Tousle Me (7 page)

“Like my lance?” he asks with a grin.

“Oh.” I do a little jump to dodge his prodding prick. I mean, er, lance. “Been jousting?”

“Early morning joust. Gotta love it.” He rests the lance against one wall and strokes it lovingly. “I won, by the way.”

I give him a thumbs up. “Congratulations.”

“So what’s the happy haps, homeslice?”

“I need your help.”

“Oh?”

“In about five hours, I need to have a pet octopus set up in an aquarium in my room.”

He winces. “Pet octopus? Do they, like, even do those?”

“I don’t know. But Archer, please—my life depends on it.”

He creaks over to me in his armour and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “And you know I’ll defend your life with my own,” he whispers.

I stare into his piercing lancey blue eyes. “I know.”

Oh God. Are we having a McMoment? Surely not—Archer’s like my brother, only not. Only kind of.

“So I guess we better get on this octopus shit,” he says with a grin. Nice recovery—for a second there, I thought we were getting sexu
al
. “I need to shower off the joust. You take my laptop and Google local octopi stockists.”

I give him a grateful smile, and while he does his best Fjorn Brimstone impression in the shower, I scour Wikipedia and other reliable sources for advice on keeping octopi. All the while, I imagine what Hunter will say when he realizes I wasn’t lying, how he will fall to his knees and hug my thighs and shower me with superficial apologies. And then maybe I’ll invite him into my panties after all.

Archer surfaces from the bathroom in a cloud of mid-price range body wash, his hips clad in a small white towel. Toned muscles ripple beneath his tanned flesh, and a tattoo of a sword plunging into his heart bisects his pecs. The handle of the sword reads C
am-Cam
…which is quite the coincidence, when you think about it.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Uh…not so good.” I swallow. “Turns out this might not be as simple as I thought.”

“So can you actually get a pet octopus?”

I nod. “You can. But not without a couple of, ahem, complications.”

Archer sits beside me, pressing his damp skin into my clean and unslutty clothes. He peers at the screen and scans the article from Octopifancyers.com.

“High level of intelligence….very dextrous tentacles…need to put heavy weights on tank to stop them escaping…serious carnivores...” He trails off, looking pale. “I’m beginning to see what you mean.”

“You see that last line?
Octopi have a tendency to get into places they shouldn’t.
” I shudder. What if I wake up and it’s in my Vag Mahal?

“But your life is at stake, Cam Cam.”

“I know.” I sigh. Why the hell did I have to pick an octopus? I blame Squid Patrick Harris. “There must be some way around this. You know, a way that doesn’t involve me being tentacle raped like one of those horrible Japanese computer games your frat buddies play on Thursdays.”

“Hey. Don’t knock Hentai night,” he says, wagging a finger. “They even got approval from the UCLAP feminist society—we don’t steal all the WiFi so they can upload their Lorde fanfic, and we get Hentai night without one of their shitty protests.”

“Okay, okay.” I pout at him. “Still kinda worrying though.”

“Says the girl who’s dating Hunter von Styles,” he mutters darkly. “Oh. Wait. I think I’ve got it!” He shoots up in excitement, and his towel falls down.

I clap a hand over my eyes before I can be introduced to Archer’s ham ram. I’ve had enough penis-related trauma for one day already (and as a romance heroine, I’m allocated roughly seven minutes of penis trauma every sixteen hours.
Roughly
).

“Sorry, sorry.” He rummages on the floor for his towel and ties it safely back over his crotch. “Just let me get dressed, and we’ll get our quest on. You okay on my motorbike?”

I shrug. “Will the octopus be okay on your motorbike?”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Ooh. TENSION.

Two hours later, Archer and I pull up outside my dorm with a packed sidecar. Our plan isn’t perfect but I think we have everything covered. I smile to myself as he hauls everything up the stairs and grunts with the exertion of carrying both an octopus and a full sized aquarium; I told Hunter that I had to pick up my octopus and I actually
am.
I’m like a self-fulfilling prophecy, or something.

“You okay, Archie?” I hold the door open for him.

He heaves the aquarium on to my desk and leans over the chair, panting. “Oh, I’m…good. Fine. Ugh.”

“Want a glass of filtered water before we sort everything out?”

“Sure I do,” he wheezes.

“Coming right up.”

Once we’ve completed the aquarium, my new pet octopus has a fittingly ocean-esque home with rocks, plastic tree things, lots of shells. And some Haribo Starmix, just for that pop of color.

