“Well thank you. Finally. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
In a jiffy. What does that even mean?
I edge back around the van, conscious of the fighting sounds emanating from the back entrance. There are the telltale thwacks of punching, the odious screeches of manly pain.
“No, McKenzie, no!” Labron squeals. “Not with your freakishly long fingers!”
I wince so hard that I almost poo.
And then I remember that where there is a back entrance…there is also a front.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Skidding around the van on my Uggs, I charge to the front of the warehouse and find the front door to be chained—but conveniently loose. Karate CHOP! And I’m in. Wow. Reading urban fantasy is really paying off.
The warehouse stairwell is grim and damp and reeks of stale cigarettes. I can hear the stakeout music from the next story up though, so I’m not far from her.
“Enid?” I shout up the stairs.
“Cammie!” Her voice cuts through the shadows, a macabre echo of her usual happy tone.
I glance down at the feathers of dust fanned over the hallway, the slithers of garbage arranged in queer bouquets (so back in Dexter territory, oh yeah).
“I’m coming!” I thump up the stairs, groping my way along the slimy walls in the darkness. Yuck. Enid sure better make this worth my while by facilitating some kind of important plot point.
“I’m over here!” she calls.
Enid sags from a rusty chair in a dimly lit corner. Brown water drips from the ceiling, and the stakeout music plays from a nineties-style ghetto blaster propped up on an old crate.
“Thank God I found you.” I drop to my knees behind her chair and begin to pull the knots on her bindings loose. “How long have you been here? You look terrible.”
“An hour and twenty three minutes,” she wails.
“We’ll call the campus counsellor. Get you some therapy. Or gin, we’ll get gin and vodka and KFC and…” I trail off, snivelling. “Anything you want. Oh, Enid. I’m so sorry.”
“T-thank you. Cammie. I—was—so—scared!”
“I know, I know. But it’s okay now.” I pull her off the chair and down into my arms, where I rock her like a baby. “I’ll never let a weird guy who thinks he’s a superhero drag you off to a warehouse post-sex again.”
I don’t say this bit out loud, but we both know Enid’s being punished for no-strings boning. Sex in books is like magic: there are rules and consequences, debts to be paid. The only difference is that the rules don’t apply to dudes; being a manwhore is like being a really powerful wizard. Which sure makes me think about Harry Potter in a different light.
Still, I’d let Hunter Slytherin.
Mmm. Where was I again? Oh yeah. My traumatized and horribly abused friend.
“Come on,” I say to Enid as a particularly foreboding twang emanates from the stereo. “Let’s get you out to the limo.”
We stagger down the stairs together, grasping at the walls with heavy gasps.
“Where’s Captain Purity?” Enid manages. “Is—is he still taken hostage by Thug A and Thug B?”
“When I left to get you, he was pretty much still tied to the chair. Hunter and Labron were kicking ass though.” Though it’s gone awfully quiet on the other side of the warehouse. I sure hope our heroes triumphed because I’ve got no idea how to drive a limo.
Enid sniffs. “I wish Archer was here.”
“What’s he going to do, joust them to death?”
“Well…yeah.”
I roll my eyes. As if jousting is scarier than cage fighting. Maybe a combination would work? Cage jousting. Would stop the horses running away.
Enid stops dead as she steps outside. “Uh, Cammie?”
“Mmm?”
“I think you better see this.”
I follow her out into the salty night air, and come face to face with a wall of faces. Or technically, a bunch of profile sketches taped to the warehouse wall that lead down to the back entrance.
“Captain Purity’s free, I see,” Enid mutters. “Wonder how he wrangled that one, what with all the Creeptonight?”
We walk along the wall, tracing the sketches with our fingers. There’s one of Labron, his face contorted; Hunter, looking peaceful (and sexy); Fat Guy with chocolate around his mouth and his nose and his cheeks; McKenzie Crook guy with his upper lip twisted like a mental patient. Wait—no, that’s just how he looks normally.
