by Lauren Rowe
I think for a moment. “The two handsome and happy lads were in a bit of a pickle, but they nonetheless had high hopes they would one day be able to suss things out.”
Zander nods definitively. “Excellent.”
“Hey, that should be our band name,” I say, referring to the imaginary band Zander and I have been naming for years. “Sussing Maddy Milliken.”
“Done.”
We clink our beer bottles and take long swigs in celebration of our new band name.
“Well, whether I’m sussing Maddy Milliken or not,” I say, “I can’t send her a text that says, ‘Who the fuck are you?’”
“Why not?”
“What if I fucked her? That’d be awkward, to say the least.”
“Wait a minute—you did fuck Maddy Milliken? I thought you said you didn’t. And here I was thinking I was a stud for merely sussing Maddy Milliken.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Nah, actually,” I say. “I really don’t think I’ve fucked Maddy Milliken. But what if I did?”
“What the fuck does that mean? Did you or didn’t you? Do you often fuck a woman and have no memory of doing it?”
“Well, no, of course, not—not to my knowledge, anyway. But that’s my entire point. How do you know when you’ve forgotten something? See what I mean? If you’ve forgotten something, how would you know that?”
“That’s fucked up. You’re fucking with my head, Peen.”
“Just sayin’.”
“That’s some serious Matrix shit right there, man.” He swigs his beer. “Hey, maybe it’s just a wrong number? You got your number changed ’cause of that stalker chick a while ago, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” I point at Zander emphatically. “That’s gotta be it.”
“Yep, that’s gotta be it,” Zander agrees, clearly energized by the idea. “Maybe Maddy Milliken’s trying to reach the dude who used to have your number?”
“Yee-boy, that’s gotta be it.” I re-read the message, but, immediately, even to my stoned brain, it’s clear this new idea is a nonstarter. “Nope. She called me Keane. She knows my name.”
“Oh. Shit. Not a wrong number, then.”
“Fuck.”
“You seriously think you fucked a chick and don’t remember it?” Zander asks.
“Highly unlikely,” I concede. “My dick’s got the memory of an elephant.”
“And that’s not the only elephant-like thing about your dick, Peenie Weenie.”
“Yee-boy!” I shout.
We high-five each other.
“Now, my dick?” Zander says. “No memory at all. In fact, I think my dick’s got Alzheimer’s, man.”
We both burst out laughing.
“So what should I say to Maddy Milliken, then?” I ask. “Should I just say, ‘Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you talking about, sweetheart?’”
“Gimme your phone,” Zander says, grabbing my phone out of my palm. “I gotta see her exact words to give you appropriate counsel.”
“Holy guacamole, baby doll. You and your fancy words today.”
“She called you ‘dickweed,’” Zander says, looking at my phone. “Wow. I like this girl. If you haven’t fucked Maddy Milliken yet, then I really think you should consider doing so.”
“I’m never gonna fuck Maddy Milliken. She hates me.”
“Yeah,” Zander agrees. “Sure looks that way.” He looks at my phone again and snickers. “Hey, she wants to know what you’re packing, Peen Star.”
“She does? Well, she should get in line—so do half the sexually active women in Seattle.”
In one fluid motion, Zander pulls his big, black dick and balls out of his sweatpants, making me cringe at the horrific sight of them, snaps a photo, presses some buttons on my phone, and then shoves my phone back at me. “There you go, baby doll. Consider Maddy Milliken officially sussed. You’re welcome.”
“What the fuck?” I say. I look at my phone and, I’ll be damned, Zander’s replied to Maddy Milliken’s text with a photo of his big ol’ dong and balls, no caption or explanation included. I look up at Zander. “Dude. Maddy Milliken’s not going to be pleased.”
“Hey, she wanted to know what you’re packing.”
“Zander,” I say. “You can’t send an unsolicited dick-pic to a chick. Not cool.”
Zander bursts out laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“’Dick-pick to a chick.’”
I join him in laughing. “Dick-pick to a chick,” I say, and we laugh for a solid two minutes.
“It’s the social-media edition of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm,’” Zander finally says, wiping his eyes. “Dick-pick to a chick-chick, everywhere a dick-pic. Here a dick, there a pic, everywhere a dick-pick.”
“E-i-e-i-o,” I answer.
