by Lauren Rowe
“Oh, shit,” I say out loud, suddenly remembering the baseball tickets.
I tap out a third text to Ryan:
“Oh, yeah! Almost forgot. Hell yes, I want ur baseball tix, brah! Thx, Captain! U da best!!! (Except for the fact that ur an extras-stealing, backstabbing fuckface.) Leave the tix on ur kitchen counter and I’ll swing by and grab ’em some time this week. Oh, yeah, um... Confession? I still have ur house key. I totally lied when I said I put it back in the drawer last time. Aw, come on, Pretty Boy—don’t be mad at ur favorite bro. We both know when I see ya next time I’m just gonna flash my dimples and make u forget u were ever pissed at me, so why bother being mad at me in the first place? Thx again! I love u da most, Rum Cake!” Heart emoji.
After I send my final text to Ryan, I shoot a quick text to my sister, Kat: “Hey, Kum Shot. Thanks so much for inviting me to see Muse on Thurs nite with ur crew! Gonna be a blast! Oh, wait, no... that’s right: U DIDN’T FUCKING INVITE ME! Because u SUCK!” I attach a middle-finger emoji. “Say hi to Lambo and give Little G a big hug from her favorite uncle. Love u guys so much (even though u suck ass like a Dyson).” Heart emoji.
I glance at my watch. Still about ten minutes before Ball Peen Hammer reports for duty. Damn it. Why’d I get here so fucking early? I hate waiting.
I continue scrolling through the endless messages and notifications on my phone. Oh, there’s a text from my oldest brother, Colby: “Hey, fuckwad. Call me. I left you a vm three days ago and you never called me back.”
I ignore this one. Colby knows better than to leave me a goddamned voicemail—which means it’s his own damned fault if I didn’t call him back. That’s shame on him, not me. Delete.
Oh, hey, there’s a text from my booking agent, Melissa, someone I’ll always hit back, no matter what:
“Hey, Keane!” Melissa’s text says. “Thanks for coming to my birthday party last night! I LOOOOOOVED the show you and the boys put on for me!” She attaches a blushing-face emoji. “So, hey, hot stuff, a new client has specifically requested BPH for a private show tomorrow night. She saw you perform at Hot Spot last month and it seems you made quite the impression. Apparently, it’s a ‘divorce finalization celebration,’ so it’s probs gonna get pretty wild. I told her you’re booked at HS this Sat night, but she said she’d pay 2x what you make at the club. I told her, no, she’s gotta pay 3x + $100 as your guaranteed tip (my 20% to be taken off the top) and she said ok. (Damn, I’m good.) If u want the gig, I’ll send Brent or Felipe to take your place at HS—but you gotta lemme know ASAP. If I don’t hear from you before midnight tonight, I’m gonna have to confirm Brent for the horny divorcée. LMK.”
I scoff loudly, even as I’m sitting alone in my car, and tap out a rapid-fire reply: “Oh, sure, Mel, you’re gonna send BRENT to the horny divorcée. Riiiiiight. The woman asks for BPH specifically and ur gonna send her the Cowboy Kid? For fuck’s sake, the poor woman’s lady-boner would go completely soft! Just do me a favor and make sure this one knows she’s getting the legendary BALL PEEN HAMMER and not my actual balls, peen, and hammer. Mmmmmkay? BTW, I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell clients I’m not slangin’ dang, Mel. It’s awkward, to say the least, for me to do it in the moment. So do your job for once and tell the clients I’m not a paid cock when you book the gig. Don’t be a greedy little bitch, M. If a potential client doesn’t want me cuz I’m a pro, then five more clients WILL for that exact same reason. So, yeah, if this client wants someone with actual talent and a body like a god who’s gonna give her a happy memory to fall back on every time she’s fucking some old bald guy with a beer belly, back hair, and tragically low testosterone levels, then hellz yeah, book the fuck out of it. BPH will be there with donkey balls on, baby. But if this divorcée is looking to sow her newfound wild oats with a cabana boy who’s got a plug-and-play pecker, then by all means send Brent. Peace out.” I attach a heart emoji, making sure Melissa knows I love her, even when I’m busting her balls.