“Okay,” says Enid, “these are seriously creepy.”
“How did he even get time to do these?”
“How did I even answer my phone when I was tied up? You’re asking the wrong questions, Cammie.”
“True.” I stop by the back entrance, the door now wide open. “Oh my God.”
All four boys lie on their backs, their arms thrown at awkward angles and their clothes all awry. I rush to Hunter, falling to the mucky floor and shaking him violently.
“Hunter! Baby, speak to me!” Tears burn the edges of my eyes, and drool froths in the corners of my mouth. “You said I wouldn’t lose you again, dammit!”
“Cammie—”
“Not now, Enid! Oh God, he can’t die. I’m still a virgin. Still a virgin!”
“Yeah.” Her eyes dart between the still bodies of Fat Guy and McKenzie. “Wouldn’t broadcast that too loudly if I were you.”
A low groan emanates from Labron, and Enid stalks over to him.
“Did…did anyone save my Dairy Milk?” he slurs.
Enid glances at me, panicked. “Is that like, a gay thing?” she hisses.
I wave a dismissive hand at her—Hunter just coughed!
“Are you okay?” I plead. “Speak to me!”
“Gosling,” he mumbles, clasping his head. “Did you find…whassername?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I insist. “As long as you’re okay, everything is fine.”
“Mmppphhh.”
“You have to hold on,” I whisper. “We’re just starting to know each other. We have so much to look forward to, Hunter, and so little to lose except our dignity and my hymen and millions of precious minutes we could spend being really productive.”
He blinks at me, groans, and rolls to the side a little to reveal that his shirt is torn.
Enid helps Labron to sit up against the warehouse wall. “What happened?” she asks him.
“Captain Purity…too powerful…” He trails off, shrugging helplessly. “I was like, hot diggety dawg. Dude’s a ninja. With major art skillz.”
Enid gives a wistful sigh. “That’s some poignant and layered characterization, right there. I wonder who he really is?”
Hunter moans, rubbing his bruised ribcage. “I want my mummy.”
Labron goes rigid. “Oh no.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, panicked.
“He’s delirious. He only talks about his mom when he’s delirious.”
“Mummy,” Hunter whimpers. “I told you, no play with the horsies!”
I flinch. “Isn’t his mom…dead?”
“Yep.” Labron winces as he crawls over. “And he never talks about her. Like, ever.”
I shrug. “Maybe it would be good for him to talk about her. Work some things out.” So I can heal him. That’s what real women do.
“Ginger, don’t even go there.”
Enid, standing behind him, bites her fist in solidarity.
In a corner, Fat Guy begins to twitch and whine in a high-pitched voice.
“Come on,” says Labron, wobbling to his feet. “Let’s get Hunter to the limo before these dudes come round. I do not want to get chained to that chair.” He shudders.
I want to ask him about McKenzie’s freakishly long fingers but I figure that can wait for an atmospheric camp fire, or Halloween.
“You know,” I say to Enid as Labron drags Hunter out by the ankles, “I’ve had one hell of a night.”
She swipes a tendril of sweaty blond hair behind her ear. “You’re not the only one.”
“That’s quite the existential dilemma,” Enid mutters as we get into the limo.
Labron drapes Hunter over the long back seat, and I climb in beside him, resting his head of shiny hair on my lap.
“Look at him.” I sigh. “Isn’t he perfect?”
Enid glances over reluctantly. “I guess he is quite artfully tousled.”
“A lot of girls would find this a turn off, him being injured. But I love that he’s not afraid to show his vulnerable side. It makes him human,” I say softly, staring at his sculpted eyebrows and strong nose.
“Enid?” Labron calls from the front seat. “You want a lift back to the dorm?”
“Please,” she says. She looks exhausted, what with her stained clothes, messy mop of hair and broken fingernails. In fact she’s only wearing one shoe.
“Hold on, ladies,” he says.
“Labron!” I shout. “You can’t speed with Hunter like this!”
