A marbled purple lump has begun to swell Hunter’s left temple. “You sure about that?”
“Well…no.” She shrugs. “But what else are we meant to do?”
“I’ll get some cold water,” Labron calls over his shoulder as he hurries out. “That’ll help him come around.”
I cradle Hunter’s head in my lap and stare up at Enid. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”
“Captain Purity taught me.”
“For real?”
“Fo’ real.” She grins. “What, like a girl can’t knock a billionaire cage fighter out once in a while?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” I mutter.
“Neeeigh.” Sparkles rubs his purple muzzle against Hunter’s cheek. “Neeeeigh, neigh.”
“What’s that, boy? You’ve really bonded with Hunter over the past day?”
“Neeeigh.”
“And you sure hope he doesn’t die of internal bleeding, a stroke or a seizure, all of which are commonly associated with head trauma?” I sniff a bit. “That’s so sweet.”
“I got the goods.” Labron comes running back in with a plastic bottle of water. “Four freaking dollars from the Gabriel’s Wrapture stall. Fuckin’ rip off.”
“Here. I’ll do it.” I snatch the water away, twisting the lid off and dumping the contents over Hunter’s pale face in several splurting glugs.
We all crowd around as he stirs a moment, and then begins to cough.
“Hunter!” I try not to weep. “Speak to me!”
He blinks through soaked lashes, his eyes glassy, and settles his gaze on Labron. “Genie,” he mumbles deliriously. “I wish you free!”
Labron rolls both eyes. “Heeeeere we go again.”
“Does he quote a lot of Disney?” I ask.
“He quotes a bunch. I try to blot out the lines from Showgirls.”
“Come on, you English douche,” Enid encourages, slapping Hunter’s arm. “You’re not getting off this easily.”
Jester Hentai Pete puts his head around the door-slash-curtain. “Two minutes until final calls, guys!”
“Oh, superpoop. We’re not going to make it,” I moan.
“We can make the dress for Cinderelly,” Hunter half-sings, his eyes closed. “Because we’re fucking anthropomorphic mice who can sew like McQueen…” His tone goes soprano-high on McQueen. “Or call Gaston. No-one sews like…Gaston.”
Enid glances at Labron. “Should I kick him in the balls?”
“I don’t think that will wake him up.”
She tuts. “Can I do it anyway?”
“Dang, blondie. You got a real nasty side to you.”
“Gaston,” Hunter slurs. “Now there was an utter bumder if I ever saw one.”
Labron sighs wistfully. “True dat.”
Sparkles huffs like an indignant elephant. “Neeeigh!”
“Oh my God. You glittery genius!” I grasp his hoof in gratitude. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“What?” Enid asks. “What?”
“Stand back.” I roll my shoulders, preparing to make a quick exit. “This could go horribly wrong.”
Enid and Labron exchange bemused scowls, but they move back anyway. I lean in and listen for Hunter’s next oblivious words.
“Bad llama,” he cheeps. “Baaad llama.”
“Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper.
“I wanna pop some vag,” he croons, “only got twenty Trojans in my pocket.”
“Dammit, Hunter, that’s not even Disney!”
His expression softens, and he starts to sing in that little boy voice. “Hakuna matata, what a wonderful phase—”
“Aha!” I yell in his face, triumphant. “It’s phrase! Not phase!”
For a split second, I’m terrified that it hasn’t worked. But then Hunter blinks a couple times, his brow dips in annoyance, and he settles his wicked green eyes on me.
“You and your fucking grammar,” he says.
I spin around to Enid and Labron, waving my jazz hands. I look like Tickle Me Elmo.
Hunter eases himself up to standing with the elegance of a cougar on crack. Which is not much elegance, and actually kind of creepy, but accurate. Where was I?
“You can take your fucking grammar,” he continues, dusting himself off as if nothing happened, “and march it down to the bus fucking stop, where you can jump on the mutually fucked number sixty nine to Fucked Off Road and get off just a stop away so you’re extra fucked. When you get to extra fucked,” he shimmies out of his jeans and reaches for his armour, “you can take a moment to appreciate just how utterly fucked off you are, at which point I will send out my fuck gnomes, eighteen of which will simultaneously punch you in the fucking fanny because they can’t reach your fucking face.” He’s calm, so measured and meticulous. And yet so virile and violent and cold. I don’t think I’ve ever been as attracted to him as I am in this moment, and not just because he’s in his underwear.
