Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  Hunter smirks. “Now would be a good time to give me that name of yours.”

  I could listen to his British accent all day. I have a sneaking feeling that I might get to do just that if this is going the way I think it is. Or if I ask his opinion on the poh-tay-to vs. poh-tah-to issue.

  “Cammibelle,” I whisper, half to the stars and half to him. “My name is Cammibelle Hicks.”

  “What a pretty name.” He puts another hand on my waist so he’s kind of holding me, and I feel his warm breath on my collarbone. Though I’m still holding my cell up between us, which is awkward. “I mean…it sounds a bit like cannibal, which is creepy as fuck. But apart from that, it’s utterly beguiling.”

  “My friends call me Cammie,” I croak.

  “So. Cammie. Now I have your name and your number. Whatever will I do with it?”

  “You mean, them?”

  “Huh?”

  “What will you do with them? It’s plural.”

  Hunter’s lips purse and his eyes dart about.

  “I should probably tell you this now,” I say apologetically. “I’m a complete grammar geek, even though my actions suggest that my intellect is severely questionable.” My cell vibrates again; a new notification advises that my review has been reinstated, complete with a grovelling apology. “Woah,” I breathe. “You…oh, my God.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles again. “I get that a lot.”

  I stare up at Hunter, my attention finally a hundred percent on him and zero percent on the hobby that up until now, defined my life. I have a strange feeling in my belly that this is how it’s supposed to be, and it makes me want to sink to my knees and drag my tongue around the ribbed soles of his Converse sneakers. Which is weird. Maybe I have a vitamin deficiency, or something.

  “Is it me,” says Hunter, “or does it feel like we’re the only people up here?”

  I lose myself in his big green eyes. They’re such a perfect shade; not like the green bit on the NBC logo, but deeper. More like the green bit on the Google Chrome thing.

  And then Enid and Archer appear behind us—complete with hands on hips and disapproving glares—and we aren’t the only people on the roof. At all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It may have taken Archer and Enid more than the claimed five minutes to come and find me, but it takes them only two to drag me back downstairs. I didn’t even get to thank Hunter for buying Goodreads.

  “Are you okay?” Archer hisses, guiding me into a quieter corner of the common room and down on to a plush couch. “What did he do to you? Here—” He grabs my arm. “Let me check you for bruises.”

  “Archie. Please.” Enid snatches my arm away. “She’s fine. I mean, look at her. All flushed cheeks, bright eyes, glazed look…” Her blue eyes narrow in suspicion. “No way. Did you meet an alpha hero?”

  “Maybe,” I mutter.

  Archer puts his face in his hands. “Him? Of all the people. Oh God.”

  Enid strokes a soothing hand along his back. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay! He won’t even be a hero…he’ll be an…” He sniffs, then scowls. “Anti hero.”

  Enid recoils, looking troubled. “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven.”

  I look from Enid to Archer. “Are you guys meant to be having this conversation in front of me?”

  Archer gives a defeated shrug. “Plot dictates you’d have heard us anyway at some point. Might as well cut to the chase.”

  Enid tilts her head and nods sagely in agreement.

  “Ah. I guess that works.” I’m about to bite my lip, but then I realize something. “Hey. What do you mean—not him?”

  “Didn’t he tell you his name?” Enid says, incredulous.

  “Well yeah. Pouty von Crotchy Cro—I mean, Hunter von Styles.” I smile blithely. “What’s the big deal?”

  Archer yanks his cell out and brings up Google. He grits his teeth as he bashes in Hunter’s name, and then passes the result to me. “Knock yourself out.”

  I frown at the screen. “How come you’ve got WiFi?”

  “Stop pointing out inconsistencies and read the damn page,” says Enid.

  Hunter’s Wikipedia page is long. And thick. And meaty. And, erm, maybe I’m getting a little carried away with myself here.

  Hunter von Styles is the youngest son of Mason von Styles, Earl of Salisbury…idyllic childhood, two older brothers, mother died in a stable fire, blah blah blah…At the age of nineteen, Hunter joined the world-famous German rock band, Eine Richtung, on both lead vocals and acoustic guitar. But after three years of stardom, a dark and close-guarded secret forced him to leave.

