Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

“But not since he met you,” he protests quickly. “Obviously.”

  “Actually, I was talking about therapy,” I say.

  “Professional help? Nah. Way too logical for any self-respecting romance hero.”

  I nod sagely. “Fair point.”

  As I fiddle with my straw, I gaze into the orange abyss of my drink, and try not to imagine Hunter being beaten to a pulp by the troubled chunk of tattoos and denial he’ll no doubt be battling shortly.

  “So who else is fighting tonight?” I ask Labron.

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Was he doing the…teasing thing?” Labron grimaces.

  “Yup.”

  “Ugh. Cringe.” He pauses to take a big slurp of his cocktail. “Dude’s fighting Rabies Maddox.”

  Two college guys with fists full of dollar bills push past me, shouting about bets and reeking of beer. Labron eyeballs them, protecting me in the crook of his arm.

  “I’m sorry—who?” I ask.

  “Please tell me you’ve heard of Rabies Maddox.”

  “Er…should I have?”

  “It would be really weird if you hadn’t,” says Labron, suspicious. “The whole campus is unconvincingly preoccupied with his reputation.”

  “What’s his real name?” I ask. “Maybe I’ve heard of that.”

  “That is his real name. He’s a walking bag of accelerated symptoms: aggressive, delusional, excessive production of saliva.” Labron sighs wistfully. “Constant erection.”

  “Ooh.” I fiddle with the cocktail umbrella on my drink. “Sounds hot.”

  “You betcha.” He nudges me. “Looky—here comes the ringmaster.”

  I don’t know how a gay man can say ringmaster with a straight face. Actually, I don’t know how a gay man can do a straight face.

  The dark basement grows quiet as a fat frat boy (from Pi Pi Beta Pi) in a badly-fitting check shirt, holds up a microphone. “Ladies, gents and stock supporting characters,” he announces, “hold on to your gonads, bitches—it’s Fucking Illegal Cagefight Night!”

  The crowd bursts into a roar, and they begin to stomp. My drink ripples like a T-Rex is ten seconds away. I’m beginning to like this cage fight shit—it’s forbidden and unexpected and a bit dirty. Which is just how I like my coffee; thanks for asking.

  “A word to the wise on how things work around here,” Fat Frat Boy goes on. “No bet rigging—we’ll find you out. Your mom will tell me in between sucking my dick and licking my balls. No distracting the competitors—you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of their big, swinging…fists.” He makes wild hand gestures to encourage more laughter for his very poor jokes. “And finally: stay out of my ring, gentlemen. It’s not safe for man or beast.”

  That one gets way more laughs. Go figure.

  Beside me, Labron flicks through a heap of bills with a licked finger.

  “You placing a bet? I ask.

  “Oh yeah. Ten thou on Hunter to smack this pansy down.”

  I frown. “But didn’t he just say it’s not allo—”

  “Ginger. Please.” He gives me an incredulous smile. “Hunter’s not betting on himself; I’m betting on Hunter.” He tuts. “With his money.”

  “Okay,” shouts Fat Frat Boy, “let’s bring ‘em in!”

  Another roar rips through the crowd of undesirable characters. Horns blare. Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s Relax booms from overhead speakers, and spectators stomp along to the bass.

  Fat Frat Boy takes the center of the cage. A spotlight zeroes in on him. “On the left, my good citizens, we have the maddest damn dog UCLAP has ever seen. He’s foaming at the mouth to get out here, and you sure as hell better hope he doesn’t bite. He’s mean, he’s lean, he’s not a machine because that would get him disqualified….RABIEEEEEES MADDOOOOOOOX!”

  Another spotlight fades into the left corner of the basement, where the crowd has parted to make way for Rabies, who is every bit as sexy as Labron implied. He’s nearly bald, with abs you could do laundry on in ye olde times and low-slung jeans that show off the pouty swell of his buttocks. As he passes me I get a whiff of musky cologne, and a little globule of rabied drool flies on to my left breast. Thank God Hunter didn’t see that.

  Rabies has lots of tattoos: an arch of gothic lettering on his back, the Wendy’s logo on his forearm. There’s a big red heart over his left pec with the name Seagull in fancy calligraphy. I wonder if Hunter has any tattoos? I’ve never seen him without his shirt on, but in just a moment, I will. The thought makes me all whimsy in the furry garden.

