Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  Hunter stares in disgust. “You’re going to let him brandish you like something he picked up in a fucking Viking village raid?”

  I blink. “You’re overthinking this.”

  “Oh really? Go home with him then, gosling. Go riding on his motorbike, your hair flying gayly in the wind. Just you remember.” He licks his lips slowly. “He may pillage…but I besmirch.”

  * * *

  I wait in the corridor while Archer goes to grab the motorcycle helmets. As the crowd leaks out of the front entrance, I spot Enid being carried down the hall by three male members of the UCLAP catwalk posing team.

  “Enid!” I shout. “Don’t you dare!”

  She bursts into giggles as they approach in a cloud of Burberry for Men. “But look at them, Cammie. They’re like David Gandy and Friends.”

  “That’s not the point.” Or maybe it is. She’s right. These guys have abs you could cut glass on and cheekbones you could cut it on some more. “Three…how does that even work?”

  Enid grabs a bit of my hair as she passes, and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a little game I like to call cock Tetris.”

  “You’re sick. And drunk. Did you guys know she was sick?”

  “They’re catwalk posers,” she scoffs. “You think they’re put off by a girl who barfs? They’ll be joining in with me in the morning. I’ve been waiting all semester to hook these guys, Goddammit.”

  “Somebody shut her up,” mutters Gandy #1, glowering like some kind of chiselled bewitched snowman.

  “I know a few ways you can shut me up,” Enid slurs, “if y’know what ahm sayin…” The guys drop her a little and she slumps over Gandy #2’s shoulder.

  “This is not happening.” I spot Archer making his way past the pot plants. “Archie! Quick!”

  “What’s wrong?” He glances at the posers. “Enid? You need your bed, babe.”

  “She needs Captain Purity, but we both know he only saves the innocent ones,” I mutter.

  “I need Archie,” she croons. “Archer, rescue me with your big helmet! Or one of…your big…helmets.”

  I stare at the motorcycle helmets slung over his arms. “That could be messy.”

  He rolls his eyes. “If I’d have known, I’d have brought my lance.”

  “I’ll take the helmets,” I say. “You take Enid before she’s carried off to the Haus of Gaga, or whatever.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “No!” Enid shrieks as Archer deposits the helmets into my arms, and yanks her off Gandy #2’s shoulder. “No fair, you meanie poop!”

  “Argue,” Archer says to Gandy #2, “and I will rip off each bit of your designer stubble until all it’s designing is my ass.”

  The Gandy frowns. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

  “It doesn’t need to. It just sounds cool. Have you learned nothing from Will.i.Am?”

  “Mostly?” Gandy #3 strokes his strong jaw. “You can go hard or go home.”

  “Well Enid’s going home,” Archer spits, throwing her over his shoulder while she squirms and squeals. “Guess you’ll just have to be hard on your own.”

  The Gandys exchange thoughtful expressions.

  “Doesn’t sound so bad?” says one.

  The others nod. “I’m down with that.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief as they walk away. A few beats later, they freeze by the ornate mirror.

  “Vogue!” one of them shouts. Then they all strike a pose.

  I join in. Sue me.

  “Cam-Cam?”

  I’m still posing, my jazz hands frozen in a poignant expression of surprise. “Yeah?”

  “I’m gonna lock Enid in my bedroom while I take you home. Hopefully, when I get back, she’ll be sober enough to keep her panties on.”

  “Meet you out by the parking lot?”

  He nods. “See you in five.”

  “Not faaaaaair!” Enid cries as Archer carries her back down the hall. “If you get to bob for turduckens, I get to be a turfucken! I don’t tolerate sexism in the twerkplace, Archer. You hear me? Archer!”

  Ten minutes later, Archer and I blaze through the crisp night air on his motorcycle. I have my arms and legs wrapped around him, and a shuddering hot monster of a bike at my gusset—sure hope I’m still a virgin.

  ‘Run to You’ by Bryan Adams is playing through the motorbike speakers, but it’s kinda hard to hear it over the engine. Plus Bryan Adams sounds a lot like an engine. Archer wears his old leather jacket, the one he’s had since junior high, and the musky smell is comforting. It’s been a hard night, and comfort is exactly what I need.

