Tousle Me (3 page)

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.

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.

“I can’t believe I’m helping you do this,” Enid mutters as she lays the box on my bed and tears it open. Then she puts on a high, mocking voice. “Oh Hunter, you’re so tousled and handsome and rich. Make love to me emotionally with all your first world problems, right now!”

I peer over her shoulder at the contents of a box: sheer lingerie in the finest lace, a strapless scarlet dress that will barely cover my ass, and stripper heels that Courtney Stodden would baulk at.

Enid’s nose wrinkles. “He’s going to dress you up like a baby prostitute.”

“I know,” I murmur. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re going to need make-up help.”

“But he says I can’t keep him waiting,” I protest.

“Don’t worry. I know a few tricks.”

“Yeah, so half of Pi Pi Pi tells me,” I snort.

She puts her hands on her hips. “Are you slut-shaming me, Cammie Hicks?”

“Uh...possibly.”

“When you’re about to go out dressed like a downmarket hooker?”

“Seems so, yeah.”

She smiles fondly and ruffles my hair. “Aww, you!”

Two minutes later, I emerge from my dorm room in a cloud of hairspray and perfume. The dress does cover my ass, but only just; Enid has teased my hair to perfection, and I’m even doing a decent job of walking in my heels. The clothes lend me an air of confidence, and I feel sexy and powerful. Maybe tonight, I’ll forget about cupboards and darkness and humiliation, and about how people with really small forearms make me panic.

“Going somewhere?” says a rugged but delicious voice.

I turn to see Anonymous, the tall, dark and fucksome guy who lives next to me. Secretively. His bangs are so emo, I can barely see his face (though it’s definitely hot). He keeps raking his fingers through them.

“I’m…going out,” I manage.

“You going to be okay?” he broods.

“Of course.”

“Take this.” He pulls a business card out of his pocket and tucks it into my palm. “Call me whenever some dipshit foists himself upon you without prior invitation.”

I stare down at the card;
Captain Purity
, it reads.
The Caped Cuntsaver.

“Right,” I say, trying to smile gratefully. He’s not even wearing a cape. Maybe this is like the cats in my blog’s name. “Uh, thank you?”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he says roughly. And then he disappears back into his secretive and anonymous dorm room with a little ninja kick.

“Woah.” Archer, who’s leaning against the corridor wall with Labron, beams at me proudly. “Aren’t you a picture?”

I blush, swatting his shoulder. “Shh.”

“He’s right though,” says Labron. “If I wasn’t gay, it would be Easter in my pants right now. I’d be like, hot diggety dawg!
He has risen
!”

Enid appears beside me, sighing. “Alpha hero has gay black friend. I assume this makes him seem all open-minded and modern and credible.”

Labron nods sagely. “Pretty much. We have a likable ironic bromance going on, that kind of thing.”

I don’t know what Enid’s whining about—if we put too many minority characters in books, they won’t be minorities anymore. And they have enough to deal with without throwing identity issues into the mix.

Archer moves in and puts a hand on my waist. “Are you going to be okay tonight? You know you don’t have to go if you don’t want to—”

“Actually, she does,” says Labron. “Hunter’ll have my firstborn child if I don’t get her down to that limo.”

Enid frowns. “You have kids?”

“Not yet. But that’s not the point.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s get going.” Ignoring Archer’s concerned frown, I turn to Enid. “Thanks for all your help. You’re a true friend.”

“I know.” She chews her bottom lip. “Unlike some people.”

I throw my arms around her and give her a squeeze, though she doesn’t respond at all. Then I start down the hall with Labron, waving. “Have a good night, guys!”

Archer returns my wave with a limp sweep of his buff arm. “Have a good time, beautiful,” he says softly. Enid just glares at him.

We walk out of the dorm building like we own it. Huh. I wonder if Hunter
does
own it.

Outside, several students have gathered around Hunter’s sleek black limo. I recognize some of the Pi Pi Pi frat boys, as well as another dude in glasses from my lectures. I give them a little wave, and they return it with wolf whistles.

“Hey there, hot stuff.” One frat boy smirks. “Going anyw—what the fuck?!”

Hunter—who has appeared from nowhere—drives a huge fist into the frat boy’s mouth.
Crac
k! goes his jaw.
Smack!
goes Hunter’s other fist, right into the guy’s collar bone.
Pop!
goes the weasel. Before now, I hadn’t noticed the pet weasel in glasses guy’s manbag, but they sure do make a mess when they randomly explode.

“Hunter!” I squeal, my hands flying to my face. “What are you doing?”

He snaps up and dusts a slither of weasel entrail off his shoulder. “He was looking at you!” Then he strides toward me, peeling off his suit jacket as he leaves the frat boys in a moaning heap. “You can’t go out dressed like that, gosling. You look positively obscene.”

“But…but you dressed me like this,” I point out. “You even picked out my panties.”

He wraps the jacket around my shoulders hurriedly, his bottom lip trembling just a little. “God damn my unpredictably violent and possessive tendencies.” His voice cracks. “Damn them to hell.”

I glance back at the frat boy, who whimpers as he clasps his jaw. “Poor guy. You obliterated him.” Although...it does make me feel special, so I guess it’s worth it. No pain, no gain.

“Labron!” Hunter clicks his fingers. “Clean up the mess.”

Labron fiddles around in his pocket and retrieves a wad of papers. “Bath and Bodyworks gift certificates?”

“I hit him rather hard.” Hunter flexes his thick, nubile fingers. Oh my. “Best throw in some other stuff. I dunno. Random piece of taxidermy from Ebay?”