  “And on the right,” Fat Frat Boy calls, “we have UCLAP’s favorite sexual predator. Some might say he’s thoughtless. Reckless. But his technique is effortless. Let’s make some noise for our undefeated champion—HUNTEEEER VON STYLES!”

  Oh my God. Here he comes. Screw effortless—he’s shirtless.

  Hunter walks the way men walk when they want to have sex but they also want to punch things: cock first. He too wears low slung jeans, though his are torn at the knee in true German-rocker-slash-eighties-throwback style. His fudge sundae hair is tousled with sweat, and his broad, tanned chest is ripped beyond belief. To the delight of my nipples, which are erect and feasting at the fabric of my dress, he does indeed have a tattoo: just above his waistband and his penis, a stretch of Courier New reads Warning: choking hazard. When Hunter passes, he blows me a kiss. And then parts his fingers and wiggles his tongue through them.

  I snatch a dollar bill from Labron and use it to fan myself. Cage fighter Hunter is so hot, he needs his own Tumblr page.

  I vow silently to make one the minute I get home. You know, if there isn’t one already.

  With Hunter and Rabies braced in their respective corners of the cage, Fat Frat Boy holds a bell aloft, and the crowd begins to count down with him. I try to join in, but like I said—English major. Then the bell rings, the audience cheers, and my first fucking illegal cage fight has officially begun.

  I can’t watch it.

  I throw myself at Labron, squealing with terror.

  “Jesus,” he gasps. I knocked the wind out of him. “What’s wrong? Hunter’s a sure thing.”

  “What?”

  “For the fight. To win the fight.” He narrows his eyes at me. “What did you think I meant?”

  “Oh.” I gulp. “Nothing.” Behind us, a gruff moan of pain emanates from the podium. I wince. “Oh God, Labron. I can’t bear it!”

  “But he just hit Rabies square in the gooch. It was a –OH, HELL YES, MY BOY!” He jumps, thrusting his fist aloft. “Now jam it right into his ass! Make him walk like a fucking Egyptian!”

  But all I can think about are Hunter’s tortured words: Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I deserve it.

  I want so badly to heal him. Soothe his pain. I know he can’t bear to get close to anyone—so much so that he’d rather call his best friend his personal assistant—but earlier tonight, he reached out to me. And suddenly, I just want to reach back.

  As I sob pitifully into Labron’s chest, the fight goes on. The crowd ooh and ahh, the punches land with hollow thumps, ribs crack like they’re on the buffet upstairs. I can practically smell the blood that must be pooling on the podium floor (it’s kind of hard to smell anything over Labron’s cologne—Emo Stallion by Jared Leto—but I have a very vivid imagination).

  Then the bell chimes and Fat Frat Boy starts yelling something, but the crowd is too loud for me to hear.

  “What’s going on?” I ask frantically, blinking back fresh tears.

  “Oh shit.” Labron’s brow drops. He swallows. “It’s a draw. And that can only mean one thing.”

  “Which is…?”

  He inhales deeply, and swallows again. “Slam poetry round.”

  Labron sure does like to swallow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Holes,” rasps Rabies Maddox to a silent, awed crowd. “I liked big holes, and I could not lie. Until a Seagull made me fly. Through the wind and the rain and the sky. And her m
eatbox. Holes.”

  A beat. And then the audience goes wild, stamping their feet as they cheer. A really butch guy is crying.

  “Man,” Labron mutters, “that was deep.”

  We’re into the deciding heat of the slam poetry round, and I’ve never been so nervous in my life. So far, Hunter has touched my heart with his musings on the Russian economy, the blue sweater his mum bought him just before she died in a mysterious stable fire, and British things he misses from home (Eastenders. And scones). But Rabies Maddox just blew him right out of the water with that beautiful ode to his very average wife, and Hunter’s really got to pull this one out of the manbag. Maybe he should’ve brought his one-eyed snake after all.

  He waits for the crowd to fall quiet again, and then takes the center of the cage. In the dark basement, the milky spotlight casts him in a silver shadow. He clears his throat and takes a delicate sip of water from a bottle. Even when he’s unsure and vulnerable, he’s still handsome. Maybe even more handsome. I find myself feeling grateful that he’s a guy and I’m a girl; if a guy says he likes vulnerable women, it makes him sound creepy and unhinged.