  Wow. That’s like, at least three chapters’ worth of exposition, right there. No wonder Archer has WiFi.

  Troubled by the demise of his band, Hunter moved to UCLAP, and has focused his rage by competing in underground cage fights. His famous ex-girlfriends include Taylor Swift. He’s no good for you, Cammie Hicks. He’ll rip your heart out, lick it a bit, make some weird walrus noises and then stuff it right back in again.

  “Woah.” I pass back Archer’s cell. “That last part’s a little harsh.”

  “But it’s on Wikipedia,” says Enid. “It must be true.”

  I freeze. “Hang on a minute. Rich guy who used to be in a band…Archer, is this the douche member of Pi Pi Pi?”

  Archer drops his head back on the top of the sofa. “Yep.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.” Enid pulls a neon pink lipstick from her purse, cracks out a mirror and starts to reapply. “So despite the fact that Archer’s a big boy—a very big boy—” Her eyes drop, and she blushes, “and can take care of himself, all those girls that Hunter knocks and drops don’t fare so well. You’re going to stay away from him. Aren’t you?”

  “But…but I thought you wanted me to get laid…?”

  “Not with him. No laying. Absolutely no laying of—or with—Hunter von Styles.” She finishes applying the lipstick, and blows a kiss at a frat boy who’s loitering nearby. “He’s mixed up in all kinds of shit.”

  I glance at Archer, whose dark looks are smouldering with the most unbelievable sulk. He checks around to see if anyone’s looking before briefly readjusting his balls. Good thing I was only staring at him from the corner of my eye.

  This has to be some kind of mistake. I read enough romance novels to know that every hot guy comes with a big fat side order of misunderstanding. But what if it’s true, and the guy whose green, grinning eyes I’ve just completely fallen for is also a complete grumpypants? And what’s with this dark secret he has? Is he afraid of cupboards too, or is it something…else? Maybe that’s why people think he’s so rude; I mean, having a troubled past makes it really easy to be misunderstood, even for paranormal reasons. But I can’t let Hunter off because he’s a vampire—the author got rid of that plot point when she changed all of our names.

  I look at Archer and Enid, my best friends in the whole world, and sigh inwardly. That gives me wind, so I let out a burp.

  Enid grimaces. “Ugh. Cammie, do you mind?”

  Archer suppresses a smile. “I thought it was kind of cute.”

  “Hunter von Styles won’t want to date a girl who sounds like Homer Simpson,” Enid chides. “See? Not meant to be.”

  I make a silent promise myself to sigh outwardly in the future.

  Not that I’m planning on dating Hunter, of course. I’m too strong a character and too loyal to my friends to ever consider a thing like that.

  * * *

  The following morning, I wake to the sun pushing its way through my curtains like a fat chick at Burger King. I’m smug at my lack of hangover, but also confused. I’m always so confused. Still, it’s Sunday morning—time to get with the program. I’m not sure what the program is, though just thinking about it is comforting.

  As I brush my teeth, I tell everyone on Facebook that I’m brushing my teeth. Then I post a mid-shower selfie. I have to blur out my nipples with an Instagram filter, and I sigh because no filte
r can hide my obvious ugliness. Archer “likes” the photo almost instantly. So does my Mom. Enid just comments about a film called Psycho. Somebody else retorts NO, ENID—YOU’RE THE PSYCHO, and then we all have a little LOL party right there in the comments section. My friends are so cray.

  I’m just wrapping a towel around myself and padding back into my room when my cell begins to ring with an unrecognized number. Huh. I have to stop giving my digits to homeless guys when I’ve run out of change.

  Exhaling heavily, I answer. “Y’ellow?”

  “Good morning, madam,” a deep, dark British voice murmurs.

  I freeze. Oh my God. It’s him. “Hunter, is that you?” I manage to blurt.

  “And how did you sleep, gosling?”

  “Uh…gosling?”

