Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “He made me eat vegetables.” She feigns terror. “And seeds.”

  “How very dare he?”

  “I know, right?”

  It’s been two days since the turducken bobbing party. I’ve heard nothing from Hunter, besides the fact we’re not Facebook official anymore; I’ve been sure to load up extra-suggestive selfies each day though just to show him what he’s missing (plus my mom always likes those). I know I’m the one who won’t take him back, and so this logic is slightly flawed, but he’s a murderer. I have to be seen to take time to, uh, think about that.

  Also, thanks to Archer, Hunter now has to win me via jousting. I’m a woman of my word. Not that I agreed to this, but the boys agreed to it for me and that’s more or less the same thing.

  “Isn’t Archer coming?” I ask, slightly wary of the answer.

  “You know he isn’t, Cammie.” Enid purses her lips. “I don’t know what went on between you guys, but it’s really bummed him out.”

  “Will you tell him I miss him?”

  “Of course. Though he’s pretty tied up with this tournament next weekend. I’ve never seen him practice so much.” She screws open the liquor and pours a tumbler full of amber liquid. “He’s getting pretty damn aggressive with that lance.”

  “I…can’t possibly think why that would be.”

  “Me either. Dude wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Sparkles lies on the floor in front of us and daintily crosses his hooves. “Neeeeigh.”

  “What’s that, boy? Time to turn on the X Factor and watch Cognac Façade slay the competition on postmodern jazz week? Why, your wish is my command.”

  We settle down to an hour and twenty minutes of quality viewing, Twinkies and booze in hand. I haven’t had a proper drink in a while due to my notoriously poor alcohol tolerance; I’m drunk in the space of two ad breaks. I know this not because the room is spinning (that comes later), but because we’ve spent the past minute discussing which parts of Simon Cowell we’d like to lick.

  “His sternum,” Enid declares, throwing her hand out. “There’s something very masterful about a strong sternum.”

  “I’d lick his meatus.”

  Enid gulps a mouthful of liquor. “His what?”

  “Meatus. I don’t actually know what it is, but Hunter said it once and I thought it was funny.”

  “Let’s ask Siri.” She digs out her cell. “Hey Siri. What’s a meatus?”

  “Here’s what I found,” says Siri’s robotic voice.

  “It’s a Wiki link,” Enid declares. “Wheatus…pop rock band of the early nine—Jeez, Siri! Meatus!”

  “Here’s what I found.”

  “Meatus…natural body opening…urinary meatus…situated on the glans of the peni…ew.”

  “Maybe not Simon Cowell,” I decide. “Or definitely not his meatus. Maybe the bass guy from Cognac Façade instead.”

  The band’s montage just started on the TV. They’re all talking about how the prize is so close, they’re in it to win it, they’d be devastated to go home—all lines that sound suspiciously like they were scripted by JimBob Obvious. Still, they deliver it with their usual touching emotion and perfect tone. Ahhh.

  “He’s hot.” Enid tears open a Twinkie.

  “Neeeeigh.” Sparkles tosses his mane in agreement.

  “Sparkles says he’d do him. But not before Min Ho.”

  “Wise words.”

  “Bass guy’s voice is so low, it would totally melt my panties. Which would be interesting when he actually came to screw me,” I muse. “He’d have to peel bits of disintegrated nylon off my crotch.”

  “Like a second hymen.” Enid sniggers, half-choking on her Twinkie.

  “Some guys would be into that.” I give her a teasing nudge. “Captain Purity would approve of additional hymens.”

  “Yeah. My vag would not.” She shudders.

  We fall silent to watch Cognac Façade’s postmodern jazz take on Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s a heartfelt rendition, and with only twelve extra dancers, a really stripped down performance compared to their usual efforts. I particularly like the way they get the lead singer to do the I’m just a poor boy bits because his backstory is utterly tragic, and it’s so fitting—his mum is on crack and they live in half a trailer (his dad took the other half in the divorce). I always think it’s very fortunate when you find yourself on hard times but have a pitch-perfect singing voice to exploit.

