Tousle Me (18 page)

He trails off as I sink down. His purple hammer head looms close to my face, and I gulp, thick in the thrall of panic. I’ve never given a blow job in my life, and it doesn’t happen all that often in the novels I read. Come to think of it, now my entire bookshelf is flashing before my eyes in this moment of truth, there’s not much oral in many of them. And now look at me: 0.8 inches from my boyfriend’s pork helmet, and more chance of making
fetch
happen than actually making him come.

I’m about to just close my eyes and headbutt his cock when a shout rings out from beneath the window. Hunter startles, grabbing a handful of my tousled hair and easing my head back.

“What the fuck was that?” he hisses.

For a second, I’m as clueless as him. Only then do I remember Labron’s phone call at ridonkulous o’clock, and as a sinking feeling invades my stomach, I freeze.

Savage Richtung.

Paparazzi.

Perez fucking Hilton.

SUPERPOOP.

“I-I don’t know what that was,” I stutter. I need to dig down deep, move past the cupboard, and pull some serious distraction out of the bag. My first thought is to just let that fart go, but I’m slightly terrified of following through. So I just keep staring at his boner.

Another shout from outside. “Hunter!” yells a deep voice. “We know you’re in there, Hunter!”

Hunter’s face falls. He looks utterly spooked. “That had better not be what I think it is.”

“And what…do…you think it is?” Think, Cammie! Think! What would Eva Trammell do?

Hunter shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the hair from his eyes. His breathing quickens as his anxiety builds. I don’t care what he tried to tell me last night; he was lying. Dude is packed with issues and just like Labron said, they’re all about to fizz over.

“Mr von Styles!” Somebody thumps loudly on the back entrance. We both jump. “We just want to ask a few questions!”

The solution hits me in a slow reveal. There’s really only one thing for it.

“I don’t believe this,” he says through his teeth. “I don’t—GUAAAAARGH!”

I ram my mouth over his cock, choking on the shaft as I sink my teeth in. Hunter loves it primal, and I’m ready to give him everything I’ve got.

“Gosling!” he shrieks, waggling his crotch like a boyband member. “What are you—-FNGGGARGH!—I can’t take anymore!”

I chomp noisily, channelling Sparkles eating Rule last night. Then I look up to give him my sexy eyes. “Mmph?” I say through a mouthful of penis flesh.

“I said, stoppit!” he wails. A vein bulges on his forehead.

Wow, he can barely take a few strokes. I’m good.

I ease his spam ram out of my throat, taking care to lick the teeth marks like a mother cat grooming a kitten. “Mmm,” I say in my best hungry voice.

“I told you to say good morning, not raise a fucking blitzkrieg siren!” He cradles his bruised member in his big hands. “Why would you do that to the WOMOC? Why?”

Oh. I see.

I wasn’t meant to use my teeth.

“Right,” I mumble, embarrassed. “So that’s why they don’t call it a chew job.”

“Just FYI,” he groans, “you don’t actually blow, either.”

“Duly noted.”

“And be very gentle with the balls. And the gooch. Keep your teeth for everything above my waist, basically.”

Mortifying oral sex lesson from my highly experienced boyfriend. I want the ground to just swallow me up, but I’m on the bed, so failsies. Is it wrong that I kind of wish I’d just let him look out of the window?

The cupboard looms, its wooden doors falling open and banging shut again. Last night’s cartoon dinosaurs cackle at me and flash their carnivorous fangs. I’ve gone from humiliation to complete and utter panic in the space of about ten seconds, and now the cupboard is closing in, the stunted T-Rex arms waving, the boyish chortles ringing in my ears until—

“Fucking photographers!” Hunter seethes, slamming the window down. Because, you know, he’s right next to the window.

“Mr von Styles!” a photographer yells, “how do you feel about your band reforming without you?”

Hunter freezes, and then yanks the window up again. He appears to have forgotten that he’s naked and that his cock is virtually flapping in the breeze. “What did you say?”

“The Eine Richtung reunion,” someone calls. “Do you support their decision to continue without you?”

All I can hear are the clicks of flashing cameras, the echoing shouts. Hunter is deadly silent, his knuckles turning white as they clasp the window ledge so hard I fear it will disintegrate in his hands. Did you ever make one of those vinegar and baking soda rockets when you were a kid? Right now, it feels like Hunter is exactly like one of those rockets waiting to explode—and not just because of the way his rock hard ham tampon is thwacking against the ledge.