  “This is a new one,” Hunter says. “I’m just kinda making it up as I go. So you may have to bear with me on a few points.”

  All around, people offer understanding nods. A few pull out cigarette lighters and begin to wave them in the air.

  “It’s called Gosling.” Hunter zeroes in on me with his grinning green eyes, and my heart flutters. Poetry sounds super authentic in an English accent. “Forty billion, sixteen million, two hundred and twenty five thousand pounds. And fifty pence. That’s how much money I have in the bank. Not approximately, but accurately, to when I got Labron to check. Check on my cheques.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I have another account, and if I take time to count, it will take no time at all because there’s only one fox in that box. When I need a wank, I go to the spank bank, and I’m not cockblocked by a flock because I just want to rock with one gosling.” He finishes with a smooth little bow.

  The crowd goes insane, lighters still aloft. Fat Frat Boy strides into the cage between Hunter and Rabies.

  “All right, all right already!” he calls. “I think the winner here is obvious.”

  Thick silence descends. I’d say that you could hear a pin drop, but we all know that it makes no fucking sense.

  Then Fat Frat Boy yanks Hunter’s muscled arm into the air, and Labron and I jump from our barstools to cheer and whoop with the audience. I want to throw myself around while shouting, I’m Gosling! It’s meeeee! but I’m too afraid of falling out of my top.

  Back in the limo, Labron and I await Hunter, bopping around to a Beyonce CD to while away the minutes.

  “What’s he doing in there?” I complain, playing with Goodreads on the tablet.

  “Collecting his winnings, chatting to fans. Brushing off whores. That kind of thing.”

  “Oh. Right.” I concentrate on deleting posts on the Allegiant Support Group forums. I don’t know why I’m doing this, killing off these major threads that people have spent so long following; maybe it’s just because I can. “He’s going to shower, right?” I love a sweaty, blood-stained guy as much as the next randy virgin, but Hunter was still splattered with bits of weasel.

  Funny how continuity only seems to apply to the really gross things. Huh.

  Five minutes later, Hunter yanks open the limo door and slides in next to me. He’s still shirtless, still shimmering with sweat, and a purple bruise blossoms along his collarbone which somewhat detracts from the shredded entrails in his hair.

  “You’re here.” He smiles as if he’s surprised that I’m still here. “Did you enjoy the fight?”

  “It was terrifying,” I blurt out. And then I recoil, afraid that he will dislike my honesty. What good ever came from being honest? “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine.” He glances down at the massive bruise that covers his left pec and shoulder. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Labron revs up the engine and we pull out on the road.

  “So,” says Hunter, leaning close to whisper in my ear. “Fighting always makes me ravenous. You hungry, gosling?”

  “Maybe,” I murmur. Despite my lack of eating issues, I’m kinda peckish.

  “I’m gonna take you somewhere very special,” he goes on. “I wouldn’t take just any girl there, but you…you get me. You understand.”

  Hunter slides the privacy screen back to give Labron directions, and ten minutes later, we’re pulling back out of the McDonald’s drive-thru, our laps full of white paper bags. The back of the limo smells like Playdoh and sugar.

  “Mmm.” Hunter reaches into the bag for his Big Mac. “Normally, I’d take a girl to a fancy restaurant before I bone her. I mean, not that I have to, but it’s nice to show off. I don’t have to do that with you, gosling.”

  I nod through a mouthful of cheeseburger. Between the limo and the cage fight, I feel like Hunter’s really shed his armour and I’m seeing the real him. Looks like it’s time to get my uber-defensive snark on.

  “Are we having a deep moment here?” I joke.

  “A deep McMoment.” He arches one eyebrow. “With fries.”

  I giggle, shoving a load of said fries in my mouth. Hunter takes my greasy fingers and sucks them clean, one by one; oh my goshling. I make a mental note to groom everything that Hunter might ever suck in time for our next date.

  “Mmm.” He chuckles, staring at me, a finger still on his bottom lip. “Salty.”

  A deep flush heats my cheeks. “Oh, Hunter.”