We both laugh hysterically again.
“Look, no worries,” Zander says, swigging his beer. “If it turns out this Maddy girl actually knows you, then she’ll know right away my chocolate Easter bunny’s not yours, snowflake—and if she thinks my mocha-choca-latte-ya-ya is yours, then she clearly doesn’t know you from Mr. T... in which case, why the fuck would you care if she’s pissed at you?”
“Aaaaaah,” I say.
“See what I did there?”
“You got brains for days, Wifey.”
Z taps his temple, a big smile on his face. “And that, my beloved Peenie Weenie, is how the big boys suss a woman out.” Zander brings his beer bottle to his lips again. “Stick with me, baby doll—I’ll show you the world.”
We drink our beers and watch the movie again for a long moment. After a while, I glance down at my phone and I’m assaulted with the image of Zander’s dick and balls again.
“Jesus, Z.”
“What?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of man-scaping?”
“Huh?”
“Your balls look like the Cookie Monster eating a bratwurst.”
Zander lifts the waistband of his sweats, reaches into his pants and takes a gander at his junk. “Yeah, huh. I guess it’s been a while since I had a date with my electric razor, now that I think about it. Well, shit, now I feel kinda bad for that amazing girl from last night.” He sighs happily. “Daphne.”
“You liked her, huh?”
“I think I’m in love. Hey, thanks for helping me out with her. You went above and beyond this time, wingman.” He motions to my hair. “I owe you big.”
“Any time.”
My phone buzzes with an incoming text: “OH MY GOD!!!!! Real mature, you LITTLE PRICK! (Yeah, that’s right, I’m calling you a LITTLE prick AFTER seeing your dick, Keane!) What the HELL is wrong with you? If you don’t want a ride, just say so! I didn’t want to drive you in the first place, jerksauce! LOSE MY NUMBER, YOU FLAMING ASSHOLE!!!!”
I stare at my phone, my eyes glazed over. “Maddy Milliken is not pleased,” I say evenly.
“No?”
“Nope.”
“Lemme see that.” Zander grabs my phone from me. “Hey, Mr. Happy’s not little, Maddy Milliken!” he shouts at my phone at full voice, but he’s smiling. “Maddy Milliken’s a cool chick. I really like her.”
“Well, I don’t like her. In fact, I actively dislike her.”
Zander laughs. “Aw, come on, she’s a cutie. ‘Lose my number, you flaming asshole!’ That was pretty cute. Plus, she called you ‘jerksauce.’ She’s adorbsicles.”
“She’s not cute or adorbsicles. She’s a tight-ass who sends incomprehensible text messages to poor, defenseless men. She should be ashamed of herself.”
“Well, either way, Maddy Milliken’s now officially sussed.” He tosses my phone onto the coffee table. “She thinks you’re a black man.”
“With a little pecker and fuzzy balls.”
We both laugh.
“So what the fuck did she mean she didn’t want to give you a ride in the first place?” Z asks.
“I have no idea.”
My phone buzzes with yet another inco
ming text on the coffee table and Zander picks up my phone.
“Uh- oh,” Zander says, looking at the screen.
“Is Maddy Milliken all-caps screaming at me again?” I ask, shoving a huge handful of popcorn into my mouth. “This ought to be good.”
“Um. Peen?”
“What?”
“Um.”
“Spit it out, fucker.” I take a swig of my beer. “Hit me with the Wrath of Maddy Milliken. I can take it.”
“Were you planning to go to L.A.?”
I pause, taken aback by the question. “No. I mean, yeah, sort of. I was planning to hang out with Dax—watch him record his album for a couple days and then maybe audition for that fancy talent agency that contacted me last month—but I haven’t set a date or anything.” The hairs on my arms stand up. “Why?”
“Well, it seems Maddy Milliken thinks your plan to visit L.A. is a bit more concrete than that.”
“Huh?”
Zander hands me the phone and I read the message on my screen: “And btw, asshole,” the text says. “I only said yes to giving you a ride as a favor to Dax! When he said ‘could you please give my brother a ride to L.A.,’ I thought he was talking about his actual BROTHER, not some random ‘bro’ of his with the social skills of a pogo stick!!!! You know what? If your ‘bro’ won’t give me the damned parking spot now that I’m not driving your disgusting ass to L.A., I don’t give a crap anymore! I’d rather not have parking all school year than have to spend one freaking minute alone in a car with you, let alone three effing days! DON’T CONTACT ME EVER AGAIN, YOU SEX OFFENDER!!!!”