“Dang.” Labron pats me on the shoulder in congratulations. “He’s back.”
Enid gives my hand a squeeze. “Now that was awesome.”
“So were you.” I smile at her fondly. “I should have guessed that girl power is always at its most potent when we’re acting like guys and just beating the crap out of people.”
Labron strides toward Hunter to assist with the armour. “Let’s get our joust on before we get disqualified. Like, now.”
Three seconds later, Hunter is completely dressed in his suit of armour and sitting atop Sparkles von Fancypants, who trots proudly into the stadium with his muzzle high in the air. This is partly because Hunter has pulled the reins too tight and the bit between his teeth is making him grin like he’s been stuffed, but also because I promised I’d Instagram a pic straight away.
Click. Upload. Ooh, tasty filter.
The horns sound, and the crowd stands up to applaud the competitors.
“Cammie!” Enid hisses, elbowing me as we sit back down on the bleachers. “Here’s Archer.”
I gulp. I’m not sure I want to see. “That vodka still here?”
“Afraid of sobering up, are we…?”
“Yes,” I say shamelessly. “Have you got any Xanax?”
“Like I carry that around.”
“Hunter would give me Xanax,” I mutter, disappointed.
“Hunter is fifty shades of hell no. And a half,” she retorts, looking not undisturbed.
No fair. I have the sex flu, and I need medicine!
Then I make the mistake of looking over to the other side of the stadium, where Archer is making a grand entrance on his stunning chestnut mare, J-Lo. I can’t see his face beneath the freshly-polished helmet, but I can tell by his stoic posture that he’s feeling confident. Hopeful, maybe. All I can think of is how Enid must be feeling right now, knowing the dude she digs is about to fight for me.
Wow. Am I actually becoming a better friend? I have to give myself snaps for that. Hey subconscious—winsies!
This feeling doesn’t last long because Hunter and Sparkles prance through the opposite entrance, and I’m consumed with excitement and lust and pride. I bristle with sex flu fever as a light sweat breaks out across my brow.
“Got your hanky ready?” asks Enid.
“What are you implying?”
She waves her red silk handkerchief and shoves her tongue beneath her bottom lip. “For the cheering, dumbass.”
“Oh yeah.” I yank my white one from my left Ugg. “I knew that.”
Behind us, a couple of co-eds wave foam fingers and cheer. The guy Enid injured earlier is now wearing an eye patch, and he keeps throwing her dirty looks like a really pissed off Captain Hook.
Chaucer strides out with a microphone in one hand and a bell in the other. He rings the bell with a flick of his wrist. “Hear ye, hear ye, for the first round of our UCLAP Ultimate Jousting Tournament! On the left, we have team leader and Pi Pi Pi champion, Sir Archer Riddick! A true knight if there ever was one. He has, as his supporters regale
me, honour…spurting from every orifice!”
Archer takes his side of the picket fence tilt barrier, and gives the crowd a little wave of his lance. A shield with his coat of arms—the sword plunging into a heart that matches his tattoo—sits on his forearm.
“And on the right,” bellows Chaucer, “is a most fearsome opponent. Many of you will know him as Sir Hunter von Styles, an honest member of the English gentry. He makes UCLAP history today by competing on the world’s first real unicorn, and makes Pinterest history by being the first ex-band member to be repinned in a suit of armour five hundred and seventy two times!”
“Hunter!” I scream with delight, jumping from my seat to wave the hanky like a psycho. “You go, Hunter!”
Chaucer clears his throat loudly over the microphone as Hunter takes his place. “The winner, as always, will be the last knight standing. I mean—sitting. On his horse. Jester Hentai Pete—please count them in.”
Over the past week or two, I’ve been around a lot more competitive sport than usual—cage fights, turducken bobs, virgin auctions—and I’ve felt the bite of tension at my wrists as the competitors prepare for the first blow. I’ve heard entire crowds fall silent; I’ve heard them erupt in screams of victory and crow with the bitter taste of defeat. I’ve even waited eight days for the results of my thrush tests, bereft and uncertain of my gynaecological fate. None of that matches the frozen terror I feel now as I wait for Hentai Pete’s green hanky to fall upon the tilt barrier, signalling the horses’ first charge.