I look at my watch. Five minutes until showtime. Jesus God. Is time standing still? I continue scrolling through my texts, looking for anything to pass the time, and a text from a number I don’t recognize catches my eye:
“Hey, Keane! This is Jade from Melissa’s party? I got your number from Samantha. Was thinking we could hang out some time. Call me!” She attaches a winking emoji and a pair of lips.
Well, first of all, I don’t remember a chick named Jade from last night’s party. And, second of all, I don’t even like Samantha. She’s always a total bitch to Z. Bros before hoes, babe. Delete.
I keep scrolling through several more texts until another message catches my eye: “Hi there! This is Madelyn Milliken, Hannah’s sister? Please call or text me whenever it’s convenient, so we can make arrangements for next week. I’m pretty flexible regarding timing! Looking forward to taking this trip with you!”
I stare at the incomprehensible message for a long beat, trying to understand its meaning. Who the fuck is Madelyn Milliken? And what the fuck is she talking about? What trip? Is that, like, some kind of coded drug reference? ’Cause I might like to party on occasion, for sure, but I’m not some kind of junkie or drug dealer, for fuck’s sake. Or is she assuming I’m gonna physically go somewhere with her? Ha! What the fuck? And why the hell should I care if she’s got a sister named Hannah?
Wait.
A thought is suddenly rapping at the back door of my brain. Hannah Milliken. That name does sound vaguely familiar, actually. I look up at the ceiling of my car for a beat, racking my brain. Nooooooope. False alarm. I got nothing. Sorry, Madelyn Milliken, whoever the fuck you are: there shall be no Peen for you. Delete.
I glance at the time. Yee-boy! It’s showtime, baby.
I grab my hat off the passenger seat of my car, slide a pair of mirrored-sunglasses onto my face, and survey my reflection in my rearview mirror. Hot damn, I’m a handsome-and-happy motherfucker. And, good God, I look like such a prick in this get-up. Awesome.
Chapter 4
Keane
I pull out my portable speaker with built-in disco lights from the trunk of my car and stride purposefully toward the large house, the handcuffs attached to my belt jangling softly as I go, a smile dancing on my lips. Oh man, I love my life.
“Well, hello,” a thirty-something-year-old brunette says when she opens the front door, her eyes devouring me. Behind her from inside the house, female voices are shrieking and laughing with what sounds to my expert ear like drunken revelry, while loud music blares. The song playing is “Crash” by hip-hop mega-star 2Real, who just so happens to be the biggest star on my baby brother’s new record label. (Hot damn, I’m proud of my rock-star baby brother!)
“Ma’am,” I say to the brunette at the door, spreading my legs a bit and subtly tilting my package toward her.
Okay, that dick-tilting thing I just did? Totally on purpose.
Hey. Quit rolling your eyes at me, baby doll. It’s not a good look on you.
It’s my job to make women want me, sweetheart—and I’m damned good at my job. I may not be in the business of professionally fucking women, but I sure as hell am in the business of making women want to fuck me. Which means that, right from the word go of every job, through everything I do—including that subtle dick-tilt maneuver I just did—I’m serving up what women want most from their walking fantasy: an alpha male. That’s right, baby, with every little thing I do, I make sure the horny ladies know I’m a guy who’d dominantly lead their naturally submissive asses to the Promised Land, if ever they were lucky enough to get a piece of me.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t get your panties in a twist, babe. When I say women are naturally submissive, I’m talking about sex, okay? Obviously, I know women run countries and corporations and kick ass and take names every which way. Have you met my mother and sister? Dude. I know. What I’m saying is that, when it comes to sex, women are wired through biology and physiology and probs a bunch of other -ologies to crave total domination. I’m not talking about dom/
sub shit like doggie collars, whips, and chains here—though I’ve got no objection to any of that shit, if that’s your bag—I’m talking about something way, way more fundamental than any of that. I’m talking about the basic fact that virtually every red-blooded woman, whether she admits it or not, no matter how independent and ass-kicking she might be outside the bedroom, secretly wants a man to own her ass inside it.
Oh, you wanna fight me on this? Okay, sure. Can’t wait to hear your analysis on the subject, perhaps over tea and crumpets. I tell you what, sweetheart. What say we schedule a time to chat about the issue right after I count the five hundred or so bucks the horny women at this bachelorette party are gonna stuff into my crotch, two inches from my dipstick?
