Ball Peen Hammer

by Lauren Rowe

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” Keane says. “Tell me all about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Your actual de-virginization.”

  Aaaaaaaaaand the hormonal trance, whatever it was, is now broken.

  “Was it with that first boyfriend you told me about?” Keane asks. “The guy you said was the only guy who’s ever really gotten your motor running?”

  Crap, crap, crap. Why on earth did I bring this up?

  “What was his name again?” Keane asks.

  I pause for a long moment. I don’t want to talk about Justin—not now or ever.

  Keane’s staring at me, waiting for me to reply.

  “Justin,” I finally say.

  “Oh, yeah. Was Justin the lucky lad who got to pop your actual cherry?”

  I nod.

  “Good times?” Keane asks.

  I nod again.

  “Excellent. Always good to have a pleasurable first time. I sure did.” He snickers. “Kelsey Kerrington. Wooh! Hot little momma. She lived across the street. Damn near broke my heart when her family moved away. Thought I was gonna die of grief.” He chuckles at the memory.

  I feel my cheeks blaze. I have no desire to talk about Justin with Keane, or anyone. Not now, not ever. Not about how I lost my virginity to him one magical night at his parents’ lake cabin. Not about how I loved him with every cell of my body. Not about how, in the blink of an eye, he was gone forever.

  “So what happened with Justin?” Keane asks. He takes another bite of the Abba Zaba bar and continues talking while chewing. “Did he bone the fuck outta ya all the livelong day and then you two just flamed out or what?”

  Goddammit. I don’t want to talk about this. Since Justin died three years ago, I’ve talked about him plenty, thank you very much, including talking with a therapist once a week for three months, per the insistence of my mother, and now I’m emphatically done talking. “It just didn’t work out,” I say curtly.

  “Young love never does,” Keane says breezily. He holds the Abba Zaba bar up, offering it to me, and when I shake my head, he takes another huge bite. “How long were you and Justin together?” he asks.

  My chest tightens. “Eight months.”

  “Hey, you beat Kelsey and me by two months. Who broke it off? Him or you?”

  I exhale. “I’d rather not talk about it,” I say.

  “Justin did, huh? Bastard. You want me to track that fucker down and beat the crap out of him for you? Sic the Morgan Mafia on him? Break his legs?”

  I shake my head, trying to hold back my threatening emotion.

  “How old were you?” He pops the last bite of the candy bar into his mouth.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Keane’s face melts. “Aw, Maddy. Don’t get all wilty-flower on me again.” He strokes my cheek. “Whoa, come on, baby doll. Don’t let that guy get to you—that was then and this is now. If that asswipe couldn’t see what a catch you are, you’re better off without him. It’s his loss.” He scoots closer to me on the bed, puts his strong arms around me, and hugs me to him. And, just like that, I melt into him like an ice cream cone dropped onto a blazing hot sidewalk.

  “Aw, it’s okay, baby doll,” Keane purrs. He strokes the back of my head and kisses my temple. “That idiot was just too dumb to know what he had, that’s all.”

  I nuzzle my face into the crook of Keane’s neck, breathe in the soapy masculinity of his scent, and let my silent tears flow.

  “That dude was just too young to understand what he had. Ssh. He was an idiot.” He leans back from me and looks into my eyes. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks. “You’re a man-eater now, remember? You eat guys like Justin for breakfast.”

  I wipe my tears and nod.

  “Okay,” Keane says. He lies back onto the bed next to me and tugs on the arm of my sweatshirt, pulling me to him. “Come on, sweet thing.” He pats his impressive chest. “I got your pillow and blanket right here. Cue up that masterpiece of yours and snuggle up close. It’s time for the inaugural Maddy-Keane Film Festival to begin—and I, for one, can’t fucking wait.”

  Chapter 23

  Maddy

  Oh, God, it’s been so long since I’ve felt the sensation of warm skin pressed against mine, the deliciousness of a man’s taut flesh underneath my fingertips.

  I run my fingers up and down, reveling in the intoxicating cocktail of skin, muscles, and warmth, my clit throbbing as I do. A strong hand skims down my back, lands firmly on my ass cheek, and squeezes, prompting me to press my pelvis forward and moan with delight.