“So what’s his name?” Archer asks as I drop in the octopus. It lands with a very satisfying plop, and then sinks an inch or two, very slowly, before beginning to float.

“Rule,” I say.

“What?”

“You think I can’t call my octopus Rule, Archer?”

He shrugs. “Seems like a pretty weird choice.”

“Book blogger thing. You wouldn’t get it.” I gaze into the vacant eyes of my new octopus and sigh happily. “Look how his tentacles are kind of wavering. He’s so cute.”

Archer squints at the tank. “Think he’s defrosted yet?” Then he pauses, chewing his full lower lip. “Hey…aren’t we meant to filter the water for a day first, before putting him in?”

“Pretty sure that doesn’t apply to dead octopi from the freezer section of the Chinese supermarket.”

“This is most likely true.” He’s still frowning at the tank. “Won’t this, erm, start to smell really bad?”

“Since I never kept a cephalopod mollusc corpse in my bedroom before, I’m not sure.” I swallow. “But I’m guessing so, yeah.”

“You and your crazy ideas, Cam-Cam.”

“Like I said—my life depends on it.”

Archer puts a strong arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “Want me to walk you to class?”

“Class?” Oh yeah…I totally go to college. “Right. Of course. I have one in like, half an hour.”

“Me too.”

“Just let me wash up and we’ll head out, okay?”

In the bathroom, I try to memorize Rule’s apparent backstory in case Hunter asks any questions. My parents bought him to keep me company when I started college last semester. He’s a pesky little cephalopod, always getting into my make-up drawers and watching YouTube tutorials for smoky eye looks. His favorite foods are live shrimp and Krispy Kremes.

Then I find myself fantasising about having a psychic link with him whilst on the toilet, and have to pull myself together before shit gets real.

When I walk back into my bedroom, Archer is holding one of my parcel boxes, staring at the one Hunter sent with sheer horror. He tips it to one side, displaying the velvet-lined mold that the choc-cock arrived in.

“What the hell’s this?” he demands.

“Oh. Hunter sent me an advance review copy,” I say hesitantly. “Of his penis.”

“I see he had it, erm, blown up.”

“Oh no. That’s life-sized,” I say, blushing.

Archer squints at the box, peering closer. “Really?!”

I start to giggle. “Maybe he should take up jousting.”

“You did not just say that.”

I feel awful for mocking Archer’s most sacred hobby. I change the subject (Fjorn Brimstone’s shock
X Factor
exit) and we head down to the arts building for class. When I reach my lecture theatre, Archer gives me a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks for everything,” I say, giving his bicep a squidge.

“Always a pleasure.”

“Catch you around later?”

“You know it.”

He watches me walk into the theatre, and then leaves.

I find an empty seat near the middle and fiddle about in my book bag for my iPad.
Critical Thinking for Darren Hayes Lyrics
is always half empty; the last professor got sacked for having a torrid affair with a student, so we’re stuck with the temp replacement.

One of the assistants begins to mess with the whiteboard, and the screen at the front lights up. I glance down, trying to get a good look at the lecturer who just walked in with a briefcase. He looks kinda familiar, what with his tailored suit and fudge sundae hair and—

Oh God. Oh no. This is almost as bad as getting my review struck off Goodreads.

HUNTER IS MY NEW TEACHER.

Wait, wait. I got a liiiiiittle bit carried away there.

Hunter walks right past the lecture podium, the soles of his Converse sneakers squeaking on the floor. When he drops his briefcase beside me, I realize he’s about to sit down.

“I didn’t know you were in this class,” I say.

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

How does he see into my soul like that? “You really carry a briefcase?”

“Just today. Fancied it.” He grins at me.

“Just fancied coming in through the staff entrance, too?”

“It was good for tension.” He shrugs. “What, you think a former rock God can’t appreciate the fine lyrics of Darren Hayes?”

“What do you even major in?”

“You, gosling. I major in you.” Then he puts his big, firm hand on my thigh and starts to stroke the tender skin beneath my skirt.

I sit back in the uncomfortable chair, desperately trying not to moan out loud (or sigh inwardly. We all know what that leads to). “So just to clarify,” I manage, “you’re not teaching this class, right?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Not…yet?”

