TOUSLE ME
A NEW ADULT PARODY
By
Lucy V. Morgan
Copyright © 2013 Lucy V. Morgan
www.lucyvmorgan.com
Cover design by Kenny Wright
Edited by
Microsoft Word Spellcheck
&
My nephew’s goldfish
For Nanna, who is always proud of my books—even if they’re far too dirty to show to her friends.
CHAPTER ONE
Tumblr binge. NOM NOM NOM.
“Oh no.” Enid, my slightly-less-attractive best friend, stands beside my computer desk and folds her arms. I can tell she’s annoyed because she’s not biting her lip or smirking, which is what girls do otherwise. “You are not staying in on party night.”
“But…but Gossip Girl GIFs,” I whimper. “My ship has like, officially come in.” We’ve been hanging around in my little dorm room all afternoon, and now, she springs this on me?
“This is the biggest frat party this…ever, and there’s no way we’re missing it, like last semester. I can’t go without you.”
“Why not? I’m not even dressed—”
“Yes, you’re doing that thing where you pretend you aren’t remotely attractive. I see right through those geek glasses, Cammie Hicks.”
Why wouldn’t she see through them? They’re made of glass.
“Come on,” she says matter-of-factly, arranging her straight blond hair around her heart-shaped face. “We have twenty minutes. Archer’s expecting us. And hey.” She leans in, all conspiratorial. “We might even get you laid. Finally.”
I roll my eyes. Then I roll them again in the opposite direction. Enid stares at me as if I just stepped in dog poop.
“I’m not going to a party just because you think I should have sex,” I mutter.
“But but but. You’re at college now, you’re a grown woman. There’s nothing to stop you having a little fun.”
I cock my head. “My parents are conveniently absent.”
“Precisely.” She snorts. “Anyone would think you were waiting to fall in love.”
I wish Enid would stop pretending that having loads of sex is cool. Everyone knows that it makes you a whore, but I suppose because Enid’s not the main character in this book, it’s okay. Still. If she doesn’t stop getting around, she’s sure as hell not getting a spin-off.
“I have books to finish,” I protest, gesturing to my haphazard to-be-read pile. “I can’t possibly go anywhere.”
“You’re going. And that’s the end of it.”
“Okay. Jeez. But you’re picking my outfit—I suck at that.”
Enid fixes my hair first. It’s red and curly and just won’t stay in place when I do it (damn my hair. I look like the before girl in the Frizz Ease commercials, post-mastie). Then she does my make-up—which I hope isn’t too slutty, like hers—and finally rifles through my wardrobe, extracting a sultry black dress and killer heels.
She stands back and surveys her handiwork. “Funny how you look like crap half the time, but have this amazing outfit stuffed in the back there. Anyone would think that dressing like shit somehow made you more credible.”
“Er…thanks?”
“You can thank me by losing that V-card. I need a partner in crime, dammit.”
I sometimes think that Enid would have sex with me herself if she thought she could get away with it. I mean, looking in my dorm room mirror…I’m actually hot. I can’t believe I never realized.
Fortunately, that bout of confidence only lasts for about two minutes, and I’m full of my usual self-doubt again as we walk across campus to the frat house. It’s Saturday night, and all the other students are dressed to the nines, letting loose and other clichéd phrases. A group of stocky guys in shirts are hauling a keg in the direction of Archer’s frat house, Pi Pi Pi.
Enid, Archer and I go way back. Like, all the way to Green Bay, Wisconsin. We grew up on the same street, and always knew we’d escape my troubled past together by going to college hundreds of miles away. Since we started at UCLAP, Archer rushed for Pi Pi Pi and found his true passion: medieval re-enactment. He’s tall and blue-eyed with sexy, messy hair, so we forgive him when he gets drunk and pretends to joust with his dick.
