by Lauren Rowe
“Knock yourself out, sweet thing,” I say.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Keane unceremoniously flops his body onto his chosen bed, flashing his dimples at me as he does.
Wow. Life sure is full of surprises, isn’t it? When I picked Keane up in front of his apartment building twelve hours ago, I never would have believed in a million years I’d be sharing a motel room with him tonight, and yet, here we are, and I’m not the least bit anxious about it. When the motel clerk asked, “One room or two?,” it felt like the most natural thing in the world for me to say to Keane, “Hey, why spend double the money for two rooms?”
“I should warn you,” Keane says, stretching out to his full length on his bed and putting his hands behind his head. “I’m probs gonna stink up the bathroom in the morning, so you should plan on getting your ass in there before I bomb it to high heaven.”
I laugh. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll be sure to go in there before you.”
Keane flashes me his dimples again and rubs his palms together. “So, hey, let’s get this film festival underway. I’m dying to see this masterpiece of yours.”
I grab my duffel bag. “I’m gonna take a quick shower and then I’ll cue it up.”
“Radsicles. I’ll pop a brewski and watch some baseball while I wait.” He flips on the TV and begins scrolling through the channels.
“Cool,” I say. “And, yes, that’s most definitely ‘k-e-w-l.’”
“Hey, don’t fling that shit around willy-nilly, sweetheart—it’s gotta mean something special when you use it.”
“Oh, I know, and, trust me—it does.”
We share a huge smile.
While Keane makes himself comfortable in front of the TV, beer in hand, I float into the bathroom, my duffel bag in hand, a huge smile on my face.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, my hair wet, my body relaxed, to find Keane on the floor in front of the TV, doing crunches.
The minute Keane sees me, he stops what he’s doing and flashes me a look of unmistakable annoyance. “Oh, for the love of fuck,” Keane says, motioning to me with clear disdain. “You gotta be kidding me.”
I look down. “What?”
“You sleep in a baggy sweatshirt? Jesus Christ, Maddy, first that god-awful shirt and now this? Are you even capable of waggling your boobs at a guy?”
“I’m chilly.”
“Bullshit. It’s a hundred degrees in this room.”
“It is? Oh. Well, I’m chilly.”
“Liar.”
“Not lying.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying, Keane.”
But, oh my God, I’m totally lying.
I’m hot as hell in this goddamned sweatshirt.
But after the big deal Keane made about surveying my “merchandise,” I’m too self-conscious to reveal the tight-fitting “Adventure Time” tank top I’m wearing underneath my sweatshirt.
Keane rolls his eyes as he pops up from the floor, grabbing his duffel bag as he goes. “I’m gonna take a quick shower and when I come out, I want Shoot Like a Girl cued up on your laptop and those boobs of yours in full waggle-mode. I gotta see what we’re working with here, man-eater.”
I scowl at him.
“Hey, easy with daggers, babe. How the fuck else am I gonna help you attract hotties who’ll make your motor run if I haven’t seen what you’ve got to hook them with?”
“I never asked you to help me ‘hook’ the hotties.”
“Yeah, but I’m a giver, baby. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“What if I don’t want or need your help? Maybe I’m gonna ‘hook hotties’ with my sparkling personality alone.”
Keane pauses for a beat just outside the bathroom door, apparently letting what I’ve said sink in, and then he throws his head back. “Bwahahahaahaaaaaa!” he bellows, just before closing the bathroom door behind him.
I roll my eyes, even though Keane’s no longer in the room to witness the gesture, and pull out my phone. Not surprisingly, I’ve got a text from my sister.
“Howz it going, sissy?” Hannah writes. “Check in, please.”
I punch the button to give my sister a call.
“Hellooooooooo,” Hannah says when she picks up my call.
“Hi, Banana,” I say. “I’m safe and sound. Made it to a motel near Medford without anyone attacking me.”
I hear the shower in the bathroom turn on.
“Excellent,” Hannah says. “This pleases me. And how’s it going with your bodyguard? Are you still mad at me for forcing you to bring him along?”
“Not mad at all. Keane’s awesome. We’re having fun together.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yep. We clicked right away. Well, almost right away. Tiny stumble at first.”