  As if seeing Hunter wasn’t bad enough, then there was the stress of the bob-off. It could have gone all kinds of wrong. While the wind whips through my hair, I squeeze Archer tightly between my thighs and think about how Hunter said he wanted me back. Or at least, that he wanted my trust. I think about the curse Labron mentioned; how Hunter has to earn the love of a pure young rose. Is that me? Is trust love? How do you tell the difference between the two? And what does the fox say?

  I also think about poor Labron in the slammer. Sure, it’s a crime to drunk drive. But if Hunter can get away with murder, Labron should be forgiven his DUI.

  On the way back to my dorm, we pull into the gas station so Archer can fill up. It’s late now—like past eleven—and the forecourt is deserted. The only light is by the hole in the wall where the cashier huddles behind a barred screen.

  “This place gives me the willies,” I mutter. “It’s like a ghost town.”

  Archer pats me on the helmet. “I won’t be long, okay? Just stay with the bike.”

  Archer shoves the nozzle into the bike’s gaping hole and lets the gas glug in noisily. For some reason, this reminds me of Enid. God, she’s a train wreck at the moment. Anyone would think she’d had a bad time lately, or something—maybe if she stopped being such a whore, she’d stop being punished for it.

  Archer plods off to the cashier’s window.

  I mean, look at me. All I did was get close to sex and I lost Hunter. Now I’m far away from it, he’s coming back again! I hope. I think. Please let him be good at jousting. All he needs is a decent montage and he’ll be champion material—that’s how it works in the movies.

  Bryan Adams is audible now, and I ease off my helmet so I can further enjoy his gravelly tones.

  “Oi. Treacle,” says another gravelly voice.

  I turn slowly. “Uh…Bryan Adams?”

  “Do I look like fucking Bryan Adams?” A tall, stocky figure in a cap and hoodie is pointing a gun right at me. He has a blight of acne and his sneakers look about ten years old.

  Holy Haus of Gandys.

  “Give me your purse,” he demands. “And you cell.”

  My mouth falls open. My tongue lolls around a little, flapping against my chin.

  “I said, give me your—”

  “Cam-Cam?” Archer hurries over, his face wrought with worry. “What’s going on?”

  Hoodie guy waves his gun in the air. “Wallets, dude. Capische?”

  “We’re being held up,” I croak, my voice wavering.

  Archer gulps. “I noticed.”

  “Wh—what do we do?”

  “You do what I fucking tell you!” Hoodie snaps, stepping closer. The muzzle of his gun flashes in the street light.

  “Do what he says,” Archer mutters, groping around for his wallet.

  “I…okay.” I yank the purse from my bag and pass it to Hoodie guy, my hands shaking.

  “And the cell,” he hisses.

  Wordlessly, I comply. Archer hands his wallet over.

  “Really should have brought my lance,” he mutters.

  I squeeze my eyes shut; death feels so close that I can taste it. Death tastes bad. Think of puppies and rainbows, Cammie. Think of cupcakes and cheap books and all-afternoon masty sessions.

  “Now give her a kiss,” Hoodie guy orders, still brandishing his gun.

  I blink furiously. “I’m sorry—what
?”

  “Are you deaf? I said give her a kiss.” He shoves the gun into Archer’s shoulder. “Now.”

  Archer glances left and right, his eyes dubious. Then something alights in them, something warm and surprised and hungry. Like a dog’s face when it farts in your lap and is very, very proud of itself. He puts a hand up to my face, stroking away fuzzy tendrils of helmet hair. The stereo has fortuitously switched to ‘Everything I Do, I Do It for You,’ another of Bryan’s intense power ballad hits.

  “Archer,” I say quietly. “This is lunacy.”

  “But I hate these blurred lines.” He runs a hand through his messy black hair. “I know you wa—”

  “Jeez,” Hoodie guy bleats. “Come on. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in eight fucking hours, for crying out loud.”

