Tousle Me (8 page)

After a moment or two of shocked silence, the lecturer goes back to the song at hand, which is now
Strange Relationship
. Nicely played, irony. Just like my muff.

* * *

“He did
what
?” Enid stares at me over her fish taco. “
You
did what?”

“My…my first big O,” I manage to blurt. “During the lecture. It was mortifying.”

Her eyes widen. “You can say that again.”

After my disaster-slash-epiphany of a class, I called Enid for an emergency meeting at Gabriel’s Wrapture, our favorite Mexican place on campus. Now we’re dissecting the experience over dinner.

“I can’t believe he just left me there,” I utter into my fajita, which is swollen with pink meat.

“Anyone would think he’s an exhibitionist with a humiliation fetish.”

“Like that happens.” I snort, and we both laugh, but Enid’s chortle has this sour tone to it like I’m really stupid and can’t see what’s in front of me. I know exactly what’s in front of me: a heap of lardy Me-hee-can goodness and a jealous whore.

“That V card isn’t going to last long,” Enid says fortuitously.

“You’re right.” I begin to panic again and put down my fajita. Looks like my lack of eating issues have kicked in. “Oh, Enid. I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

“This is Hunter von Styles we’re talking about—I’m not sure he cares.”

“Mmm.” I nod, confused. “It’s strangely alluring.”

“When are you seeing him again?” she asks.

“Tonight, at eight.” I panic some more—that’s three hours away! “And I have nothing to wear, Enid!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re wearing clothes right now.” She rolls her eyes.

“I wasn’t being literal.”

“Think of the fashion-starved third world, Cammie. They’re the ones with nothing to wear,” she scolds.

“You mean like on
Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
?”

She takes a massive mouthful of taco and talks through the food. “That is precisely what I mean.”

“Oh. Okay then.” I pause to stab a straw into my Pepsi. “So what
am
I going to wear?”

“Where’s he taking you?”

“He doesn’t really do details,” I mutter.

“Well Jeez, you’re a bucket of help and a half.” She steals a slurp of my drink. Enid’s too cheap to buy her own. “He was in a German band, right? Maybe lederhosen?”

“Now who’s the bucket of help?”

“And a half.” She wags a finger at me. “And a half.”

* * *

By eight o’clock, I’m primped and purty and ready to go. After I feed Rule, I lie down on my bed to read, hoping I’ll feel a little more composed by the time Hunter arrives. I mean, tonight could be
the
night. Rule’s still looking kind of dead and vacant, and his water is going cloudy. Huh. Sure hope we go back to Hunter’s for the horizontal tango because staring into that aquarium will not be sexy.

At eight on the dot, Hunter gives his signature three knocks on my door and I leap off the bed to let him in. Tall and robust in the doorway, he smells like a surly grin and is expensive body wash from ear to ear. Or something. Hellooooo, Crotchy von Pouty Pout.

“Gosling.” He dips his head and plants a warm kiss on my neck. “Looking especially hot tonight.”

I giggle. “You like my lederhosen?”

He stands back and squints at me. “You’re a brave girl.”

“Oh, Hunter.” I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck, dropping my book in the process.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

I glance down to check the title. “
Twincest Summer
.”

“Oh?” He’s trying very hard not to look interested. “With actual…twins?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Isn’t that, you know…dirty and wrong?” he says darkly.

“Oh no. They’re only step-twins.”

“Ah. Well that makes it okay.” He nods sagely.

“Yeah. I figure that if Amazon will sell it, it’s got to be.” I’m about to join him in the sage nod, but maybe I should mix it up a bit. Basil shimmy? Hammer Thyme?

“Are you ready to leave, gosling?” He gestures to the corridor.

“Yeah, um…just need to get something…” I take his hand and pull him inside. I have to make sure he sees Rule while he can still, er, see things in the water. I close the door behind him and flash a smile. “Just popping to the restroom—won’t be a second.”

He’s looking confused, which makes him even yummier than usual. Maybe we should just run off into the sunset and be confused together forever. As I brace against the shower cubicle and count to sixty seconds, I let myself imagine what it might be like to actually be Hunter’s girlfriend. If I’m his girlfriend for more than three weeks, I beat Taylor Swift; now there’s a thought. A thought that brings home the gravity of the situation. A thought that puts me in a tight black cupboard of PANIC.

“Hunter!” I wheeze as I stagger back out.