It seems that he turns to me in slow motion. “Did you hear that?” he says weakly.

“Um…I’d ignore them if I were you.”

“Ignore the crowd of paparazzi outside my house? Really?” He gestures with a sharp finger. “There are like, five of them out there, gosling! Five! One of them’s from the fucking Huffington Post!”

“Five. Wow, uh, that’s something.” I tug the sheet around myself, thinking that if I can just get it over my head in a subtle fashion, this will all go away.

“Hunter!” shouts Perez Hilton, “you’re not looking so fabulous!”

Hunter grabs his own hair in handfuls, furious. “Why don’t you all FUCK THE FUCK OFF?” And then he slams the window down again. “EEEEEEaaaaaaooooooogh!” Right on to his cock.

“Oh gosh!” I squeal, rushing over to help in a twisted mess of bed sheet.

Still making that strange high-pitched noise, he eases the window up a couple inches and gingerly removes his penis. It lands against his thigh, squished, with a pathetic little smack.

I put a hand on his shoulder and walk him away from the window. “Poor baby. Shall I ask Labron to get some ice?”

“Please,” he says, almost tearfully.

I dip back to yank the drapes closed. Take that, small but notable group of reporters! Then I re-wrap myself in the sheet so I can actually walk properly, and head over to the bed stand to find my cell phone.

Hunter, still butt naked, pulls his knees up and begins to gently rock. “Reformed? Without me?” he whispers. He sounds like a small boy.

“Labron?” I say as he picks up.

“Please tell me Hunter doesn’t know about the damn reporters,” he says dryly.

“Okay. Hunter doesn’t know about the reporters.”

He exhales. “Thank the baby Jesus.”

“Yeah. Totally lying.”

“What?”

“You said to please tell you that.” I pause. “So I did.”

“Dang, Ginger. You are dumber than a stack of pancakes, you know that?”

“With syrup? Or bacon, maybe? How do you like yours?” I swing my legs against the bed. “I’m a bacon fan, myself. Although sausage is meant to be good—”

“Seriously. We’re about to face a von meltdown, and you’re asking how I like my pancakes?”

“Yes. Unless it’s a euphemism, and then…no.”

Behind me, Hunter whines as he inspects his crushed custard gun. Can’t be helping that I bit it just now, either. Guilt slithers in my elbow like a slug with a Cockney accent.

“Also,” I add, “Hunter smashed his cock in the window. He could use some ice.”

“Because I’m the
help
, right? I’m just going to do what you ask,” he snaps.

“Well…yeah?”

“Fine.” He sighs again, sharper this time. “Your wish is my motherfucking command.” And then he hangs up.

I’m getting kind of used to Labron hanging up on me. It’s almost endearing. Heh.

But now is not the time to be smug; my love’s life is literally imploding. Everything he knows is falling apart. This is my chance to show him how much he means to me, to be his rock. (Like solid as a rock. Not the actual Rock; I don’t really have the jawline). I know what it’s like to face darkness—not just from being in the cupboard, but metaphorically. And that kind is almost worse.

I shuffle back to lean against his rocking form. We look kind of stupid, shifting back and forth together. Panic twerking. I guess I’m at least working off the scone.

“Hunter?” I whisper. “Baby, it’s going to be okay. Labron’s bringing the ice, and no matter what happens, I’m here for you. Unless it’s X Factor night. Then we can Facebook each other or something.”

He doesn’t answer. I’m losing him. Oh, God. First Rule, and now this?

Seconds later, Labron barges into the room with a red bucket full of ice. He’s still wearing yesterday’s suit, now crumpled and dirty at the edges. He looks like he’s had about ten minutes of sleep.

“Dude?” He spots Hunter, drops the ice, and rushes over to the bed. “Dang it. Hunter. You can’t let those douchebags get to you.”

Hunter gulps, and stares up at his friend. “They’re saying that my band is back together. But Labron…I’m still
here
.”

“I know, dude, I know. But they’re assholes. You don’t need them.”

“I put everything into that band,” he utters. “My life. My soul. Way more sperm than was appropriate, but fucking hell, I did it anyway.”

Just like when he saved Ryan Gosling. Just like when he saved me.

“How are they even going to do it?” he goes on. “I mean, our music was exceptional, but they can’t just go out and play instrumentals like the bloody Shadows.”