I finish reading the message and swallow hard. “Oh fucking shit.”
“This is bad,” Z says.
“Dax is gonna kill me,” I say, my stomach clenching.
“Why? You couldn’t have known. Dax didn’t even bother to tell you.”
“Oh my God.” I slap my forehead. “Daxy asked me to call him the other day and I never did. He said it was important.” I frantically scroll through my legions of unread texts until I get to a text-thread with Dax. Oh shit. Since that first text from Dax the other day, the one he sent to me right before I went into that rowdy bachelorette party on Friday night, there are now maybe eight unread texts from him. (Confession? Sometimes I don’t read my texts in a timely manner.)
“PEEN!” Dax writes in one of his many texts. “CALL ME! I left you two VMs!!!”
And on and on.
“Peen, you asshole. CALL ME. Are you dead? There’s this girl named Maddy Milliken. I stupidly gave her your number before I’d talked to you and now she’s gonna be calling you. I want you to drive to L.A. with her. I’ll explain everything when you call. It’s too long to text. P.S. Lay off the weed.”
“Peen, are you dead?” another text reads. “Did you guzzle your cologne, thinking it was tequila, you dumbfuck?”
And, finally, there’s the last one of the bunch: “Peen, fuck you. I didn’t wanna have to text about all this but you leave me no choice. Remember Kat’s friend Hannah from the wedding? Well, she’s got a little sister named Maddy. ARE YOU FOCUSING, PEEN? Hannah lives across the hall from me (because her boyfriend is Reed’s best friend so Reed gave Hannah a smokin’ deal on an apartment) and the other day Hannah was telling me her little sister’s gonna be driving from Seattle to L.A. (cuz the sister’s transferring to UCLA film school). FOCUS, PEEN! Hannah doesn’t want Maddy making the drive alone (apparently, Maddy was in some horrible car crash a few years ago, and Hannah gets really worried about her baby sister driving long distances), so I volunteered you to make the drive with her. DO NOT FREAK OUT, PEEN! First off, you keep saying you wanna visit me in L.A., so now’s your chance. Second off, Hannah’s super nice so let’s do her a favor just because Morgan boys are cool like that. And, third off, as I mentioned, Hannah’s boyfriend is Reed’s best friend, so I figure doing a solid for Reed’s best friend’s girlfriend just makes sense in the karmic scheme of things. In case you’re not fully understanding the full picture here (which is highly likely), Reed’s the guy who decides if my album gets rock star marketing or sits on a shelf collecting dust, so I wanna be Johnny on the Spot when it comes to him or anyone in his inner circle. Got it? So you’re driving to L.A. with Maddy Milliken and you’re going to be polite and nice and pretend to be normal at all times (as hard as that is for you). FOCUS, PEEN! You will be the best, most fictitiously admirable version of yourself the whole fucking road trip! Oh, yeah, and DO NOT FUCK HER! We both know that won’t end well and I don’t want you creating any kind of drama that could splash back on me. Like I say, Maddy’s gonna live across the hall with her sister, so I don’t want you pissing her off and leaving me to pick up the fucking pieces after you leave. I’m under a ton of pressure here, man, so don’t add to it, fucker. Plus, don’t tell anyone about this part, but I’ve heard some sketch stories about Reed and believe me he’s not a guy I wanna piss off IN ANY WAY. So let’s keep Reed and everyone in his universe happy while I’m recording my album, okay? CALL ME, FUCKER! Or at least reply to this text and tell me you understand the sitch. I love you, bro. CALL ME.”
I look up from my phone, my eyes wide. “Shit,” I say, frantically swiping into my missed-calls folder. Fuck. There are no less than four missed calls from Dax in the last few days. Plus, there are missed calls and texts from my brothers Ryan and Colby. And two voicemails from Maddy Milliken’s number. And, worst of all, ho-lee shit, I’m a dead man—there’s a text from my sister, Kat, telling me if I don’t call Daxy right away, she’s gonna make me wish I was never born. And, motherfucker, I totally believe her.