“So he’s nice?”
“Um, ‘nice’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe Keane Morgan. That’s not nearly descriptive enough.”
“Oh, reeeeeeally?” Hannah says, her tone laced with innuendo.
“No, no. It’s not like that. Keane’s a sweetheart, but he’s definitely just a friend. It’s so weird—I already feel like I’ve known him forever. You wouldn’t believe how easily I just babble and babble with him for hours on end about everything and nothing.”
“You’re using your happy voice, Madelyn.”
“Probably because I’m extremely happy. We just had pizza at this adorable little place with Lady and the Tramp tablecloths and now we’re settling in for the night at our motel. We’re gonna watch Shoot Like a Girl on my laptop.”
“Oh, reeeeeeeeeeaaaally?” Hannah says. “You two went out for dinner like Lady and the Tramp and now he’s gonna watch your movie?”
“Yeah, he seems genuinely excited. I didn’t even have to twist his arm to watch it.”
“Oh, reeeeeeeeaaaaaally?” Hannah says.
“Listen to me, Linda,” I say. “I told you: it’s not like that with Keane. We’re friends. For some inexplicable reason, Keane and I just hit it off. You’ll see when you meet him. He’s so easy to like. Super funny. Silly. Sweet. Definitely one of a kind.” I snort. “He’s Batman with Robin’s personality.”
Hannah doesn’t reply.
“Hannah, stop it. We’re friends, I swear. If you saw him, you’d understand. We’d never go for each other in a million years.”
“Mmm hmm. Your tone of voice suggests otherwise.”
I scoff. “Hannah, you don’t understand. Keane lights up any room he’s in. People fall all over themselves in his presence. We went to a diner for lunch and the waitress practically fell onto the floor giggling at every stupid thing he said. Everyone’s drawn to him. It can’t be helped.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom. Damn, that was fast.
“He is. But don’t tell him I said that because he’s also a cocky bastard with the biggest ego of anyone I’ve ever met—a total narcissist. Oh, and he’s super flakey. And annoying. And immature. He might also be a megalomaniac, though I’m not certain about that yet. He’s definitely verging on psychotic, though. Oh, and he’s also most definitely a pig—though that seems to be a hot-button word with him so don’t tell him I called him that.”
“He sounds like a gem.”
I sigh. “He is. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.” I glance toward the bathroom door, making sure Keane’s not about to enter the room and overhear this next part. “I think he’s a bit lost right now,” I whisper. “You know, trying to figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.”
“Aren’t we all,” Hannah says.
“Yeah, but, I mean, I think he’s at a real fork in the road. He’s kinda breaking my heart just a little bit.”
“Oh, honey. You’ve always loved lost puppies, haven’t you?”
“They’re just so fun to rescue.”
“Oh, Maddy.”
Without warning, the bathroom door swings opens wildly and Keane bursts in
to the room like a superhero, literally beating his chest—his shirtless chest—and my jaw drops to the freaking floor at the sight of him.
“Sweet Sassy Molassey,” I breathe into the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Hang on. Have you talked to Mom—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait.”
Keane plops himself down onto the bed next to mine, stretches his glorious body to its full length, rests his cheek on the palm of his hand, and flashes me his un-freaking-believable dimples. “Hi, hot stuff,” he whispers. He winks.
“Did you talk to Mom?” Hannah says into my ear. She giggles. “She called me and was, like, ‘Ohmigawd, Smith is so amaaaazing! He’s—’”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I bark at Hannah like a total bitch, cutting her off. “I’m fine, Hannah. I’m safe. Kissy-kissy. Love you lots. Best sister ever. Bye.” I hang up my phone. “For the love of fuck,” I say to Keane. “Abso-frickin-lutely not.” I motion to his bare torso like his sheer perfection pisses me off.
“What?” he asks innocently. He touches his rock-hard abs. “You’re not a fan of the Seahawks?” My gaze drifts from his un-freaking-believable abs to his black sweatpants, emblazoned near the waistband with the Seattle Seahawks’ logo.