  “It’s like kitten or little bird, but more original. I’m very original, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, you’re original, all right.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “I get that a lot.”

  Silence. I pause. He breathes down the phone and with every inhalation, it’s like he’s undressing me. I feel naked.

  Wait…I am naked. My towel fell off.

  “So guess what you’re doing this evening?” asks Hunter.

  “Uploading my review for Bind You in the Park, accusing some rookie bloggers of stealing my content, and…uh…might eat half a pack of cheese.”

  Hunter makes a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong. Guess again.”

  “Sometimes I watch Gossip Girl with Archer?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Um. Uh.” My palms grow sticky with nervous sweat. It’s Sunday morning—nobody told me there’d be a pop quiz. “Cleaning up Enid’s party vomit, and then watching cats steal dogs’ beds on YouTube?”

  “Wrong. Come on—you can’t possibly be this thick, and I’m definitely not this subtle,” he grumbles.

  “I give up.” I let out a great, heaving sigh.

  “We made a little deal last night, so I’m picking you up at eight,” he says firmly. “We’re having dinner. Wear something pretty.”

  I try to compose myself, but my racing heart gets the best of me. “Um…dinner?” I wheeze.

  “Yep. You know, food. Consumed. Usually sometime after five p.m.”

  I’m not even sure I can wear something pretty, but then I remember that Enid will probably give me an epic makeover in the space of five lines.

  Then I remember that Hunter’s a jackass who makes fun of my best friend and tosses away hearts like single-use condoms.

  “Uh, Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  I wince as I speak. “I don’t think I can go out with you.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because—because—” Holy crapbags, I just can’t bring myself to say it. Or to say no to him. He’s just so strangely alluring. I need an excuse, and quick. “Because I have…a bag. To deliver.” Think, Cammie! “With a bomb in it.”

  He clears his throat. He sounds a bit phlegmy, but also sexy. “So let me get this straight. You can’t go out with me tonight because you’re a threat to national security?”

  “Yes. Precisely.” I should be a drama major. I’m this good.

  “But you see, that’s just another thing we have in common. From the moment I saw you, I also had a sack about to explode. Two of them, actually.”

  I begin to panic. Enid said Hunter was into some serious shit, and I know that when a guy has a British accent, there’s a chance that he could be evil. But I never had Hunter down as an actual terrorist!

  “Gosling,” he purrs. “Relax. I’m just playing with you.”

  “Oh.” I sigh with relief. “Thank God.”

  “So I’ll see you at eight,” he says, sounding wickedly pleased with himself.

  “Eight sounds great.”

  “I’m…looking forward to it.” And then he hangs up.

  You know, it was seriously tough going there for a second. I was in real danger of betraying lovely Archer and actually agreeing to go out with that dastardly douche. I should probably call Enid and tell her about how ruthlessly I outsmarted him—she’ll love it.

  I try to call Enid, but all I get is a weird voicemail message about how the previous paragraph used up my adverb allowance for the entire day. Which is utterl—utter—ut—what the chips? So annoying.

  CHAPTER THREE

  So Archer, Enid and I are sprawled across the sofa in my dorm room, eating popcorn and watching the X Factor results show. I’m balancing my laptop on my knees while I upload a review, and Archer has one arm casually thrown over the back of the sofa behind me. Every ten minutes or so, he leans in to smell my hair. Which is super cute.

  “So who’s going this week?” Enid muses.

  Archer gives me a handsome grin from behind the popcorn. “Nobody with boobs.”

  “I hope it isn’t Cognac Façade,” I say. They’re a postmodern jazz hip hop fusion a cappella group, and my favorite contestants.

  “I like the metal guy,” says Archer. “The one with the long hair and the beard. And the steel breastplate.”

  Enid snorts. “Fjorn Brimstone? What, because he reminds you of all your re-enactment stuff?”

  “Do you have any idea how long it takes to grow a beard like that?”

  “Too long,” she retorts. “I like you clean-shaven, Archer. You’re not allowed to grow caveman chin pubes like, ever.”