“Five,” Enid counts beneath her breath, “four, three, two, one…OHMYGOD!”
I won’t lie—to begin with, Hunter and Sparkles’ jousting practice did not look promising. They could barely hit the dummy or even stay near the barrier without the unicorn getting distracted by an iPhone or a Z-list celebrity. But slowly, Labron developed a fool-proof method.
And there he is, in the corner of the stadium green, employing it right…now.
“Woah.” Enid grabs my wrist. “That has to be cheating.”
“Shut up. It’ll help him beat Archer.”
“Oh God.” She grips me even harder, shivering with panic. “I want him to lose, but I can’t bear to see him hurt. Jeez. Is this inner conflict?”
“A what now?”
Then the horn blares, the boys shout, the horses charge…and we can’t focus on anything else. I’m vaguely aware of Enid chugging the vodka in noisy gulps, but the rest is hazy.
Nothing makes sense except Hunter, riding forth on his purple sparkly unicorn with a German battle cry, fighting for eternal access to my panties. In the far corner of the stadium, Labron stands on the bleachers and waves an iPad with Tweetdeck fully loaded. As far as Sparkles is concerned, it’s a red rag to a bull. In fact it’s better: it’s a WiFi device to a unicorn.
“Neeeeigh!” bleats my desperate pet.
They charge toward Archer, who is confident and calm as ever, sitting tight and tall on J-Lo the mare. Their lances rub together and their shields clash with a metallic groan, but no damage is done on this round. Ugh.
“This is going to kill me.” I grapple with Enid for the vodka, but she snatches it away.
“You know,” she says brightly, “the lances are, like, totally a dick metaphor.”
“You mean Archer and Hunter are rubbing dicks?”
“While riding horses. Like cowboys. This is Brokeback Mountain, but…more medieval-y.”
“Riiiiight.” Enid’s already drunk. Impressive.
Jester Hentai Pete calls the second round, and the boys charge again, Hunter’s lance steadier this time. His shield—which bears the iconic inscription 1D—stays firm on his arm, and takes Archer’s blow with confident finesse. His own lance knocks Archer’s, and it wobbles before Archer regains his grip. Behind us, the foam finger brigade shout obscenities and offer lots of utterly useless advice as to how the joust could be improved. No, Hunter does not need to hire Mike Tyson’s manager, and Sparkles does not need to be “less gay.” He’s bi, for starters. That’s like unicorn 101.
“Last round,” Enid says, flinching. “I can barely look.”
“How do I you think I feel? This is my hymen we’re talking about.”
“If I stay this tense for much longer, I’ll probably grow a new one. Oh God. Here we go…”
The last charge.
Something has to happen here. They have to man up, step up to the plate (where is the plate?), grow a pair and show the other who’s boss. I know for a fact that Hunter is the boss because sometimes he goes around in his underwear singing, “Baking brownies, like a boss. Nazi cursed, like a boss. Brood in corners, like a boss. Burn my mama, like a boss. ” Huh. Guess I should have listened to that a little more closely.
A lute player and beatboxer begin to riff on ‘Flight of the Valkyries.’ A foam finger bashes against the back of my head, but I ignore the rage it conjures. I close my eyes and think of all the beautiful moments Hunter and I have shared: our first kiss, flavored with barbecue sauce; my first orgasm in the lecture theatre; owning Goodreads with a side of Squid Patrick Harris. The crowd stomps. Chaucer bellows.
And down in his corner, Labron whacks out his secret weapon.
It is not his penis.
It is the soft, bubblegum tinkle of a K-drama opening credit sequence, and as Sparkles’ ears prick up, the final charge begins.
It seems that Sparkles launches into a gallop in slow motion, as if the frames are literally slowed down. I mean, they aren’t, because he’s galloping and that’s really fast, but this is like my imaginary fog when Archer and I were held up: it adds to the mood. So go with it. Mmmkay?
