Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  I roll my eyes. Then I roll them back in the other direction while he just stares at me with this weird look on his face. “Labron. I am not going to mess up the main conflict—that would just be inconsiderate. But what I am going to do is save the day.”

  Reluctantly, he sinks to his knees, loosens his tie a little, and then lies back to join me. “I’m listening. But this had better be good.”

  “Oh, it’s good.” I grin so hard that my face aches a bit. “You know how Hunter bought me that unicorn?”

  “Sparkles von Fancypants?”

  “Yep. Well one of my friends said something…and it made me realize that he’s kind of a horse. Like, enough of a horse to compete in the jousting.”

  Labron shifts on to his side. “What are you saying?”

  I sit up on my elbows and gaze up at the chandelier. So gorgeous. Ah, staircase! Lobby! “Hunter has horse issues, right? But—conveniently, some would say, I guess—he’s not afraid of Sparkles at all.”

  Labron’s eyes grow wide. His whole face brightens. “That is convenient. Conveniently awesome!”

  “I know, right?” I say gleefully. “All we have to do is to get him training. Get Sparkles training. But this could be the solution we’ve been looking for.”

  “Ginger, you a genius.”

  I glare at him. “I thought I was as dumb as a stack of pancakes.”

  “You are dumb as a stack of pancakes. But also, you a genius,” he says, completely serious.

  “I’m glad we agree on something.”

  “Now all you have to do is pull Hunter out of his rancid pit of despair.”

  “Oh.” I sit up properly. “Any tips?”

  He picks at a cuticle. “Protective headgear. Trojans. An axe?”

  “Yeah. You’re a bucket of help and a half.” I leap to my feet, brushing remnants of old rose petals from my gym gear. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, come look for me.”

  “I will sound the motherfucking alarms.”

  I give him a little salute—the right one, this time. “You’re the best.”

  After being away a while, walking down the hall to Hunter’s room is a little unsettling. Memories creep up on me and tap me on the shoulder, winking at me like old perverts: my first time here, feeling awed by the staircase and slightly dubious about the Savage Garden posters; the last time I was here, running away as Hunter yelled at me from his trashed wreck of a bedroom. The mere thought makes me shudder.

  Cupboards. I must not think of cupboards.

  CUPBOARDS!

  Get lost, subconscious! Can’t you see that I’m busy? This is a Very Important time.

  I pause outside Hunter’s door, noting the distinct smell of…uh. I’m guessing old turducken and gasoline, but I could be wrong. With a deep breath, I knock.

  “Labron?” Hunter calls, his voice pitiful. It’s that little boy tone that makes me weak in the knees.

  Well, there’s a line I must never say again. Ew.

  “Hunter, it’s me,” I reply softly. “Your gosling.”

  There’s a shuffling sound from somewhere in his bedroom. Slow footsteps thump toward the door, and my pulse joins in. Thadonk-a-donk-donk. Who knew tension could be so ratchet?

  He appears before me in a cloud of eau de personal tragedy. A few days of stubble coat his cheeks, and his dress shirt is crumpled and stained. For the first time, his hair is not tousled—it’s combed back flat against his scalp. Oh God.

  “Gosling?”

  “Oh, Hunter!” I throw myself into his arms, but he steps aside. I land face-first on the floor of the bedroom, right in a puddle of…something.

  “Mind the mess,” he says flatly.

  I pull my face out of what appears to be barbecue sauce. “I see you haven’t cleaned in a while.”

  He lowers his eyes, sheepish. “When I get depressed, I tend to have saucy parties.”

  I glance around from the floor; one wall is covered in mustard. Above his bed, he’s scrawled Whore of Babylon in garlic mayo. Ketchup swastikas decorate the wardrobes. The rest of the room is much the same as I remembered—trashed TV, ripped drapes. Great. Typical beast alpha behavior.

  “You think I could get a moist towelette or something?”

  “Oh.” He dashes off to the ensuite. “Of course.”

  For the third time that day, I stagger up to standing and observe the damage. I’m sweaty, covered in bits of rotting flower and as well as my new brown makeup, my sneaker is covered in gentleman’s relish—which is not a euphemism. I hope.