  “Neeeigh,”says Sparkles as the performance comes to an end, they dim the studio lights, and the judges give a standing ovation. There’s a single tear sliding down his muzzle.

  “I know what you mean.” I sniff. “God, watching that kind of thing really makes me wonder what the hell I’m going to do with my life,” I whisper.

  Enid finishes her liquor. “You don’t have any idea?”

  “Of course not. Why do you think I came to college?”

  She clutches her belly and chortles.

  “I always figured I’d, you know, meet a guy. Like Hunter. But now it’s all gone to shit and I’m lost. Lost, I tell you.” I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them.

  “Plenty more fish in the sea.” She pats my hair gently.

  “I fucking hate that phrase, Enid.”

  “Plenty more cocks on the block.”

  “I guess that’s marginally better.”

  But none of the cocks are like Hunter’s. Hunter’s cock is a block, and a half.

  I miss being the fox in his box.

  * * *

  The sound of my cell ringing wakes me at ridonkulous o’clock. Why does this keep happening to me? I remember the good old days before I signed up to be in this dumb book—I got plenty of that thing called “sleep.”

  “Y’ellow?” I say sleepily.

  “Gosling?” Hunter rasps.

  Oh my God. “Oh my God.”

  “Gosling? Are you all right?” he says in his terribly British fashion.

  “I…I think.”

  “You’re thinking?” His tone cracks. “Bloody hell. You’re not right at all.”

  “Hunter, it’s like three in the morning. Why are you calling?”

  “No reason.”

  “Really.”

  “Uhuh.” His breath clouds the receiver with static. “Just, you know, wanted to know how you are.”

  “Asleep, mostly,” I grumble. “How’s your jousting coming along?”

  “Oh, uh…great. Spiffy. I’m a total boss.”

  I pull myself up against the pillows. White sheets are always a headfuck in the dark. “Sure? Because you do have those, um, horse issues.”

  “Gosling.” He clears his throat. “I do not have horse issues.”

  “Then I guess we’ll see each other at the tournament next weekend.”

  “I’m looking forward to winning your trust. Literally.”

  “I’m looking forward to it too,” I murmur, suddenly twirling a strand of hair around my finger.

  “I’ll leave you to sleep now.”

  “No, Hunter—”

  Dial tone. The bastard hung up.

  * * *

  I’ve neglected my book blog of late due to being obsessed with Hunter. I’ve also been neglecting my business inbox for Goodreads. Turns out the “C” in “CEO” stands for “crap” in my case. Oops.

  The campus library has the fastest WiFi, so I’ve decamped to a quiet corner for the afternoon to catch up on my reviews, admin, and procrastinate on fuglycovers.com. It’s an awesome building and all the levels are edged with wide windows to let in natural light. As a lover of books, the library is like my mecca (or at least I think it is. I have no idea what mecca actually is—it would be racist to ask a Jew—and I can’t ask Siri in case she’s also a Jew. Apple should totally make her ethnic background more clear to avoid this kind of awkwardness).

  I upload my review for Avoiding Denial and spend a little while browsing for appropriate GIFs. After a few minutes, I settle on some classic grumpy cats, and then some dude from a sitcom
dancing like someone put a firework up his ass. You know, I’ve really missed my me time on the Internet. Now all I need is to waste half an afternoon talking shit on Twitter, and everything will be back to normal! Pre-Hunter!

  Pre-Hunter. God, I’d put all my memories in a cupboard if I could actually stand the cupboard, metaphorical or otherwise. I’d feed them all to raptors if I could stand the dinosaurs without screaming like a pussy. And if raptors were still alive, obviously. They’re not. Huh. LIFE IS JUST FULL OF DISAPPOINTMENTS.

  “Ginger?”

  I snap up from my laptop to find Labron peering from behind a book case. “Dude! You’re free!”

  “Well yeah.” He pulls out a seat at the desk. “Of course I’m free.”

  I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “I heard you were put in the slammer.”