  “Want to hear my plans for the barbecue sauce?”

  I blush even harder. “Are you going to, uh…dip your nuggets in it?”

  “Something like that.”

  Hunter proceeds to dip all twenty of his chicken nuggets into the pot of sauce, licking each one very slowly. I finish my cheese burger and try to wipe the ketchup and mustard off my face in a non-suggestive fashion.

  Suddenly, the limo pulls to a stop. When I peer out of the tinted windows, I see the revolving glass doors of my dorm in the shadowy streetlights. Then I realize that Hunter will leave me shortly and I feel the metaphorical cupboard closing in, its thick wooden doors laughing maniacally.

  “What’s wrong?” Hunter turns my face by stroking my chin.

  I gaze into his Google Chrome green section eyes and try to repress my tears. “Nothing. I’m just being silly.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “So I guess…I guess this is me.” I go to get out of the limo, but he catches my elbow in his gentle but firm grip.

  “Gosling. Wait.”

  So I wait, staring at him. He doesn’t say anything. The only sound is the faint bass line of ‘Single Ladies’ from the front seats, and the flicker of Labron’s finger snaps.

  “Uh…I’m waiting,” I say finally.

  “Oh.” He blinks. “Is that what that was? Right. Bollocks. Er.”

  Could the unbreakable Hunter von Styles actually be nervous?

  Labron pulls the limo door open, and the sounds of the night drift in. Hunter slips out and gestures for me to join him.

  Despite the fact that I’m still in Hunter’s suit jacket, I wince as my bare legs hit the cool air, and I groan as I think of what the light breeze will do to my frizz. Damn my hair. We stand outside the steps, still staring at each other in a big sweaty bubble of awkward.

  “Can I get you anything?” asks Labron, still holding the door. “Maybe—”

  “Stop. Hunter time.” He puts up a hand.

  Labron whistles and rolls his eyes. I sneak a smile at him.

  “Cammie. Gosling.” Hunter steps forward and takes both of my hands. “I’m going to walk you to your room.”

  “O-okay,” I stutter.

  “Labron?”

  Labron gives Hunter a thin smile. “Yeah?”

  “Take the limo home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Exactly how long does he think it takes to walk
to my room?

  As we stride down the corridor, hand in hand, I feel the eyes of our fellow co-eds. A couple people even peek out of the common room. I can almost read their thoughts:

  How did a girl like her pull a guy like him?

  He’ll dump her in the morning—he always does, doesn’t he?

  Why is he covered in weasel entrails?

  We take the stairs up to my floor, and stop outside my door—the one with the grumpy kitten poster. It’s moments like this when I wish I’d chosen something a little more hip and tasteful like an Occupy Pi Pi Pi banner, or a One Direction meme.

  So I guess it’s time for that moment I’ve fantasized about since I was a little girl, playing with Barbies and doing weddings and all that shiz. It’s Prince Charming going in for the kill. I mean, er, kiss. I lean back against the door, still holding Hunter’s hands and pretending that the sexual tension isn’t about to ramp up to a twelve on the Richter scale.

  Hunter dips his head to press his warm lips to my neck. I sigh outwardly, very outwardly, as he trails his tongue along the thin tendons at my throat. Jeez, I thought I’d at least get a little peck on the cheek before we moved on to the really naughty stuff.

  “Gosling,” he breathes. “Take me inside.”

  “I, uh. Um.” I glance at his crotch, which is tented like Glastonbury.

  “Inside your room.” He chuckles. “You dumb bitch.”

  I whimper. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

  My inner monologue goes into overdrive as I lead Hunter into my dorm room and close the door firmly behind us. So this is it. We’re alone, just the two of us. Nothing to stop us doing whatever we want because like I helpfully pointed out on page one, my parents are conveniently absent. For a moment, I consider asking Hunter to join me in a celebratory selfie, but it feels premature. Maybe I’ll wait until after we’ve made the beast with two backs and then I’ll hashtag it with something clever like #babygottwobacks.

  Hunter sits on my bed and pats his lap. “Come hither, gosling.”

  Slowly, I do as he asks, thinking about how much I melt when he talks like Mr Darcy. When I’m sitting firmly on his lap—and the large chorizo running down his left pant leg—I give another big outward sigh.