  “Here you go.” Hunter pats me down with a wet wipe, using long, teasing strokes. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You weren’t to know I was coming, hey?”

  “But I’d hoped.” He stops, chokes back tears. “God, I’d hoped.”

  My heart warms at the sight of his misery. That came out wrong, but you know what I mean. “I come bearing news.”

  “And what might that be?”

  We’re meant to be broken up and all, but come on—the end of the book is nigh, so it’s only a matter of time before we get back together. One little embrace can’t hurt.

  “I wondered how you felt about jousting on the unicorn,” I say, wrapping my arms around his broad and manly shoulders.

  He smells almost as bad as he looks, but that doesn’t matter. I love him for what’s on the inside: an unpredictably violent and possessive murderer. Who looks good in suits.

  “The uni…the unicorn!” The corners of his mouth twist with delight. “Gosling, you absolute beauty!”

  “I know.” I sigh happily into his shoulder. “I know.” For a brief McMoment, I think he’s going to kiss me…but no. I guess now isn’t the time.

  Hunter releases me, leaping around the room in a hyperactive rush of activity. “We’ve got so much to do! Jesus. I mean, I should probably take a shower….” He bows his head to sniff himself, and coughs violently. “Yeah. Step one: shower. Step two, get suit of armour. Step three: find a massive lance.” He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head. “Besides my penis.”

  “You should probably get your room cleaned,” I add, staring mournfully at my sneakers.

  “Step five: have Labron clean room.”

  “Oh.” I put up a hand. “And we will need to convince Sparkles to go out on the jousting field. It involves leaving the Internet, and he might not, uh, be so happy about that.”

  Hunter frowns. “You let your pet unicorn get addicted to the Internet?”

  “I’ll have you know that he was recently retweeted by Channing Tatum,” I retort.

  “Oh. Respect. Still.” Hunter chews his pouty bottom lip. “We’ll need to work on it. Maybe get him an iPhone?”

  “What will we do if the tournament field doesn’t have WiFi?”

  “I don’t know. But I suspect PETA might have something to say about it.” He grimaces, but then I beam at him, and he joins me.

  “Hunter…this is going to be so wonderful.”

  “I know.” He walks toward me, hands outstretched, and takes mine in his own. Mine are sweaty and his are sticky, but who cares? His hair is already a little tousled from the jumping about. I might come if he blinks more than three times in quick succession. “Gosling, I won’t fail you.”

  I give his hands a squeeze. “Let’s get our joust on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “NEEEEIGH!”

  “NEEEEEEEEIGH!”

  Something crashes loudly. A hoof appears to be swinging around.

  “Jesus fuck! You glittery pillock!”

  “NEEEEIGH!”

  That, if you were wondering, is the sound of Hunter trying to get Sparkles away from the laptop.

  Yeah, I’m totally getting a taco and leaving him to it.

  * * *

  We have two days to go until the tournament, and Knight Fever, the campus re-enactment store, is a hive of activity. Students clamour to be measured for costumes, and the blacksmith society are busy banging swords and shields into shape, fue
lling the stench of coal and smoke. It’s amid this chaos that Hunter needs to buy his armour and lance. We also need to fit the unicorn for a bridle and saddle, as well as some decorative crap that is apparently required to “get into the spirit of things.” When Enid wants to do that, she just gets drunk, but Labron says Hunter is only allowed to joust sober. The big party pooper.

  “You know,” Hunter says as he leads Sparkles through the stacks of tunics and coats of arms, “all the stuff that happened recently has made me question what I really want.”

  I give his bicep a squeeze. “I know the feeling.”

  Hunter has not only showered, but he’s looking thoroughly groomed. I would eat him alive but I’ve stopped empathizing with black widow spiders of late. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “I woke up one morning in a heap of Ryan Gosling’s skin and I asked myself, if I could have one thing this very moment, anything at all, what would it be?”

  Me! Oh, he’s going to say me. My heart throbs in my scalp.

  “A festive Boots meal deal,” he announces.

  I snap up. “Whuh?”