Pi Pi Pi is the biggest frat at UCLAP. We were super stoked for Archer when he got in. He had to do some pretty weird pledges, and he still won’t talk about that thing with the cardboard cut-out of Captain America and the squirty cheese. He couldn’t be in dark enclosed spaces for a while afterwards. I sympathize because my dirty secret means I get really panicky if I get locked in cupboards; Enid says I should probably just stop climbing into cupboards, but as a feminist, I believe I shouldn’t be restricted like that.
The guys with the keg get to the house just before us, so we trail in after them.
The frat house is huge and imposing, all impressive stone pillars and sash windows and plush interiors, just like in the movies. The party’s already in full swing; the lights are low, and raucous voices carry over blasting hip-hop.
We find Archer in the stately common room, leaning back on a pillar with a cup in his hand. When he spots us, he smiles. He’s wearing a forest green shirt with the top button undone, and he keeps messing with the button like he’s a little nervous to see me.
“Hey. You made it. My girls.” He opens both arms, and we squish past his hoard of sorority groupies to perform the kind of sandwich hug where we press our boobs into him, but get irate and disgusted if he gets even a semi. “How’s the week treated you?”
“It’s been awful,” moans Enid. “I had three essays. And Cammie was too busy with her review blog thing to make culturally relevant private jokes with me.”
I roll my eyes, but just in one direction this time. “Excuse me for having a life.”
Archer gives me a lop-sided grin which makes his eyes spark up like Christmas lights (not the fancy kind, but the two dollar kind from Walmart. Because anything else would make him look like a cyborg). “How’s the blog going, Cam-Cam?”
“Pretty sweet. I got like four hundred and eight hits on my review of The Boy Who Sneaks into My Butt Crack.” I’ve been running virginwithcatsreviews.com for about two years now, and despite lying about the cats, it’s still awesome. Some girls eat boys; I eat books. (And food, obviously—more food than really skinny girls, but not enough to suggest I have diet issues. My issues box has no room for diet issues. You could say that my box is truly stuffed).
“Cool.” He gives me a squeeze. “Want to celebrate with a drink?”
“Maybe just a ginger ale, or something.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Enid makes a V with her fingers and slaps it on to her forehead. She’s getting kind of pushy—aren’t best friends meant to, you know, take you as you are? “I’m going to get us all some real drinks. Loosen you up a bit.” Then she stomps off in the direction of the kitchen, brushing past hot frat boys as she goes and giggling as she swats away their eager hands.
I may knock Enid, but I wish I had more of her confidence. I’d totally deploy it without looking like such a whore.
“So.” I nudge Archer’s abs through his shirt. “How’s the frat?”
He tickles my hand away. Archer’s always been kind of touchy-feely with me; it’s okay though because we’re best friends, and he’s almost like my brother. A handsome brother that maybe I’d bone if he wasn’t my brother, and he isn’t really, but also he kind of is.
“Frat life’s pretty good. Can’t complain about the sorority girls.” He gestures to the group of bouncy blonds who are now giving me eyes like daggers. Or kebab sticks. Or nail files. Sluts. “Turns out a couple other guys here are into the whole re-enactment thing too, so we’re gonna investigate a few potential battle fields togethe
r. Although.” He sighs. “Some of the others…they aren’t so keen. Call us geeks and shit. I never thought I’d say this, but college is almost like high school.”
I nod sagely, thinking of Enid and her desperation to get me laid.
“There’s this one guy.” Archer narrows his eyes. “His dad’s real rich so he struts around acting like he can do what he wants. Like he owns the place. Used to be in a band so thinks he’s all cool and shit. We’re constantly getting rid of all his spurned exes at the door—he’s a slut and a half.”
“Sounds like a douche.”
“He occupies the entire west wing of the house—nobody’s allowed anywhere near it. I’ve been tempted to get out my bow and go all We Need To Talk About Kevin on his ass.”
I love that Archer references cool books. If only I could find a guy just like him, but a little more…fucked in the head. Someone I could relate to. Someone I could heal.
Then my cell vibrates in the teensy bag Enid made me bring, and I whip it out. A notification flashes in the corner of the screen: Goodreads. It’s the taupe and chocolate G of promise, like the Bat-Signal but without all the corporate bullshit.