  “For about twelve hours.” He adjusts his skinny tie. “Hunter got me out as soon as he could. I have to go back to court, but I’m trying not to think about being somebody’s bitch in prison.” He sighs. “Wouldn’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “Dang,” I say, with conviction.

  “True dat. Anyway. I need your help.”

  I press publish

  on my review, and close the laptop. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s Hunter. You know how he is with horses.”

  “He says he doesn’t have horse issues.”

  “Hot diggety dawg. Dude’s lying through his teeth. He can’t stand them—not after that thing with his mom.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “So you want my help with…?”

  “I need you to go to him. Hand him the trust he needs, Ginger. It will give him the confidence to compete.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I mumble. “I mean, Hunter’s a murde—”

  “Hush yo’ mouth!” he hisses, panicked. “Anybody could hear.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look. I’m not going to push you, but you know what you have to do.” He makes to get up.

  I bite my knuckles. Mmm…Twinkies. “Labron?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’s he holding up? Just in general.” I pray that no more innocent HobNobs have been slayed. And I sure hope Ryan Gosling is okay.

  “He’s a wreck without you.” He tuts quietly. “But then you know that.”

  “He has to be. It somehow excuses him otherwise being a jackass.”

  Labron’s left eyebrow lifts quizzically. “Yeah, I noticed that. It’s weird.”

  “Welcome to my world, homie.” I give an exhausted sigh. “Welcome to my world.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Enid is making me exercise.

  Fucking bitch.

  “I don’t know if you realize this,” I heave as I pound the treadmill, “but as a romance heroine, I am naturally slim. I do nothing to get this body. NOTHING.”

  “Well I’m not. I work my ass off.” She glances at her behind from the next treadmill. “Literally, I hope. Besides—exercise is good for you. Gives you endorphins.”

  “I don’t know what those are. I don’t want to know.”

  “Aww. Poor Cammie, finding out how fit she absolutely isn’t,” Enid croons. She adjusts her pink sweatband. “Come on, you can do a few more laps.”

  Laps? What am I lapping on a frickin’ treadmill? Back when we started college last semester, I swore to myself that I would never visit the campus gym. This is because billionaires do not visit public gyms; they have their own private ones so they don’t have to sit on bike seats covered in second hand butt sweat. And if there’s no chance of falling into a hot billionaire, what’s the point of going anywhere, really?

  Granted, bad boys do go to gyms. And if I have to settle for less than a billionaire, he’d better be screwed in the head. Nobody really appreciates how hard it is to find a combination of rich and emotionally damaged; sure, they’re ten for a dime in books, but in the real world, guys who make lots of money are usually just workaholic bores. And bad boys can err on the “crap teeth, smells like fried chicken,” side of the tracks.

  More and more, I come to see how Hunter is perfect for me…even though he’s a murderer. Hell, it actually kind of adds to the appeal. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I need therapy. But therapy’s fashionable, as is dating someone morally questionable. These things make it all okay.

  “Woo.” Enid presses the cool down button on the treadmill and clasps the hand rails as she slows down. Sweat drips from her temples and turns her blond hair damp. “Now that’s what I call a session.”

  “Why do people put themselves through this? Why?” I demand. I think my ankles are about to run away from my body in protest.

  “Because most people can’t live on cupcakes and still be a size six.”

  “I don’t live on cupcakes,” I mutter. “You forget all the tacos. And enchiladas.”

  “Oh yeah. Silly me.”

  “Speaking of Mexican food—is Archer coming over tonight?” I’ve been missing him like crazy, and we’re meant to have dinner at Gabriel’s Wrapture before going back to mine for the X Factor results.

  She eyeballs me, her big blues suspicious. “No. He’s being all evasive. What did you do, Cammie?”

  I’m still heaving with forceful, unfit breaths. “I…uh…may have kissed him.”

  Enid leaps off her own treadmill, hurrying round to get close to me. She grasps my handlebar. “I’m sorry—what?”

  “And then turned him down.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Eniiiiiiiid!” She’s leaning on the freaking speed button! “I—stoppit!” I think my thighs are about to disintegrate.

  “You kissed Archer? Why would you do that? Why?”