  “British thing. Food of Gods, gosling—I’ll take you one day. We’ll try it. You know what the second thing was?”

  “Uh…no?”

  “You.” He grins The Grin. Oh, hello Hunter! You’re back! “It was you. And I realized then that I didn’t even consider wanting to be back in Eine Richtung. Those bastards can reform all they like; I don’t care. And hey…it all boosts the coffers. I wrote most of those songs.”

  “In German?” I ask, awed.

  “Ya.”

  “Hunter, you’re so clever.” I sigh happily. “I love your big sexy brain.”

  “Neeeeigh,” says Sparkles, eyeballing me in distaste. He does not appreciate having his black sequin bridle back on—he thinks it’s last season. He drops his horsey voice to a growl. “Neeeeigh.”

  “This can’t take long,” I tell Hunter. “We have about thirty minutes, tops, before Sparkles loses it and needs to Instagram something.”

  “How hard can buying a suit of armour be?”

  We stop in front of the display models and Hunter rubs his chin in thought. There are several different brands, and all kinds of designs; Archer has very traditional taste in armour so I never really thought there would be a market for a pink paisley helmet. Or one that makes you look like Barney the Dinosaur.

  “Hmm.” Hunter fingers the cod piece of a leather-coated suit. “I like the feel of this one, but I’m not sure it’s really my style.”

  “What is your style?” I ask.

  “Something a little more…alpha. And expensive.” He glances around. “Do they stock Gucci?”

  “No.” I flick through the catalogue perched on an ornate wooden stand. “But they do have Alexander McQueen, and the odd Westwood.”

  “Figures.”

  “Neeeigh,” Sparkles grunts in warning, scraping a heavy hoof against the wooden floor.

  “What’s wrong with him now?” Hunter asks from inside a Spiderman helmet.

  “He says he’s going to miss Follow Friday.”

  “Neeeeeigh!”

  “I mean, hashtag Follow Friday.” I clear my throat. “And apparently you’re hashtag lame.”

  “I’ll make him lame if he doesn’t bloody shut it.”

  “Hunter!” I scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

  “It’s part of building our jousting bond,” he protests, absently patting Sparkles’ muzzle. “Tough love.”

  “Neeeeigh.”

  “Sparkles says he likes tough love,” I explain. “Almost as much as tainted love, but not quite.”

  “Good to know. Hey.” He stalks around a corner and drags back another display model. It clanks along the floor. “Whaddaya reckon, gosling?”

  “What the chips is that?”

  “Darling. Language.”

  Now he pats me absentmindedly, but he misses my head and lands on my boob instead. I’d tell him off, but there’s something about being intimately groped in public that makes me want to lick his Converse again. Mmm. Must…resist. Should have had lunch, dammit.

  “It’s a suit of armour, you know, a nice one,” Hunter says, “but also…it was one of the props on Bedknobs and Broomsticks.”

  “Oh my God!” I clap. “I loved that movie! Me and Archer used to watch it when we were, like, six—”

  Hunter’s upper lip twitches. “You and Archer watched a movie about a medieval maiden being ploughed by a broom and various other inanimate objects?”

  “Er…no?”

  “I think we’re referring to different types of knobs. You, bed knobs; me, cocks.” He sighs wistfully. “Seriously though—the porn version was a classic. Kind of a Fantasia mash up too, you know, with the brooms…”

  Hunter just killed my childhood. God, he really is a murderer. I sink back into the coat of armour stand, deflated.

  But I mustn’t focus on his bad points. I must remember the good things, like his substantial man meat and all the stuff he bought me.

  “Shall I try it on?” he says.

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “Cool. Back in a sec.” He begins to drag it toward the changing rooms, which are shaped like mini turrets. “I’ll be needing a big tub of Schaffer’s Helmet Polish…”

  With Hunter gone, Sparkles and I do a little people-watching. We observe the medieval princesses picking out colored handkerchiefs to wave, and how they have trouble holding them with their long false nails. Then we watch the horses being fitted for saddles with shiny buckles.

  “Neeeeigh.”

  “You like?” I ask Sparkles.

  “Neeeeigh.” He flashes his big white teeth.