Oh. Wait.
“Cam-Cam? You okay?”
“I just…dammit, there signal in here sucks.” I scowl. “You’d think a frat house would have better WiFi.”
“Yeah. You would, huh?” Archer shrugs. “I hear the signal’s best up on the roof, if it’s that important. Kind of dark though. All the guys with bad intentions hang out up there.” His upper lip twitches. “Maybe I should come with you.”
“I’ll be fine. Seriously—”
Enid emerges, clasping three plastic tumblers full of murky punch. “And where do you think you’re going, missy?”
“I just have to check something.” I hold my cell up, flashing its grumpy cat case. “Goodreads emergency.”
Enid leans in to Archer. “She’s actually serious, isn’t she?”
“Looks like it.” He sighs. “If you’re not back in five minutes, we’re coming to find you. Okay?”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes, one to the left and one to the right. As if I can’t take care of myself. Jeez.
I make my way up the long staircase, pausing to climb over humping couples and passed-out dudes. It’s all a bit like the set of a Lady Gaga video. Do these people have no self-respect?
As I near the top and the entrance to the roof, I turn a corner and am faced with an old mahogany book case. And…a cupboard.
Oh God.
My palm goes clammy around my cell phone.
My heart starts to thump in my stomach.
For a moment, I’m sucked back into the abyss of black space, the cruel male laughter, the violation—
“What’s the hold up?” A sorority blonde barges past me, almost knocking the phone out of my hand. “They’re stairs. Walk up them. Dumbass.”
I grasp the banister and take a couple deep breaths. Easy now, Cammie. It’s just a cupboard. You’re not in that Goddamn bedroom anymore. Get your ass up to the roof before Enid and Archer come to harass you already.
So I turn on to the last flight of stairs. Voices fly out of the double doors at the top, and I can already smell cigarette smoke and booze. Somebody’s left an inflatable sheep on the stairwell and used a Sharpie to give him a curly black moustache. It’s not even Movember—Archer was right. Looks like this is where the really crazy people hang out. I’d better be quick.
I step out on the roof and into the smoky night air. The place is dotted with lanterns and bunting, and is kinda pretty, though my vision is a little blurred after the cupboard flashback. I’m dizzy. As I stride toward a suitably quiet corner, my footing gets twisted in my stupid killer heels. I drop my cell, squealing as I plunge toward the most embarrassing moment of my college career.
Except I don’t hit the floor.
I hit muscled arms and a firm chest. I hit a wall of moderately expensive body wash scent mixed with Gingerbread latte from Starbucks. Blinking the tears away, I look up into the greenest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, and I realize…he caught me.
“All right?” he says in a deep, creamy voice. Not like spunk creamy. More like custard.
“I…” Have no words. Am rendered mute by his stunning face. He has pouty lips, stubble like black pepper tossed artfully over an omelette, and hair the color of a fudge sundae. Hair that’s just deliciously tousled. He’s so masculine, he makes my ovaries whimper Alicia Keys lyrics into my quivering fallopian tubes.
He wears a tailored black suit complete with skinny tie and Converse, which seems out of place at the party. Yet suits him, probably because it screams money and style and alpha control issues…which is hot.
“What’s a pretty madam like you doing on a roof like this?”
I do believe he’s British. Like a Bond villain, or Mumford and Sons.
“I…came for the WiFi.”
“Is that a bit like carrying a watermelon?” He grins. Oh God, his grin.
But then I remember my Goodreads emergency, and suddenly I care a lot more about that than anything else. I mean, what if an epically awesome author commented on one of my reviews? I drop to the floor, fumbling about for my cell. Please let there be signal, please…
“Looking for this?” Pouty McHotface holds up my phone. “I like the cover. Very…tasteful.”
“Thanks.” I go to take it, but he yanks it out of the way.
“Oh no, you don’t. I’ll do you a little deal.” He grins The Grin again. “Your phone, in exchange for your number.”
“That’s an invasion of my privacy,” I huff.
“And if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll up that to a date.”