  “Oh? Hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Sore throat.” He adjusts his collar. “Thanks for asking. Now kiss this pansy before I blow both of your brains out.”

  “Is he for real?”

  Hoodie guy rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. “There won’t be another plot point that forces you together. Take the fucking opportunity. Do not mess with me, bitches—my last name is Machina.”

  I turn back to Archer and put my hands tentatively on his shoulders. “I guess you can’t argue with a gun,” I manage.

  “Cam-Cam,” he says softly. “Let me save your life.”

  And then he kisses me. His mouth is hot compared to the cool night air, and wet compared to my noticeably dry panties. I wait for all the feels to start but they’re on vacation. I even wait for my butthole to thump or a weasel to pop, but alas, nothing.

  Archer draws away, a soft smile playing on his lips. He appears to have forgotten about, you know, THE GUY WITH A FREAKING GUN.

  “Nice work,” says Hoodie Machina. “I dug that. Maybe get her a proper helmet if you like her that much, dude, huh?”

  I stare down at the motorcycle helmets, perched on the asphalt. “Um…what?”

  “They’re like something from a museum,” Hoodie says, incredulous.

  “Archer!” I screech. “Are these your armour jousting helmets?”

  I’ve never seen him look so sheepish. “Maybe.”

  “You told me they were for motorcycles! You said they were health and safety approved!”

  He knots his fingers together, chewing his bottom lip. “I thought they looked really cool.”

  “We’ve been riding around looking like a pair of complete dipshits!”

  “Well.” Hoodie smirks. “On that note…glad to have helped you out there. Have a nice life.” Then he hurries off into the fog, a notorious highwayman with his sack stuffed with booty.

  There isn’t actually any fog but hey, really adds to the atmosphere of the scene, right?

  “That’s never happened to me before,” I blurt, my heart thumping with lingering panic.

  “Me either.” Archer touches a fingertip to his mouth. “I mean…wow.”

  “I meant the stick-up.”

  “Oh.” His face falls. “Right.”

  I step away from him, fumbling around in the floodlights for my armour helmet.

  “So you want the good news or the bad news?” Archer says, his voice flat.

  “Why do I get the feeling that there isn’t any good news?”

  “The bad news is that my bike keys were in my wallet.” He folds his arms and exhales heavily. “The good news is that I still have my cell, since he wasn’t so bothered about it, weirdly.”

  “Weirdly.” Yeah, a lot of things happen in this book weirdly. Or for no God damn reason. Or just for funsies, or whatever. Has anyone else noticed this? “I need to get back to let Sparkles out. Can we call a cab?”

  “Well sure we can. We can also pay him in magic buttons.”

  “No need to be harsh.”

  “Seriously.” He fiddles around in his pocket and pulls out a handful of glittery sequin things. “Magic buttons. I always carry them for emergencies.”

  I’m trying very hard not to sneer. “You want me to believe that they’re actually magic…?”

  “Nah. It’s a re-enactment thing. But hey, if we find a cab driver who’s into that whole scene…we’re in luck, yeah?” He looks so pleased with himself in this adorable kind of way, his black hair slightly messy and the apples of his cheeks flushed. How can such idiocy come from such a pretty face?

  I sigh. “Hand me your cell. I’ll call the cab company and ask if they have any medieval re-enactors on shift.”

  Suddenly, there’s a loud crashing sound over by the cash window, and a heap of black careens into the dumpster.

  “Jeez,” Archer hisses. “Stay back—I’ll check it out.”

  “No need,” says a deep and emo voice as a figure emerges from the dumpster. Captain Purity pulls a string of old lettuce off his shoulder and tosses it gracefully to the floor. “Need a ride?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Captain Purity!” I race over to him, dropping my helmet with a jarring clang. It rolls off somewhere behind me and Archer lurches to catch it. “How did you find us?”

  He puffs up his chest in the black onesie, his cape billowing behind him in the soft night breeze. My imaginary fog only adds to his air of mystery. “I followed the sweet scent of untouched bajingo.” He glances at Archer over my shoulder. “And the stench of desperation.”

  “Can you really fly us back to the dorm?”