Yeah, that’s right. I make about five hundred C-notes per night in tips, when every other chump in the biz makes two-fifty tops, if he’s lucky. How can this be, you wonder? Is it ’cause I’m so fucking pretty? Well, yeah, I am, actually—way prettier than your sister. But that’s a given in this biz. You gotta be pretty to get a decent agent and book the jobs. Is it ’cause my dance moves are extra filthy? ’Cause they are. And it certainly doesn’t hurt my cause that I genuinely love making horny women scream. I love it. But none of that stuff is my secret sauce—that one special ingredient that gets me twice the tips as any other guy.
So what’s my secret? Okay, I’ll tell you, but only ’cause you’re so pretty and sweet: I’m awesome at sex and women can smell it on me.
You know how dogs can sense an earthquake just before it happens? Yeah, well, this confidence-thing with me and my sexual prowess is just like that. My dominance in the bedroom (and wherever else the mood happens to strike me) is an earthquake and women are my horny little bitches.
Hey. Ho. Whoa. Calm down.
Quit with the eye-rolling thing again, babe.
I’m using the word “bitches” to mean “female dogs” ’cause I’m making a clever pun here. I didn’t just call women “bitches” in a hip-hop kind of way. Calm your tits.
But anyway, what I’m telling you is the God’s truth—no bluffing or exaggeration, whatsoever. Just good old fashioned verisimilitude. (Oh, dude, if Z were here, he’d fist-bump me for that one.) Bottom line? I fuck like a motherfucking god.
You doubt me?
Well, don’t.
I might be just a baby at twenty-three, but I’m also a Morgan brother—and, trust me, we Morgans know how to bang. My whole life, my older brothers have shared information with me, telling me what they’ve figured out firsthand, sending me links to the best blogs to read and the best instructional videos to watch. My older brother Ryan in particular is our fearless leader in this arena, a fucking sex-guru that guy, I swear to God—though my oldest bro, Colby, the Grand Cheese of the Morgan siblings, is no slouch, either, when it comes to ringing the bell.
Now don’t get me wrong. My brothers don’t send me videos of themselves mid-bang or anything like that, and we don’t, you know, lure women into some kind of depraved Morgan-brother igloo. We’re just normal guys who like to bang well and often. Nothing too kinky, as far as I know. All I’m saying is that we Morgan brothers share information with each other—hell yeah, we do—lots of it—all in the name of ‘helping a brother out.’ Literally. Which is why, at the tender age of twenty-three, I’ve already perfected all sorts of pretty nifty tricks to get women off, not the least of which is a little maneuver we Morgan boys like to call “The Sure Thing.”
Still rolling your eyes at me, baby doll? Yeah. Didn’t think so.
What’s The Sure Thing, you’re dying to know? Well, it sucks to be you, I guess. Maybe you won’t roll your eyes at me so much next time and then I’ll tell you. All you need to know right now is that it’s next level, baby, the kind of thing that makes a woman addicted to it and gives a guy the kind of swagger women can smell—which, in my line of work, translates into dollar bills for me and wet panties for the horny ladies.
Speaking of which, the curvy brunette at the door is looking at me like she’s already thinking about tackling me.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” the brunette says coyly, jutting her ample chest toward me and flashing a huge smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling back at her. “A big problem.” I motion vaguely to my crotch when I say “big.”
My new friend lets out a sexy little giggle and leans her shoulder against the doorjamb. “Oh my God. Wow.”
“Is there an Allison Mendocino inside the residence, ma’am?” I run my free hand across my chest, right over my fake badge, across my pecs, and widen my stance a bit more, letting my bulge take center stage.
“Yeah, Allison’s inside. Oh my God, she’s gonna lose her mind when she sees you. You’re absolutely...” The woman bites her lower lip, apparently considering her next word. “Scrumptious.”
Oh, that’s a new one. I like that. “Thank you,” I say smoothly. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Not being sweet—you’re man-candy at its finest, Officer...” The woman leans forward and squints at my badge. “Hammer.” She giggles. “Officer Hammer? Oh my God.”