“I barely know you.”
He brings one finger up to my chin and caresses firmly. I feel a bit like a lobster he’s picking out in a restaurant. “Hunter von Styles. There. Now you know me.”
I bite my lip, but resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I didn’t say you could touch me. This is harassment.”
“But you like it.”
I nod slowly. I’m confused. “It’s strangely alluring.”
He tosses his head, tousled hair rippling in the breeze. “I get that a lot.”
“So…um. Do I get my phone?”
“Do I have to repeat myself?”
Pouty von Hotface is kind of mean. Which is also strangely alluring. “Okay.” I sigh, reeling off my number. “Happy?”
He chuckles. “Not until you’re underneath me, sweaty and despoiled.”
I blush. “My friend warned me there’d be guys like you up here.”
“Oh really? Well. I do a little cage fighting in my spare time—you know, for shits and giggles. Your friend can come talk to me any time he wants.”
I take this opportunity to swipe my phone back and frantically scroll through to the Goodreads app. Lemme see: Pegworth25 liked my last review, plagiarism scandal, an author I love loaded a new book up, and—hang on just one second. What holy crap is this?
“So…I’ll be needing a name to go with your number,” says Hunter, holding up his own cell. Which looks a lot more expensive than mine.
I’m still staring at my screen. I have. No. Words. I didn’t think they were allowed to do this.
Hunter clears his throat. “You know, it’s not often that a girl treats me like I’m invisible.”
“Sorry? Did you say something?” Then I snap back down to re-read the notification for the third time.
Goodreads has made the decision to remove your review of The Coincidence of Clancy and Tarquin on the grounds set out in our reviewer guidelines, section 42.7A.
“I don’t believe it,” I utter.
Hunter puts a gentle—but strong—hand on my waist. “Is everything okay?”
“I, uh…” I can’t help it. Have to talk out the panic before it consumes me, just like the cupboard. “Goodreads removed my review.”
He tuts. “Oh. I see. First world problems.”
“You’re really
mean, you know that?”
He tosses his hair again, and smirks his Grin. “That’s how I roll.”
“You know what? If you’re going to be that much of a jerk off, you can roll right over to the edge of never and throw yourself off.”
“Ooh.” Hunter clasps his hands over his heart, feigning misery. Then he spots the tears that clamour in the corners of my eyes and his expression softens. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just like to…tease.”
For a second, I imagine his gentle-but-firm fingers teasing other places, but the tragedy at hand soon wins my attention. “Yeah, well. See how you like it when your review gets removed because it contains too many GIFs.”
Hunter’s brow dips in genuine sympathy. He nods, pauses, and then holds up a hand. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”
He had me at give me a moment. I have passive aggressive Tweets to compose, for God’s sake. As Hunter strides over to the other side of the roof, phone clasped to his ear, I bash out a hundred and forty characters of melodramatic vitriol. And then I start asking myself who to blame. I mean, was it me? Was it the other reviewers, who turn the GIF thing into some kind of battle to the death where only the strongest survive? Or is it Goodreads, who seem to have more control issues than Hunter? Is it—?
“Okay.” He reappears, one hand ruffling his hair. “It’s all sorted.”
“Huh?” I’m confused. Why am I always so confused?
“I bought Goodreads. Your review will be back up in about five minutes.”
I look at my cell’s screen, then at Hunter, who arches an eyebrow in a disturbingly predatory fashion. Then I look at the sky, all inky black and dotted with bright stars. Then I look back to Hunter—at his crotch, just a bit, because a girl has to inspect these things. Then back to my cell. My neck starts to ache from all the jerky looking, but I trudge on. To the floor, where a bit of gum has been pressed into the grooves of the wooden boards. And then—
“Thank you would be sufficient,” he purrs.
“Oh. Um.” I bite my lip. “Thank you.” Part of me doesn’t want to believe he has the money to just buy Goodreads, or that he can do it in five minutes flat. But the other part of me doesn’t care because, crotch. Pout. Crotchy von Pouty Pout.
Tousle Me Page 1