Labron and I fall quiet. The Darren Hayes thing is the ultimate knife, and if we don’t stick it in, somebody else will. Which will make a mess. As his Facebook-official girlfriend, if anyone gets to be splatted with Hunter’s mess, it’s me.

I take a deep breath. “Hunter. They’ve hired a new singer.”

His eyes darken beneath his curtain of tousled hair. “Excuse me?”

“A new singer,” Labron repeats reluctantly. “They hired one.”

“Who?” he spits. “Wait. Let me guess.”

Labron and I exchange dubious glances.

Hunter holds up an accusing finger. “Is it that fucking rent-a-gob, Pitbull?”

Labron clears his throat. “It is not Pitbull.”

“He doesn’t even speak German,” I muse. Though he’s certainly a fan of international love.

“Well who is it, then?” Hunter presses. His voice drops. “Is it…Bowie?”

“Eine Bowie does have a ring to it,” I say. “But no.”

Labron puts his face in his hands and breathes hard through the gaps in his fingers. “I can’t bear to see this. I’m sorry—you’re on your own, Ginger.” And then he slides off the bed to scoot to the door, stumbling on the melting ice and swearing to himself as he leaves.

Oh great. As if my inner cupboard wasn’t wide open and tender as it is—now I have to deliver the worst news of Hunter’s recent life, and all by myself. Does he look like the type to shoot the messenger, do you think? Where’s Oprah when you need her?

“You know who it is,” Hunter croaks, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Tell me, gosling.”

I’ve never struggled to speak before. Like Hunter says, I talk a lot. Not all of it makes a great deal of sense or is even very decent, but hey, a girl’s got to boost the word count, and this is me just doing my part. Waaaaffle waffle waffle. Also, it helps me remain in denial of the complete travesty at hand. I’m well aware that my passionate affair with Hunter may not survive this—a girl can’t date a heap of panic twerking, namely because it won’t sit still. And doesn’t buy her massive corporations or genetically engineered fantasy pets. I can try to nurse him, but—

“For God’s sake!” he explodes. “Just tell me. Please.”

Okay. I can do this. And Hunter deserves to know what his idol has done. “It’s Darren Hayes.”

Silence. The only sound is the quiet chug of Ryan Gosling vomiting in his tank (he had like, five handfuls of popcorn last night). Cough. Retch. Jeez, Ryan—show some self-restraint!

Eventually, Hunter speaks. “Like a guy called Darren Hayes? Not the inspiration for everything I’ve ever done, Darren Hayes.”

“They’re calling themselves Savage Richtung.”

“
Savage Richtung
. Oh, cruel irony.” He gives a bitter little laugh.

I take a moment to put Richtung through Google Translate, just so I get what he’s on about. Ah, cruel irony indeed!

Then Hunter leaps off the bed and it all goes a bit hazy. Here’s some of what I
think
is happening, you know, from behind my sheet:

CRASH

SMASH

Ryan Gosling vomits some more

Hunter slams his cock in another door like, “Eeeooooghooooh!”

TV fizzles

Is that an axe?

Oh yes, an axe. In the TV. Well that’s a little over-dramatic

Some blood on my sheet

Quite a lot of blood, actually. Fuck me

Hunter has carved WHY DARREN WHY into his own stomach with questionable finesse and speed

Now he’s on his knees

Ryan Gosling is STILL chundering. I didn’t even know snakes could chunder

Anxiety forces my fart out

Oh em gee

It’s like a Dutch oven under this sheet, people. Enter at your own risk

And now Hunter’s yanking the sheet off—

No! STENCH!

He doesn’t care. But his eyes water a bit

Jesus Christ, Ryan Gosling’s still going

The TV is throwing off some worrying electric sparks

And Hunter is bleeding on the floor, whimpering and panting, a single tear trailing down his cheek. “Eine Richtung reforms,” he gasps. “And so the last…petal…has fallen.”

Then he passes out.

“Hunter!” I screech, careening off the bed and slamming my face into the wood floor. I tell you something, there is nothing worse than desperately needing to remove your face from the painful hard surface, but being afraid of rising into your own beast of a fart.

But I’m a brave soul, so I soldier on into the vast tunnel of eau de hellspawn that is my personal brew, and grasp Hunter’s shoulders.

“Wake up!” Nothing. Nada. So I do what they do in movies, and give him a good slap around the face.

Jeez, that hurts your hand! I sit up, waving my hand around frantically to ease the sting, while Hunter coughs and grumbles as he blinks his eyes open.