“My full name is Officer Ball Peen Hammer,” I say, flashing her a huge smile—the one that unleashes my dimples with extra sauce. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Francesca.”
“Oh, pretty name. Hi, Francesca.” I shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
See what I did there? How I used the words “pleasure” and “Francesca” in close proximity to each other? Yeah, that was on purpose. You want a little tip? When first meeting a woman you want to fuck (or, if you happen to be in my line of work, when first meeting a woman you’re trying to make want to fuck you), use her name early and often in a confident, masculine voice. Why? Because when a woman hears you say her name, it subliminally makes her feel like you’re staking a claim over her—you know, displaying your sexual dominance. And then, if you double down and explicitly link her name to the concept of pleasure, well, then, at that point you’re sending a coded message straight to the pleasure-center in her brain—which means you’ve got a horny fish on your line. You’re welcome.
Francesca makes a little noise of excitement and grips my hand tightly. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Aw, you’re a sweetheart, Francesca. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. It really is, Francesca—a huge pleasure.”
Francesca looks ready to jump my bones right here and now on the porch. “I’m sorry to go on and on complimenting you,” she breathes, still holding my hand. She takes a step forward, pulling our bodies together. “Forgive me. I’ll stop in just a second, I swear. But you’re perfect. I mean, literally. I can’t stop staring.”
I smile. “Aw, Frankie. Can I call you Frankie? Thank you. Such a pleasure.”
Look, I never say this out loud because women dig a guy who at least pretends to be somewhat humble (outside the bedroom, anyway), but the truth is I know I’m most women’s idea of physical perfection. If I had a dollar bill for every time a woman has hit on me, totally out of the blue—and I’m talking about my buddies’ moms and women standing in grocery-store lines, not just women at bars or my shows—or, shit, if I had a nickel for every time a woman’s told me she’d do just about anything to experience one night of pleasure with me—then I’d be a millionaire by now. No, actually, a billionaire—not even exaggerating. Probs even a trillionaire. No lie.
My new admirer leans forward, giving me a nice view of her curves. “Hey, would you take off your glasses for a sec?” she asks. She glances behind her, toward the raucous sounds of the party inside the house. “I just want a quick peek at your eyes before I take you in there and throw you to the she-wolves.” She bites her finger, and her massive wedding ring sparkles in the dim light of the porch.
“My pleasure, Francesca.” I lower my sunglasses and level her with my best smolder—and she gasps. I wink, smile, and slide my mirrored glasses back over my eyes.
“Wow. Your eyes are gorgeous,�
�� she breathes. “I think you might be the most attractive man I’ve ever met.”
Cha-ching. Add another nickel to my trillion-dollar bank account in the sky, baby. “Thank you,” I say. “So, hey, will you do me a favor when we get in there, Frankie? Will you cut the music and lights?” I motion to my speaker. “I’ve got my show all cued up for you pretty ladies.”
“Sure thing,” Francesca says. “You ready to head in there now... Officer Hammer?”
“I sure am. And so is my hammer.” Another wink.
She bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Follow me, sweetie.”
“My pleasure, Frankie.”
I follow her through the entryway of the large house, admiring her round ass as she leads the way.
We turn a corner and I’m met with a familiar and awesome sight: a group of women, all of them obviously buzzed and chomping at the bit to let their freak flags fly. One of the women (clearly, tonight’s bachelorette) is sitting in the middle of a couch, wearing a sparkling tiara and beauty-queen sash that proclaims in large, glittering letters, “I LOVE COCK!”
I can’t help but smile at that. From what I’ve seen over the past year and change of doing this awesome job, bachelorette sashes usually say “FUTURE MRS. SO-AND-SO” or “BRIDE TO BE.” Looks like this is gonna be a particularly rowdy group.
“Oh, laaaaadies!” the Gatekeeper calls out to her friends, prompting them to look our way—and, just like that, the room bursts into a gigantic Molotov cocktail of estrogen. Awesome.
Chapter 5
Keane
“Allison Mendocino?” I bark in my best cop-voice.
“Oh my God!” the bachelorette shrieks, putting her hand over her heart.
“There’s been a criminal complaint filed against you, Allison. It seems you’ve been a very bad girl.”
