from my seat to wave the hanky like a psycho. “You go, Hunter!”

Chaucer clears his throat loudly over the microphone as Hunter takes his place. “The winner, as always, will be the last knight standing. I mean—sitting. On his horse. Jester Hentai Pete—please count them in.”

Over the past week or two, I’ve been around a lot more competitive sport than usual—cage fights, turducken bobs, virgin auctions—and I’ve felt the bite of tension at my wrists as the competitors prepare for the first blow. I’ve heard entire crowds fall silent; I’ve heard them erupt in screams of victory and crow with the bitter taste of defeat. I’ve even waited eight days for the results of my thrush tests, bereft and uncertain of my gynaecological fate. None of that matches the frozen terror I feel now as I wait for Hentai Pete’s green hanky to fall upon the tilt barrier, signalling the horses’ first charge.