  “Not fabulous enough? Maybe we can get something to match your bridle.”

  Sparkles yanks on his reins. “Neeeigh.”

  “I see. You like your saddles like you like your men—in cracked black leather.”

  “Cam-Cam?”

  I spin around to see Archer, who wears a vest and track pants, and is holding his best bronze lance. A faint sheen of sweat dusts his brow.

  “Oh hey.” I summon a small smile. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m training.” He swallows. “Hard.”

  “Hard’s good.”

  Archer chokes a bit. “M…maybe, yeah.”

  “We’re just waiting for Hunter to pick a suit,” I say, gesturing to the changing rooms.

  “Right.”

  For a moment, silence descends between us.

  Ah, wait. It’s just smoke from the smithy. I sure do get confused on occasion.

  “Hey. What’s that in your hand?” I ask.

  He looks worried. “Uh…a lance?”

  “The other hand.”

  “Whu—oh.” He puts the hand behind his back quickly. “Nothing.”

  I squint. “Looked like a Sean Paul CD from the concession stand.”

  “Well…it wasn’t,” he mutters. “I hate Sean-a Paul.”

  Ooh. He is lying. Does anyone think it’s weird that the re-enactment store also carries dated urban music? “So what brings you here?”

  “Needed a new tub of polish.” Archer lowers his eyes. “I’ve been…polishing my helmet a lot lately.”

  “Your helmet needs to be in good shape for the tournament.”

  “Yeah. It does.” Archer breaths in the smell of coal and hot metal. “God, I love the atmosphere in here. The tournament’s so close, and the cup…I can practically taste it.”

  “I bet the cup tastes good.”

  “Uhuh.” He offers me his crooked smile. “And if it rains, the cup gets super…wet. I like to lick a little off. Just around the rim.”

  “The rim?” I can feel my cheeks flush. Even the ones on my face. “Oh.”

  “Then maybe further down. Get right inside. Get to where all the wet really pools.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And back up to the bump above the rim. The…big magic button.” He mimes, flicking his tongue out a f
ew times. For a second, I’m thrown back to the memory of watching him bob for turduckens, how long he stayed under the water without coming up for air. “I like to get my finger right on the magic button while I lick inside the rim.”

  “A-Archer,” I mumble, grasping Sparkles’ reins until they make sequinny grooves in my palm. “Maybe you should st—”

  I’m cut off by the beeping of his cell. “Ooh.” He leans his lance against one wall and yanks the phone from his pocket. “Email.”

  Beside me, Sparkles jerks around.

  “Archer, no!”

  “Hmm?” He looks up, absent-mindedly flicking the screen of his phone. An email link to Instagram pops up.

  “Neeeeigh!”

  There’s no time to warn him. Sparkles von Fancypants launches himself at the phone in Archer’s hand, biting down on the bridle’s bit so hard that it actually snaps and comes loose, flapping behind him.

  Archer shrieks like a girl and turns to run.

  “Drop the phone!” I scream. “Archie, he just wants the WiFi!”

  This book. I mean, seriously. There’s no Internet at the frat house, but the re-enactment store has the best signal in the frickin’ area? What the rum and raisin fudge? And now I’m about to mark this McMoment in my life with “the day my best friend got gored by an evil unicorn.” I’ve had some weird experiences since meeting Hunter, but this takes the biscuits and gravy.

  Archer leaps over piles of freshly-hammered swords and shields, and Sparkles clears them liked a prize show jumper. The princess wannabes scatter and scream. We’re trashing the whole store now, and I sink to the floor with my head in my hands.

  Then the little bell rings as the door swings open. It’s Manbag Guy, complete with a fresh weasel.

  I jump to my feet. “Aw, hell to the no!”

  But no use.

  “Duck!” I shout.

  “It’s not a duck,” he says, offended. “It’s a weas—”

  Crash! goes the bow and arrow stand.

  Smash! goes Archer’s face into the till counter.

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  I sit amid tendrils of smoke and slowly falling weasel entrails. The stench of hot meat unfurls around me, slightly rotten and sour. “This is not my fucking day.”