“I have no problem with the Seahawks,” I say. I point to his bare torso—to his stunning pecs and abs and ridiculously gorgeous arms and shoulders and perfect nipples and insanely attractive forearms (what the hell is up with those forearms?). “I have a problem with”—I make a presto-change-o motion in front of his eight-pack—“all that.”
“All what?” He stretches out his right arm, displaying his triceps muscle. “Oh, you mean this?” He rotates his arm and his bicep bulges right in front of my face. “Or do you mean this?” He flexes his washboard abs.
“Dude, I’m not gonna sit here for an hour and a half, watching my movie next to a half-naked Adonis on a bed. Cover that shit up right now.”
A huge smile spreads across Keane’s handsome face. “You think I’m an Adonis?”
“Figure of speech.”
“Maddy, this is how I sleep,” he says, rubbing his palm across his naked chest. “You’re wearing your preferred jammies; I’m wearing mine.”
“When it’s time to sleep in your own bed, wear whatever the heck you want. But for now, if you’re planning to come over to my bed to watch my movie, and sit two inches away from my body in a motel room, then cover that shit the fuck up. This isn’t one of your gigs, Ball Peen Hammer.”
Keane laughs, leaps up from his bed, and stands at the edge of mine. “Scoot over, sweet meat,” he says, swatting my thigh. “I’m dying to see this masterpiece of yours.”
I don’t budge. “Keane, I’m not joking. I can’t sit here next to the most perfect male specimen ever created while he’s barely clothed and calmly watch my movie like lah-de-dah-this-is-so-normal. Now cover that shit up right the fuck now, Ball Peen Hammer. I’m not gonna ask you again.”
“This is ridiculous,” Keane says, still smiling. “What if we were at the beach? Or a pool? What if I were European? I’d be wearing way less than I am right now. At least I’m wearing full sweat pants. I normally sleep in my briefs or nothing at all.” He winks.
“We’re not at the beach or a pool—and you’re not European. You’re from freakin’ Seattle. And we’re in a motel room. On a bed. Just the two of us, after knowing each other for one freaking day. Now cover that shit up or I’m gonna slap the motherfucking shit out of you.”
Keane crosses his gorgeous arms over his spectacular chest. “I’ve never heard you curse like this, Madelyn Milliken.” He flashes a huge smile. “I like it.”
“Oh, yeah? You like it, huh? Well, then, how ’bout this—put your fucking shirt on, motherfucking Keane Morgan. What’s your middle name?”
His smile is at full-wattage. “Elijah,” he says.
“Okay. Put your fucking shirt on, Keane Elijah Fucking Morgan.”
Keane laughs. “What’s your middle name?”
“My middle name is ‘Put Your Fucking Shirt On, Keane Elijah Fucking Morgan,’” I say.
Keane laughs uproariously. “God, you’re adorbsicles, Maddy, just like Zander said you’d be.”
“And you’re annoy-sicles.”
Keane laughs again. “Tell me your middle name, sweet meat.”
I twist my mouth, trying not to smile, but it’s hard not to react to the glorious smile on Keane’s face. “Elizabeth,” I say.
“Elijah and Elizabeth,” Keane says. “We sound like some old timey Amish couple. Eliza!” he bellows in some old timey Amish voice. “I’m going out to hitch the oxen to the plow ‘fore the rains come—looks like a mackerel sky!”
“What?” I say, laughing.
Keane flashes me his dimples. “Madelyn Elizabeth Milliken,” he says reverently. “That’s pretty. Just like you.”
I feel myself blush. Goddammit, my cheeks are freakin’ traitors. “Thank you, Keane Elijah Morgan,” I say evenly. “Now put your fucking shirt on. Please.”
Keane assesses me for a beat. “You’re serious?”
I flash him an expression that confirms my seriousness.
Keane exhales. “Well, shit. I’m not gonna be able to sit and watch a movie next to a fucking Yeti.” He motions to my sweatshirt, a scowl on his face. “You’re making me hot just looking at you in that goddamned thing—and I don’t mean ‘hot’ in a good way. I mean ‘hot’ like you’re causing searing pain behind my eyes.”
I squint at him and he squints right back.