He frowns in the mirror. “I’m not speeding. I’m just about to throw on some therapeutic Boyz II Men.”
“Oh. Then I guess we’ll hold.”
* * *
An hour later, Labron has successfully deposited a still-stone-cold Hunter on to his bed, and I’m taking the time to tuck him in.
“Think he’ll be okay?” Labron asks.
I squint. Maybe I should just give him a brief once-over, make sure he’s not going the same way as Rule the octopus. “He’s got a pulse.” Which, to be fair, is the first thing I look for in a guy.
“You should give him some time to rest up, Ginger,” he says, a concerned look creasing his strong brows. “He’d be mortified to know you’ve seen him like this.”
“But…but doesn’t he need a nurse? Like last time?”
“Nah. I’ve seen him like this after fights before; they’re just flesh wounds. Give him a day’s rest and he’ll be fine.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wrap my arms around myself. It doesn’t feel right to leave Hunter, and I love being in his room—it makes me feel close to him, especially when he’s not conscious. But I should probably get back soon to let Sparkles out to crap in the lobby. “Can I have five minutes, just to say goodbye?”
“Sure thing.” He tugs his tie loose on his way out. “See you by the stairs.”
I sit on the bed for a while and watch Hunter as he sleeps. I think of his dominant, snarky words at the slave auction; his fist fight with Dr Emuson to a sophisticated soundtrack of Chopin; the calm and skilful way he handled Enid’s kidnapping—you know, until his lights were punched out. Because I’m a grammar geek, all that thinking gets me kinda hot. And getting hot means my buns are sticky all over again. It would be wrong, I guess, to touch Hunter while he’s asleep. Watching him like this is perfectly normal and really just demonstrative of our healthy attachment, but actually stroking his meat sack without invitation, while he slumbers peacefully…oh God, I’m so desperate to do it. Would it really be that bad?
But Hunter has resolved to wait for me. Not any guy would do that—he’s special because he’s sensitive (violent and unpredictable possessive tendencies aside). No. I must control myself! I need a distraction, pronto.
That’s when my eyes fall on the forbidden door.
An actual door, that is. I’m not talking about his poop chute, because…ew.
I walk over to the old, ornate door between his wardrobes, check over my shoulder, and then turn the antique brass key with a little creak. In the secret room, more Kanye CDs lie shattered across the faded red carpet, and the floating rose is cast in a slip of moonlight as it hovers beneath its glass case. It’s all kinda spooky until I remember how emo the whole thing is, and I have a little chortle to myself because, aww, Hunter.
Then I can’t resist. The petals look so soft and velvety, and it just seems like the thing to do. Carefully, I lift the glass case and place it on the mahogany table. Then I begin to pluck, giggling to myself in giddy glee.
“He loves me…he loves me not.” I pretend I’m Ariel from The Little Mermaid, pulling her facetious faces. I even do a little shimmy of my mermaid tail (it’s hard to imagine in Uggs and leggings, but still). “He loves me. He loves me…no—”
“Hey Ginger!” Labron shouts from downstairs.
I flick one of the last petals in a hurry, only just remembering to replace the glass. “Coming!”
Eesh, that was close.
Before I leave, I blow sexy, sleepy Hunter a kiss. I sure hope he calls me tomorrow and gives me no choice about going out with him.
Labron’s mouth is set in a thin line as we drive.
“We’re gonna have to be careful with Hunter now,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Now all the stuff about his Mom is being dredged up. If he’s talking about it, he’s thinking about it. And if he’s thinking about it…” He trails off, shuddering.
“Why? Why now?” I ask.
“Don’t you get it, Cammie? It’s because of you.” Labron tuts, changes gears as the traffic lights go on, and sighs. “He’s finally opening up to you and now all his emotional shit is going to come spewing out. Like the Hoover Dam, or an episode of Montel.”
I gulp as nausea grips my elbows. The streetlights pour into the car like custard on a fine English pudding. “Are you saying…I’m bad for him?”