I open my mouth to tell Z I’m a dead man, but, before I can speak, there’s a loud, emphatic pounding at my door.
“Keane!” a voice yells on the other side of the door.
“Oh, shit,” Zander whispers. “Is that Ryan?”
I nod, my eyes wide.
“Keane!” Ryan’s voice says.
“He never calls me Keane,” I whisper. “Ever.”
“Oh shit,” Z says. “You’re a dead man, Peenie.”
“Oh shit,” I agree. “Dude. I’m motherfucking toast.”
Chapter 9
Keane
“Keane! You in there, man?” my older brother Ryan’s voice bellows on the other side of the door. “Keaney? Are you okay?” He pounds on the door again. “Keane?”
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Z and I stare at each other, two raccoons in headlights.
“Keane?” Ryan says on the other side of the door again.
“Get the door,” Z whispers.
“No,” I whisper back. “Let’s hide and hope he goes away.”
The lock on the door clicks open—hey, when the fuck did Ryan get a key to my apartment?—and I scramble up from the couch, looking for a place to hide.
The door swings open and Ryan bounds into the room, clearly frantic, but the minute he sees me, his face rapidly morphs from anxiety into an expression of relief and then shock—or is that last one rage?
“What the fuck?” Ryan bellows.
“Hi, Captain. Nice to see you.”
Ryan stares at me for a beat, apparently thrown off his game. “Why the fuck is your hair blue?”
I touch my hair absently. Oh yeah. I totally forgot about that. I flash my brother a huge smile.
“You’re stoned?” Ryan asks.
I nod.
“Out of your fucking mind?” Ryan asks.
I nod again. And then I shake my head. “Not out of my mind. Well, okay, yeah, out of my mind.”
Ryan grits his teeth. “Dax made me rush over here to check on you; he’s so worried about you. He says he’s been trying to reach you for three days, you moron.” Ryan nods at Z. “Hey, Zander.”
“Hey, Captain.”
“You stoned out of your mind, too?” Ryan asks.
“Yup. Out of my mind,” Zander says, smiling. “I just sent a chick a photo of my big ol’ cock and hairy balls.”
“Well, good for you
, Z. I’m sure she’ll cherish it forever.” Ryan returns his glare to me. “Dude. Seriously. Have you been high for three solid days?”
I shake my head. “Just tonight. I haven’t smoked for a solid month before now. I’ve been really busy lately.”
“Doing what?”
I shrug. “Being every woman’s fantasy, you know.” I flash Ryan another huge smile, but he’s obviously not charmed. “Working out with ZZ Top every day.” I flex my impressive tricep muscle for him. “I’m totally ripped these days, brah—best shape of my life.”
“Congratulations.”
“And, uh, I took some extra bartending shifts at Hot Spot on nights when I don’t have a gig. Oh, and I fucked a MILF I met at the grocery story yesterday. Nice little marathon sesh—kinda lost track of time on that one.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows. “You went to a grocery store?”
“I go to the grocery store all the time, Ry. I gotta eat.”
Ryan stares me down.
“Okay. Fine. I was in the mood to fuck a MILF, so I went to find one in the produce section. MILFs like shopping organic.”
“Whose mom was she?”
“I don’t know. But her kid called while we were fucking and the MILF had to take the call. Turns out the kid forgot her shin guards for soccer practice.” I snicker. “It was so rad.”
Ryan can’t help but smile. “That is kinda rad.”
“You shoulda seen the MILF’s shopping cart, man. It was full of little-kid food. You know, like Skippy and Fruit Roll-Ups and shit.” I laugh. “We ate all of it right after we fucked. So awesome.”
Ryan shakes his head, grinning. “I must admit, that’s pretty fucking rad.”
I smirk. “I had her going so good, she was speaking in tongues, man.”
“Good boy.”
“Always.”
We share a smile.
“So why the fuck is your hair blue?” Ryan asks. “You look like a fucking Smurf.”
Z raises his huge arm. “That shit’s on me, Captain. This amazing girl I hooked up with last night was trying to decide which shade of blue to dye her hair—because, you know, she wasn’t sure whether to go blue-blue or sky-blue or more like aqua-blue? So, since her hair’s pretty much the same shade of dirty-ass-blonde as Peenie’s here, I offered our boy up as her guinea pig.”