“One day, perhaps.” He gives a wistful sigh. “While I have mastered the intense imagery of his earlier Savage Garden albums, I have yet to fully explore the catalogue of Mr Hayes.” Hunter lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Everyone thinks that sub-par fanfic is responsible for the public’s sudden interest in BDSM. Not true. It’s the last generation’s appreciation of Savage Garden finally coming to fruition.”

“Right,” I mutter. I’m just here because
The Marriage Bargain: A Social Commentary
was full. Hunter must never know this.

“Look at their name, for fuck’s sake. Look at the song titles: ‘Break Me, Shake Me.’ ‘Chained to You.’ ‘Crash and Burn.’ ‘Two Beds and an Equine Speculum
.’
”

I cough. “You sure about that last one?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He pats my knee dismissively. “Trust me. It was a complex strategy, probably only possible because they were Australian and were used to hiding from rabid kangaroos and such. They masked a passionate craving for bondage by hiding such songs on their albums, while releasing those…” He shudders. “Ballads.”

The lecture begins. Have you ever tried to concentrate on dissecting the middle eight of ‘Crush (1980 Me)’ while you’re:

1. Worried about your pet dead octopus going rancid

2. Feeling sick because you ate half a large chocolate penis for breakfast

3. Trying to stay quiet as a very rugged and tousled gosling major massages your inner thighs?

No, didn’t think so. But since I’m the expert in all of the above, let me enlighten you as to how it all goes:

1. Terribly.

“I’m glad you enjoyed my package this morning,” Hunter murmurs during the lecture.

“I had your package for breakfast,” I manage. “Well. I had the helmet and most of the shaft. Enid had the base and the balls.”

He chuckles. “Lucky Enid. Did she like the cream filling?”

“She said it was predictable.” And then she and I both nearly choked because, y’know, pre-dick-ta-ble. “But she wolfed it down, so I guess it was still pretty good.”

“I’ve heard many a Pi Pi Pi bloke say that Enid likes to wolf down cock.”

I scowl. “I know, right? But you can’t say that to her face because she gets all touchy.”

Hunter wiggles his index finger up to ping the elastic of my panties. It stings. “She’s not pure and innocent like you, gosling.”

“Uh, what?” I go all warm and shivery, like I’ve got flu. Sex flu.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I love that you’re a virgin. It means I can tell you a bunch of stuff is normal when it’s actually a grave cause for concern.”

“I’m not a virgin!” I can’t get the words out fast enough.

“I heard your virginity alarm going off right before you told me about the octopus.”

I freeze. “You
heard
that? But-but it was in my head—”

“Actually, it’s a very high-frequency sound wave that only bats and fucktards can hear,” he says matter-of-factly. “Fortunately for you, there were no bats present. That would have involved some expensive reconstructive surgery.”

“Uh…okay then.”

“You’d be less Vaj Mahal, more ancient ruins. We’re talking Bonehenge.”

For a moment, all I think of is Stonehenge. How did they
build
the Stonehenge?

“Gosling.” He leans right over to talk into my ear. “I heard that alarm go off the moment I saw you, and I almost besmirched my pants there and then.”

I swear, a British accent can make the most stupid words sound hot. “Hunter?”

“Yeah?”

“Say
besmirched
again for me.”

He runs his bare fingertip down to the back of my knee, and tickles. “Be
smirched
.”

Oh, oh yes yes yes.

More tickling, right in the crease between my meat curtains and my thigh. I get the feeling that people are watching us, not the lecture.

“Besmirrrrrchy murchy murchy,” he growls into my neck.

My breath picks up, catches in my throat. I have to grip the edges of my chair. “Oh, Hunter.”

His finger goes higher. His voice gets gruffer. “Besmiiiiiiirched, is that what you like?”

“Yes, yes…” Holy Squid Patrick Harris, what’s happening to me? “I think—OHMYGOD!”

I’m having my first orgasm. In the middle of a lecture theatre. It forces me off the chair and I roll into the aisle, bleating like a baby goat.

The room falls silent and the professor stops gesturing to stare at me with his best
wtf
? face. I expect Hunter to offer a hand, to help me, but instead he gives his fingers a sniff and collects his briefcase. Then he turns to the half-filled theatre and takes a little bow. As he slopes off toward the exit, I clamber to my knees, blushing more fiercely than I can ever remember. My legs are all trembly and I appear to have cracked the screen of my iPad; I want to sob, but my hips are still quivering and despite the complete embarrassment, I feel quite…nice.