  “Listen to her,” he mutters. “She talks like she’s my girlfriend or something.”

  Enid blushes furiously and stuffs a huge handful of popcorn into her mouth.

  I’m mentally compiling my to-read list for the week when somebody knocks on my door. The knocks sounds three times, precise and firm.

  Archer goes rigid beside me. “I’d know that knock anywhere,” he says darkly.

  Enid and I exchange confused glances, and she puts the popcorn down, strolling over to answer the door. Then she just hangs in the doorway, her mouth gaping.

  “Enid? I say, unsure. “Who’s there?”

  She steps back. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerges, thick fingers fiddling with his tousled fudge sundae hair.

  “It’s eight o’clock, gosling,” says Hunter von Styles, looking virile and gorgeous in another tailored black suit. “Ready to roll?”

  I blink. Then I blink some more. “Sorry?”

  “What’s he doing here?” demands Archer, springing to his feet.

  Hunter raises his eyebrows as if he’s only just realized there are other people in the room. Then he throws Archer a smirk. “Oh hey. Archery Dick!”

  “It’s Archer Riddick,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Archery Dick.” Hunter pats him on the shoulder with an air of sympathy. “Cammibelle. Come on, we have a reservation.”

  I thought I’d said no to this? Lemme see: little deal…dinner tonight…bomb in a bag…exploding sacks…see you at eight…eight sounds great…oh, superpoop. Another fine mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  “But I’m not even ready,” I splutter.

  “Of course you are. You’re stunning.”

  I look down at my spaghetti-stained varsity t-shirt and jammie shorts. “I am…?”

  “Okay, okay.” He rolls his eyes, and both go in the same direction. Impressive. “Just give me a moment and I’ll take care of everything. I wouldn’t want you to go out in something you’re uncomfortable in.”

  “If you say s—”

  Hunter waves a hand, which seems to indicate that I should stop talking, and pulls out his cell. He begins to make a call, talking quietly. As soon as he turns around, Archer mimes pulling a bow and shooting an arrow at his head.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Enid hisses at me, grabbing the popcorn bowl. “Do you have a sieve for a brain? Don’t you remember what we talked about last night?”

  “I do, and I tried, honestly—”

  “Everything’s under control,” Hunter announces, turning again with a sultry grin
.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this like when you bought Goodreads?”

  Enid spits out her mouthful of popcorn. “Whuh?”

  Archer’s eyes practically bulge.

  Hunter shrugs. “What can I say? I make things happen.” Then there’s a single knock at the door, and he ducks to answer it. “You’re late,” he snipes at the knocker.

  “Dang. I’m sorry, okay?”

  “I asked for this eighty two seconds ago. This is poor performance—I could fire you.”

  A stocky black guy in a similarly tailored suit appears, clutching a huge box from Bloomingdales. “Fire me? You don’t even employ me.”

  Hunter scowls. “You’re my PA, you peasant.”

  “Dude. I’m your best friend.” The guy recoils, visibly offended.

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.” Hunter gives a helpless shrug. “I get those two mixed up occasionally.”

  “Oh, come on,” Archer moans. “He’s not even nice to his friends.”

  “But he’s nice to me,” I point out. “It makes me feel…superior to other women. Which is, ultimately, what I think I really want.”

  “Enough of this.” Hunter takes the Bloomingdales box and hands it to me. “This is for you, gosling. I’ll wait in the limo while you change—Labron here will escort you down.” He pauses by the door to catch my eye, and I shiver. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “I won’t,” I breathe.

  Enid yanks the box from my grasp and gestures to Archer and Labron. “Okay. Girls’ time. Get your asses out of here.”

  Archer points to the TV. “But they’re just starting the eliminations!”

  “Cammie has a date with the devil,” Enid says sternly. “She has to get changed.”

  “Oh, well when you put it like that.” Archer rolls his eyes as he stomps out. “I’ll just be out here. Waiting.”

  Labron joins him, and the door slams shut. It’s just me, Enid, and a pretty poor screamo performance of Midnight Train to Georgia by Fjorn Brimstone on the TV.