“He sure as hell doesn’t like anything that’s good for him.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper. “Labron, that was a real witty comeback. I have to holla for your juxtaposition of bad and good, so respect. But Hunter and I, we belong together.” I clasp a palm over my heart. Labron yanks his palm away.
“He’s calming down for me,” I insist. “No more one-night stands, no more craziness. Sooner or later, I’ll convince him to stop the cage fights too. But you have to give me a chance.”
“I guess he has been a little more relaxed in the several days he’s been seeing you,” Labron admits. “You know, aside from the incident with the Xanax.”
“Not my fault I didn’t know about your little quarters game,” I grumble.
Labron frowns. “What quarters game?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that me and Hunter are together.” And that Cognac Façade don’t get eliminated this weekend.
As soon as I open my dorm room door, the stench of mouldy octopus hits me. Bleugh. Sparkles hauls himself up to greet me with a horsey smile of relief—and confused black eyes, but that’s normal.
“Heya Fancypants.” I ruffle his mane gently as I give him a big unicorn snuggle. He smells like cupcakes and rainbows and warm, gassy farts. “Been busy with the cakeage?”
“Neeeigh.”
“What’s that? A chocolate buttercream on my bedside table? Oh, you’re so good to me,” I croon, catching sight of the fat cupcake in its silver paper case. “Just lemme take a quick shower, and it’s collapse-amundo time.”
“Neeigh.”
In the bathroom, I switch on the hot water and take a dump so big it actually sits up out of the water. I’m kind of impressed with myself, although maybe it’s a good thing I’m not staying at Hunter’s tonight after all—there are some things a gentleman doesn’t need to know about his lady. Let’s hope this isn’t a dreaded unflushable.
Then I stare into the mirror as the shower heats up, analyzing every inch of my decidedly average and plain face; the big eyes that are just a bit too far apart, the nose that’s kind of cute and buttony and makes me look like a little girl, which can’t
be attractive; the full and pouty mouth which I’m sure makes people think of waterbeds and pus-weeping sores. Of all the girls in all the world, why has Hunter von Styles chosen me?
The shower is hot and frothy, the fruit soap leaving a pleasant tingle on my skin. (Or is this what thrush is? Note to self: Google). I have a lot to wash off today—dust from the warehouse, blood from Hunter’s clothes, a not insubstantial amount of urine. Lil’ bit of unicorn drool. When I step out and into my fluffy bathrobe, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. What a frickin’ day.
Back in the bedroom, Sparkles is watching another K-drama and munching his way through more cake. I decide to save mine for breakfast—I have a class in the morning and should probably think about going, so will need something to eat on the go. Then I yank a comb through my hair (damn my hair), pull on some jammies, and curl up in bed.
“Mind if I switch the lamp out, roomie?” I ask Sparkles with a yawn.
“Neeeigh.”
“Say hi to Min Ho for me,” I mumble.
As I drift off to sleep, I’m vaguely aware of Sparkles trotting over to the aquarium, nudging off the lid, and sticking his muzzle into the tank. He bobs around a bit, water sloshing over the sides and dripping down to the carpet. There are a few wet smacking sounds, like chewing.
“Sparkles?”
“Nmmmppph?” He trots back to give me a dubious stare, his mouth stuffed with tentacles.
“Nuthin’.”
“Neeigh.”
My pet unicorn is eating my pet dead octopus.
My life is so cray.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Archer, Enid and I always meet for lunch after Ethics of Beatboxing class. It’s our little tradition, harking back to the high school days when we always sat together for lunch at the cafeteria. Our schedules are all over the place now—Archer with his frat stuff and re-enactment, me with Hunter and my blog, Enid boning her way around the campus—and there’s no way we’d manage to catch up every day, so traditions like this are extra special.
When I reach the table in the food hall, Enid and Archer are already deep in conversation. Archer has his bow slung over his back—something he’d stopped recently because the catwalk posing team were calling him Merida. I guess, for some reason, he feels the need to look more threatening.
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