“Gosling? What’s wrong?”

“I just…I…” I pant, clasping my throat. “Anxiety attack.”

His brow dips in sympathy. “Is there anything I can do?”

I want to shout
PROPOSE!
but it’s not happening. Maybe this is for the best. I’ve played it safe so far with my wardrobe and pet choices—I don’t want to scare him off.

Hunter seems alarmed by my lack of response. He grabs hold of my shoulders and shakes me violently, which only makes me howl louder.

“Stoppit!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He slows, still clasping me with those firm but gentle hands. “Have you tried taking deep breaths?”

“O-okay.” In and out. In and out. In and…ugh, it’s not working! Still a heap of Taylor Swift-induced spaghetti nerves. “Gah!”

“Come on now, gosling.” He cups my chin. “Breathe with me.”

I mimic him as he inhales and exhales, but the rhythm is all wrong for my body and I start to choke.

“Okay, right, deep breaths not working. Try small breaths. Tiny ones.”

“Tiny ones?” I squeak, still clueless. “How many?”

He gives a helpless shrug. “I dunno...ten?!”

“Ten…tiny…breaths,” I wheeze. I can do this. I can.

Fortunately, Hunter does the counting for me because, y’know, still an English major.

“There,” he murmurs, hugging me to his warm chest. “Better?”

“So much better,” I say hoarsely. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“A vast abyss of melancholy?”

I cock my head. “Not exactly.”

“Gripping existential crisis?” His eyes dart about in thought. “No? Oh. Um. Lost an Ebay auction?”

“How about we get going?”

“Of course.” He takes my hand again.

“Just let me get my coat,” I say. Then I hop to the wardrobe and start rifling through. What the hell kind of outerwear do you style with lederhosen, anyway?

“Gosling?”

“Yeah?” I turn, biker jacket in hand, to find him peering into Rule’s aquarium.

“Is this your…octopus?” He sounds kind of repulsed.

“Isn’t he awesome?”

“I don’t really know how to tell you this. I know you’ve already had a very traumatic evening. But Cammie…” He turns to me with a pained expression and takes my hand in both of this. “Your octopus is deceased.”

“Oh no,” I say brightly, “he’s like that all the time.”

“What, flaccid and gawping at you with dead eyes?”

“Maybe I like that kind of thing,” I manage.

“Well you and me both, gosling. But seriously.” He grimaces at the cloudy tank. “I think we both know that your little friend here has popped his clogs.” He clears his throat. “All eight of them.”

“Yeah. Not even sure what that means.”

“British thing.” He gives me a dubious look. “I know that you’re lying.”

I let out a whimper, utterly deflated. How will I ever beat Taylor Swift now? “Is this like the virginity alarm thing?”

“No.” He snorts. “But really—who has a pet octopus?”

“I do,” I mumble sheepishly.

“And who lies about having a pet octopus, then actually gets a dead one and just leaves it floating in a tank full of—Jesus Christ, gosling. Is that Haribo?”

“Maybe.” Here was me thinking that my lecture theatre orgasm was mortifying. Noooo. I was wrong. “Are you going to leave now?”

He presses his pouty lips together. “What I’m going to do is make a call. Just give me a moment.” With that, he steps into the hall and leaves me to stew in my own special brand of embarrassment.

A minute passes, then two, then four. It didn’t take him this long to buy Goodreads. What the chips is he doing? I sure hope he isn’t putting out a hit on the local aqua vet. You know, if there’s actually an aqua vet. Maybe I’ll Google and see…

“Gosling?”

“Mmm?” I snap up from my iPad and close down Craigslist (no aqua vets on there, you’ll be relieved to hear). “Where’ve you been?”

“I have a little present for you.” Hunter steps back into my room, holding a leash covered in black sequins. There’s a clop-clopping sound in the hall, almost like…hooves. “I’d like you to meet Sparkles von Fancypants,” he says, looking awfully pleased with himself.

“Sparkles von whuh?”

There are shocked murmurs in the corridor. A tall creature trots into the room, a purple one covered in silver glitter. A horse. With an actual horn.

Hunter has brought me A UNICORN.

“Neeeeigh!” says Sparkles von Fancypants.

“Fuck,” I say, rushing to close the door behind his purple sparkly horse butt. Then I back up, studying the way his unicorn horn is glued to his horsey forehead. Or not glued. I tug it, making Sparkles huff at me in disgust.