  An orgasm is building inside my mermaid-tail as the strong hand on my ass squeezes and the shaft thrusting in and out of my mermaid-crotch sends spasms of pleasure through each and every one of my scales. I moan again, my insides burning and tightening, my entire body on the verge of back-clawing pleasure.

  As that hard shaft continues plunging deliciously in and out of me, I finger the flesh under my fingertips, reveling in the sensation of taut abs, a belly button, smooth, hairless skin trailing down, down, down... until I feel a waistband and then soft fabric that’s—oh, hello—covering a rock-hard and very impressive bulge. Oh, God, yes. Now that’s a bulge a girl can really grab onto.

  Which I do.

  I grip the fabric-covered hardness, my breathing ragged, my clit fluttering wildly, aching for my exquisite release. I can make out the shape of the tip with my greedy fingers, and then the hard shaft, and when my body clenches, on the very cusp of exploding with pleasure, I pull the straining fabric-covered bulge toward the waistband of my tail, desperate for it to penetrate my scales and burrow deep inside me.

  Wait. Hang on. None of this is making any sense. How am I holding an erection in my hand while it’s simultaneously thrusting in and out of my mermaid crotch? I swish my tail through the warm water surrounding me for a moment, confusion gripping me.

  Suddenly, the strong hand that’s been cupping my ass slides with ferocious heat toward the waistband of my tail, clearly intending to slip its fingers underneath my scales and plunge them deep inside me.

  Wait. Where am I? This isn’t the ocean. I swish my tail again.

  Am I in a bed?

  My tail suddenly vanishes.

  Is this my bed at home?

  The hard cock in my hand twitches under my grasp.

  A low, masculine moan of arousal sounds in my ear, jolting me awake.

  Oh, shit on a Ritz cracker.

  I release the hard bulge I’ve been stroking and lurch away from Keane’s sleeping body in the bed.

  Oh God, I’m so aroused, my panties are literally wet.

  I come to a shaking stand next to the bed, pulling the bedspread off as I go, and dumping my laptop with a soft thunk onto the carpet. I look down at myself, my chest heaving, my clit still fluttering like crazy. Oh, thank God, I’m still wearing my pink “Adventure Time” tank top and pajama bottoms. No scales. No tail. No hard-on thrusting in and out of me or twitching in my hand. All of it was a dream. A very erotic and delicious dream. Phew. Okay, yes, now I remember exactly what happened between Keane and me last night: absolutely nothing. We watched my movie, snuggled up together in my bed, and (apparently) fell asleep.

  Well, that’s a relief.

  Keane loved my movie, by the way. “You’re a genius!” he bellowed as the ending credits rolled. “You’re gonna win an Oscar one day, Madagascar, I guarantee it!” His reaction was so effusive, in fact, it must have put me under some sort of spell. Because, right after the ending credits rolled, I did the unthinkable: I said yes when Keane demanded to see all my tap-dancing videos. Oh my God, I even let him see the dreaded “Born in the USA” performance, the one where I looked like The Cat in the Hat on meth.

  And then, apparently not even close to being finished embarrassing myself, I re-enacted the entire dance routine for Keane on top of my lumpy bed while Keane threw Junior Mints at me, barking at me to catch the tiny projectiles in my mout
h (which, I’m proud to say, I accomplished six out of eighteen times).

  “Let’s watch Hoop Dreams now,” Keane said after we’d finally stopped giggling about my smoove tap-dancing mooves—a request which, of course, made me squeal, “Yaaaaaassssssss.”

  Well, now that I’m standing here, gazing down at Keane’s sleeping body in the soft morning light, it’s apparent I fell asleep before Hoop Dreams ended. And I guess Keane did, too, or else, surely, he would have moved to his own bed for the night.

  I clutch the bed covers to my chest and take a long look at Keane. He’s sleeping on his side, his back to me, wearing nothing but boxer briefs. Hey, when the heck did Keane take off his T-shirt and sweatpants? (Side note: Whoa, Keane’s got a spectacular ass.)

  I begin to move around the bed, absentmindedly dragging the bed covers with me, and a half-second later, perhaps in reaction to my movement, Keane rolls onto his back, revealing a humongous hard-on straining behind his briefs.