  “Fly?” He looks at me as if I just suggested a threesome. “I fell off the roof. My car’s out back though, if that’s what you mean.”

  “A car will do nicely.” I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Archer hurries up, clutching the helmets. “Is this dude actually giving us a ride?”

  The Captain nods. “To the Chastemobile!”

  I guess if a car that attracts girls is a pimped up sports model with an engine that sounds like Lenny Kravitz, the Chastemobile lives up to its name: a trashy old station wagon with an eight-track deck, and duct tape holding the wing mirrors in place. Dude sure isn’t getting any pussy in that.

  “Nobody sees me coming in this,” Captain Purity explains sagely.

  Even Archer sniggers at that one.

  When we get back to the dorm, the Captain follows us down to my room. I suspect this is because he lives next door, but still—feels a little stalky.

  He pauses by the doors, pointing at Archer. “No funny business, you hear?”

  Archer frowns. “Whuh?”

  “He means toward me,” I say. “He’s saying you’re not allowed to threaten my purity and stuff.”

  Archer shrugs and gives a weak little smile. “Oh. No danger of that.” His fist falls limply into his palm. “Apparently.”

  Then the Captain disappears into his room, and it’s just the two of us. It’s time to talk about what just happened. Or not. Eugh. I fall back against the door in hope it will conveniently fall open, swallow me, and instantly swing back to lock again. I could use a comedy McMoment right about now.

  “So.” Archer presses his lips together.

  “Thanks for getting me back home,” I say softly. “And for, you know, things.”

  He gives a little nod. “It’s a pleasure, fair maiden.”

  I lower my eyes, trying to hide my blush. “Will you get home okay without your bike?” I’d offer for him to crash with me, but it would be plain awkward after The Kiss That Sucked—plus Sparkles takes up most of the bed anyway.

  “I’m gonna chance it with my magic buttons. Besides, I need to take care of Enid.”

  I manage a half-smile. “I think she’d like that.”

  “I—I could try,” he blurts out suddenly, “to be good enough for you. I could try, Cam-Cam.”

  Ah, superpoop. We are not having this conversation. Except we are. “Oh God. It’s not like that. I just…I guess I like a guy a little more rough around the edges, is all.”

  “But I joust! You should see me beast those mofos,�
� he protests.

  “I mean like, emotionally. Some damage. Maybe if you developed a drug problem I could help you with, or someone you loved died in a horrible accident…”

  He goes quiet for a second, as if he’s considering these options. “I don’t know how to be that guy.”

  I beam at him. “Precisely.”

  “So I guess it’s good night, then?”

  “Yeah.” I fumble about for the door handle and press down. It squeaks loudly in a pleasing announcement of a hint. “Good night.”

  “Night.” He bows his head, shoves his fists into his pocket, and begins to walk down the hall.

  “And Archie?”

  He spins on his heel. “Yeah?”

  “You’re one of my best friends. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” His voice cracks, and his bottom lip trembles. “Turns out beta isn’t always better, huh?”

  * * *

  “Woah there, Sparkles! Good boy!”

  My pet unicorn comes galloping back into my dorm room, several delicious baked goods speared on his horn. Since my wallet got stolen, I have no cash until my new bank card arrives. That means sending Sparkles to loot booty with his handy facial lance.

  “Lemme see…” I pat his tinsel mane as he knees next to me, slowly removing the goodies. “A croissant…baloney on rye…Twinkies…ooh, nice work.”

  “Neeeigh,” he says smugly.

  “You’re a handy guy to have around.”

  “Neeeeigh.”

  “Hey, douchebags,” Enid trills as she sails into the room, a bottle of liquor under her arm. “Ready for X Factor night?”

  “Am I ever.” I hold up the Twinkies. “I’ve got snacks.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You got von Fancypants here to raid the cafeteria again?”

  “Yup.”

  “I guess no other campus can claim to have a vigilante unicorn.” She snorts. “Anyway—throw me a glass already. I’ve been sober for like, forty-eight hours, and this drastically needs to be rectified.”

  I wince as she sits beside me on the bed. “Archer made you play rehab again?”