“It’s real, gosling,” Hunter declares. “I took one look in that aquarium and saw how desperate you are for a pet, but I knew it had to be special.”

“How is this even possible?” I utter, stroking my fingers through Sparkles’ pink tinselly mane. It’s actual tinsel.

“I had him genetically engineered.” He flashes the Grin. “Why did you think I took so long?”

“I don’t know. Figured you had gas, or something.”

He tuts. “Maybe I did. Maybe I fart unicorns.”

I’m not sure if he’s being serious or not, so I turn my attention to Sparkles. “Hey there, uh, boy.”

“He responds to Sparkles for short,” Hunter says, straightening the unicorn’s black sequin bridle. “And look—he matches your lederhosen.”

“That’s lucky.”

“I got Labron to set him up an Instagram account and he already has forty seven followers. He enjoys all the usual unicorn pastimes: modern jazz, Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain.”

I wonder if he’ll like Cognac Façade. “What do I feed him? And where do I keep him?”

“He’ll live with you, of course.” Hunter smiles.

I gesture to my teensy dorm room. “But…uh…where will I put him?”

“Oh, he’s very flexible. No trouble at all. You won’t even notice he’s here unless you look up and think,
wow, I have a unicorn. Isn’t Hunter fabulous? I should totally blow Hunter
.”

Sparkles von Fancypants nods in agreement. Oh God, maybe he likes to watch.
Ew.
I’ve gone from having a dead octopus to a voyeuristic sparkly unicorn in the space of five minutes—there’s a sentence you don’t have to say very often.

“Anyway.” Hunter pats Sparkles’ flank fondly. “We should make a move, gosling. I’m taking you back to my place for nibbles.”

I get to visit the west wing of the Pi Pi Pi house? “But…but nobody’s allowed into the west wing.”

He steps close, cupping my chin. “You’re special.”

“Oh, Hunter.” I melt into his palm. Well. Not literally.

“I thought we could use some privacy to talk about earlier. The lecture.”

“That, huh.” I feel myself blushing furiously. “I can explain, I mean—”

“Hush now.” He presses a thick finger to my lips. “Let’s walk down to the limo.”

I frown. “But won’t Sparkles get hungry? What if he has to pee? What if—oh, crap—what if he has to—”

“I said
hush
. Now zippit.”

Sparkles huffs at me, stomping his hooves. His eyes look awfully shifty.

I daren’t speak to Hunter again, so I smile and nod and we lock the door, waving to Sparkles as we leave.

By the time we arrive at the frat house, Hunter has replied to all his tweets and I’ve messed around on Goodreads some more, switching
Wallbanger
by Alice Clayton to
Wallbangerz
by Miley Cyrus. Muahahah. I love that Hunter and I can relax and be CEOs together. Look at us, ignoring each other to play on social media—we’re just like a real couple!

When Labron opens the limo door, I’m confused to see that we’re at the back of the house.

“Does Hunter…prefer the back entrance?” I whisper as I get out.

“Probably.” Labron suppresses a smirk as he whispers back. “He doesn’t like going past the medieval re-enactment noticeboard in the main hall.”

“Eh?”

“Jousting. Horses.” Labron coughs as Hunter glares at him.

Hunter doesn’t like horses? Wait…wasn’t that one Eine Richtung song about horses? I need to Google those translated lyrics when I get back.

“Gosling.” Hunter offers me his arm, and I clasp it gladly as we walk up to the back door of the west wing. I feel a bit like I should do a royal wave, but there’s no-one to wave to except Labron, and then I’d be all up in that slavery commentary shiz. I do give him a smile though because, y’know, Labron’s awesome and all.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from the private and fabled west wing of Pi Pi Pi. What I do know is that I never expected to walk into it wearing lederhosen and worrying that a unicorn was eating my laptop. What do unicorns eat, anyway? Does his food have to be as sparkly as—holy motherfudging Disney princesses, would you
look
at that staircase?

It’s long and sweeping, in dark wood. The banisters are hand-carved in swirly patterns. Rich red carpet spills down like somebody poured it from a jug at the top. Eine Richtung’s gold records line the walls, and a chandelier hangs low from the ceiling, the lights flickering to cast us in moody shadows. I want to marry this staircase immediately and just spend my life posing on it in fancy dresses, like I’m frozen on a bad YA novel cover.