Also in slow motion, Archer and J. Lo lurch from their corner, his lance solid and prominent, his shield proud and high. He doesn’t falter for a second. Their lances are just inches apart…
…And then Sparkles picks up the dulcet tones of K-drama, proper. He neeeeeighs like a demon and bows his head, rushing horn-first into his opponent. Beside me, Enid sucks in air through her teeth—she knows what’s coming. As do I.
Hunter’s lance crashes through Archer’s shield, ramming into his suit of armour and shoving him off J. Lo with force. I know Archer will be bruised and Hunter will be shocked right now, but all I can think of is, holy fuck—that’s what he’ll be doing to my vagina tonight! Of course, I may die of sex flu before this happens. I wonder what my gravestone would say in this instance: here lies Cammibelle Hicks. Beloved gosling, valued blogger. She screwed Goodreads like a hungry hooker.
Hmm.
A low keening breaks through my revelry. It’s Enid, lying across my lap with her clasped hands raised to the sky. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you!”
I frown. “Aren’t you, like, an atheist?”
“Shut up.”
Ah. Drunk atheist. It’s like when you have too much punch in senior year and though you have a boyfriend, decide to kiss a bunch of girls. Actually…Enid did that.
“Cammie.” She heaves a huge sigh of relief over the cheering crowd. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy for me too,” I say sagely. “You have no idea what I’ve been through, waiting and worrying for today—”
“Yeah. We’re done with this kinda thing, remember?”
Actually, no. But judging by the look on her face, she’ll scalp me if I admit that. “Oopsie?”
Down on the stadium green, Hunter dismounts and yanks off his helmet. A mist of tousled fudge sundae hair spills around his chiselled cheekbones, and my heart flutters in my nipples at the sight. When he grins The Grin, I know it’s time.
“Oh, Hunter,” I murmur.
“Well don’t just stand there.” Enid shoves me forward. “Go get him!”
And so I do.
“Gosling!” Hunter gestures to me as I hurry down the bleachers, practically pole-vaulting the barrier so I can run to him on the green. “Over here!”
When I reach Hunter and Sparkles, I’m panting hard. Maybe there’s something to be said for exercise
after all. Maybe I’ll even try some of it. Er, maybe.
“Neeeeigh.” Sparkles doesn’t look up from his K-drama binge—he’s lying in a heap on the ground with the iPad—but he acknowledges me, and what more could a unicorn owner ask for when she’s far more interested in the chunk of testosterone and violent urges before her?
Hunter takes me in his arms of steel and dips his mouth to mine. As his tongue swirls down my throat with slightly worrying speed and trajectory, I reach my arm up and give my white hanky a wave for the crowd. I’m Desdemona, giving in (but not about to be strangled to death). I’m Dido with her white flag (but not about to duet with Eminem).
OR AM I?
“Hunter,” I moan softly into his bronzed armour, “you’re my anti hero.”
“Mmm. And you’re my gosling,” he replies. “Soft, downy feathers. Sharp yellowing beak. Sexy webbed feet and adorable little honky noises.”
I jerk up. “What?”
“There’s really no way to make it sound attractive, so I thought honesty would be as good as it got.”
I reach up to run my fingers through his artfully tousled hair. “I love it when you’re honest with me. Like when you’re telling me about how you murdered your mom, or your weakness for saucy parties.” I bite my lip. “Or your inhumanly hairy balls.”
“And I, gosling,” he whispers. “And I love you.”
By this point, Enid has made her way to Archer, who is surrounded by the medical team while he lies motionless on the floor. I’m pleased to see that he’s at least getting a little consolatory attention.
“So…tonight?” I say, hopefully, basking in the glory of Hunter’s three little words.
“Tonight? You have to be joking.”
I’m so confused. Why am I always so confused?
“We’re doing this now,” he says gruffly, “tent style. I’ve waited long enough—this isn’t a fucking Harlequin.”
* * *
We have to get Labron to distract the reporters and eager fans by pretending to be Samuel L. Jackson, but after a few minutes, we’re able to sneak back to the tent. With the majority of the crowd still at the stadium, it’s all quiet. Hunter lights a couple candles and gestures for me to join him on the medieval tapestry floor blanket, which is strewn with straw-stuffed cushions.
Tousle Me Page 23