  “Eniiiiiiiiiiid!” I’m sliding to the end of the treadmill. It’s like being on a bucking bronco and I’m about to be thrown off. “The speeeeeeeeeeed butt—”

  “Cammie, I can’t believe you!”

  “I—didn’t—know—he—felt—like—waaaaah!” One minute I’m desperately clinging to the handles, and the next, I’m landing painfully on my ass. “Jeez!”

  She crouches beside me, offering a hand. “You never noticed that Archer has the mutha of all crushes on you? Really?”

  “Why would I?” I grumble. “I’m oblivious the vast majority of the time.”

  “True.” She sighs, dusting my ass off with quick sluices of her hand. “But I hope you realize how completely torn up he’ll be if he doesn’t win this joust.”

  I double over. My abs are screaming. “Can you at least, like…ask him to come later for the results show?”

  “You know how he feels about Sparkles.”

  “Do I?”

  “In his words—” Enid deepens her voice, layering it with spite. “Why’s he bought her a unicorn? It’s just a horse, but the dickhead version.”

  “Oh.” I never realized Archer felt so strongly, and now I feel awful. Not just because the run nearly killed me or because I think my ass is broken. “He’s wrong, though. Sparkles is more than just hor…” OH MY GOD.

  “Hmm?”

  “Okay. I have to go.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Enid grabs her water bottle and points it at me accusingly. “We still have the cross trainers and the free weights.”

  “You don’t understand,” I pant. “I’ve had an epiphany.”

  She thinks for a second and then scowls. “This is my not caring face.”

  “Looks a lot like your normal face.”

  “Ha fucking ha.”

  I grab my towel and bottle. “I’ll call you later, ‘kay?”

  “No, not okay! We’re having a masochistic workout morning. Cammie!”

  “We’ll do it another time.” I pat her sweaty shoulder, and scrape my own wet hair from my face. “Plenty more endolphins in the sea.”

  “Oh yes. Hilarious. You think that’s going to be your last line in this scene, huh?” she calls as I walk off. “Well I have news for you—it’s not! I have a whole ball sack of epic last lines up my sleeve and I’m not afr
aid to use them!”

  “You have a ball sack. Up your sleeve.”

  “METAPHORICALLY!”

  “Huh. Okay.” I laugh as I turn the corner to the staircase.

  “Don’t start doing that smug laughing thing. I can hear you, you know!”

  I pause.

  “You keep walking and I’m going to crawl into your bedroom one night and shit on your Kindle!” she shrieks.

  Several gym dudes are watching and listening, their eyes wide and their random sweat patches wider.

  “You would not shit on my Kindle,” I say slowly.

  “I will load up on Indian food and everything!”

  Okay. Enid gets the last line. I’m walking very fast in the other direction before I incite any more faecal/e-reader violence.

  Anyone would think Enid was bummed that Archer kissed me.

  * * *

  I’ve been hammering on the back door of the west wing for nearly ten minutes.

  “Labron!” I yell, my temper rising. “I know you’re in there—the limo’s in the drive!”

  I had to step over the fetid corpse of Perez Hilton just to get this far. Two reporters were picking at it and passing around the mustard. It’s all getting a little Dawn of the Dead up in here. I mean, people have said the recession bites, but…

  The door finally heaves open. “Ginger?” Labron gives a great sigh of relief. “Thank the baby Jesus. Get your ass in here.”

  I throw a smarmy grin to the grumpy reporters as I waltz into the lobby. Ah, hello beautiful staircase. Where have you been all my life? Aside from the west wing of the Pi Pi Pi house. Mmm.

  “Is there a reason why you’re lying on the stairs?”

  I’m draped over the red carpet of the lower stairwell, my legs and arms outstretched. Nom nom nom. When I blink my eyes open, Labron is staring down quizzically.

  “Just need a moment of nirvana,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “Come join me.” I pat the carpet. “I have good news.”

  He purses his lips. “Is your news that you’re taking Hunter back so he doesn’t have to joust?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then screw you. I’m standing.”