“You give me the evil eye, I give it back bigger, better, and evil-er,” he says. “You forget I’ve got four brothers and a demonic sister. You’re gonna have to be a shit-ton scarier than that to make me jump.”
“Why the heck do you care if I’m wearing a sweatshirt?” I ask.
“It annoys me.”
“You just wanna see me waggle my boobs,” I say.
“This is not a secret.”
There’s a beat.
“Pig,” I say.
“Yeti,” he says—and then he grins from ear to ear.
“I’m not gonna take my sweatshirt off just so you can ‘survey the merchandise,’” I sniff. “I’m a bit chilly. If that changes, I’ll remove my sweatshirt. My comfort is more important than your piggish desire to see me waggle my boobs.”
Keane rolls his eyes. “You can’t possibly be chilly.”
“I am.”
Keane exhales. “Fine, you freak.” He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a T-shirt, clearly annoyed by the effort.
“Thank you,” I say primly. I turn away from him to attach my hard drive to my laptop, a smug smile of victory on my face.
A moment later, Keane’s sitting next to me on my lumpy bed, his tight gray T-shirt leaving nothing to the imagination, his skin smelling deliciously of soap.
“Are you ready to commence the inaugural Maddy-Keane Film Festival?” I ask, clicking into my hard drive.
“First things first,” Keane says. He holds up the Abba Zaba bar we got at the supermarket down the street before coming to the motel. “I’m gonna pop your Abba Zaba cherry first, sweet meat.” Keane begins unwrapping the candy bar. “If you’re feeling any pain or discomfort whatsoever, please let me know, sweetheart,” he coos. “This is supposed to feel good and nothing else. Really, really gooood.”
Heat spreads between my legs. “Okeedokey.”
I’m thinking Keane’s going to hand me the unwrapped Abba Zaba bar, but, instead, he surprises me by bringing the candy bar to my mouth like I’m a helpless baby chick.
My chest tightens at the closeness of his body to mine, at the expression of desire flickering in his eyes.
I open my mouth, my pulse suddenly pounding in my ears, and Keane gently places the taffy between my lips.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispers as I bite down, his eyes darkening.
I shake my head.
“Good?” he whispers.
&nb
sp; “Good,” I mumble, surprised by the combination of chewy vanilla and creamy peanut butter on my taste buds.
“Are you feeling pleasure?”
I nod profusely.
“Excellent.”
Keeping his face mere inches from mine, Keane slowly takes a bite of the candy bar, right from the spot where I just chomped down, and we chew in silence for a beat, staring at each other.
“You’re no longer an Abba Zaba virgin, Maddy Milliken,” he whispers solemnly. “You’re an Abba Zaba woman now, baby, exactly the way God intended.” He reaches out and strokes my hair, causing goose bumps to erupt all over my body.
Out of nowhere, my clit flutters, making my breath hitch. What the hell?
Keane moves his hand from my hair to my cheek, brushing his knuckles against my skin, and my nipples rise and harden in response to his unexpected touch.
What the fuckity?
Keane leans toward me slowly as if to kiss me—or am I just imagining that?—and I reflexively close my eyes. Oh God. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my lips, as if they’ve been stung by a thousand bees and swollen to twice their normal size. I part my lips, my body vibrating with anticipation.
I feel Keane’s body heat hovering inches from my face, as if his lips are hovering over mine.
I wait, my eyes closed, my breathing shallow. But I feel nothing.
After a beat, Keane lets out an audible exhale, his warm breath tickling over my lips, and drops his hand from my hair. I open my eyes to find Keane staring at me intently, his cheeks flushed.
I let out an audible exhale to match Keane’s. What the frickity-frack just happened? We’re friends. In fact, I’ve never felt so securely in the friend zone with any guy in all my life. The only explanation for what just happened is I fell momentarily into some sort of hormonal trance after seeing his near-naked body on a bed. That’s got to be it.
Keane clears his throat. “And that, my honorary little sister,” he says slowly, “is the simple pleasure of an Abba Zaba bar.”
I clear my throat the way Keane just did and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say. “Not quite as pleasurable as my actual de-virginization, but still highly pleasurable.” I try to smile breezily, but I can’t—my heart is still pounding like a jackhammer along with my crotch.