  He opens his eyes and smiles lazily. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Keane says, his sleepy eyes trained on my chest, his hard-on drawing my attention like a magnet. “Maddy Milliken’s got tits.”

  My attention snaps up from the tent in Keane’s briefs to his face, where I’m met with a smile that’s almost as big as his erection.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “And Keane Morgan’s got a penis,” I say, my cheeks turning red.

  Keane looks down at his erection and grins. “Good morning, The Talented Mr. Ripley.” He looks back up at me. “Don’t take it personally, babe, it’s just morning wood.” He stretches and yawns and every muscle on his body flexes for a delicious instant. “Trust me, I could have been in bed all night with Z and I’d still have a boner. It’s just the way we horny boys wake up—with a salute to the sun.” He scratches his ridiculously flat belly, his knuckles brushing precariously close to the tip of his hard-on. “You sleep well, honey nuggets? I sure did. Yee-boy! I was having an extra nice dream just now. Hot damn, that was a good one. Felt like it was really happening.” He winks at me. “You wanna use the bathroom before I go in there and nuke it?”

  I can’t peel my eyes off Keane’s incredible body, not to mention the awe-inspiring tent pole behind his Calvin Klein briefs.

  “Um, yeah,” I mumble, peeling my eyes off him and moving toward the bathroom. “Thanks.”

  “You gonna take the bedspread into the bathroom with you?” Keane asks.

  “Oh.” I come back to Keane, put the bedspread down on the bed, cross my arms over my chest again, and walk briskly toward the bathroom.

  “Hey,” Keane says sharply behind me, making me stop dead in my tracks just outside the bathroom door.

  “Yeah?” I say, still turned away from him, my heart pounding. Good lord, he’s got an impressive piece of equipment behind those briefs.

  “Turn around, hot stuff.”

  “Why?” I ask, not turning around.

  “Because I want to get a good, long look at you.”

  “I gotta pee, Keane.”

  “Turn the fuck around, Maddy.”

  I exhale and turn around, my cheeks blazing. Holy crap, that hard-on is something to behold. His entire body is absolutely spectacular. I’ve never seen a more stunning example of male hotness in my life, at least not in real life. “What?” I huff.

  “Put down your arms.”

  I don’t move.

  “Come on, Maddy, you’re a man-eater now, remember? You eat men like chips and salsa.”

  I don’t move.

  “Stop being a puss and put your arms down, dude.”

  I bite my lip, but, still, I don’t move.

  “Jesus God, lemme see the goods, you tease—throw me a fucking bone.”

  “Um. I think you’re already well stocked in the bone department, dude.”

  Keane chuckles. “Throw me another one, then—a bone for my bone.”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “Come on, Mad Dog. I just wanna help you become the best man-eater you can be. And that means I gotta get a good look at what we’re working with. Normally, I’d require a student of mine to show me her naked boobs, just for thoroughness, you know, but just this once, because I respect and admire you so much, I’m gonna let you keep your tank top on while I scope out the merchandise.”

  I don’t move.

  Keane exhales with frustration. “Dude. I’ll never tell a single soul you wore your scandalous “Adventure Time” tank top in my presence, okay? It’ll be our dirty, filthy, salacious little secret.” He flashes his dimples.

  Oh my God, I can’t resist him. With a loud exhale, I lower my arms to my sides, and Keane’s gaze immediately shoots to my bra-less chest.

  “Dude,” Keane breathes. “Oh my God. You’re gorgeous.”

  I bite my lip and resist the urge to cross my arms, even though I’m certain my nipples are hardening under Keane’s gaze.

  Keane’s eyes drift back up to my face. “You’re hot as fucking hell, baby doll—smokin’ hot. Way, way hotter than I ever suspected. You’re... Dude.” He looks at my chest again, his eyes smoldering, and lets out an excited puff of air. “Don’t ever let me catch you covering those gorgeous tits up again, do you understand me? You’ve been doing the world a major disservice, keeping those beauties hidden all this time. Those fuckers should be in a shadow box in the Louvre.’”

  “Oh my God, Keane,” I say, my cheeks bursting into flames, my heart racing.

  Keane puts his arms behind his head, smiling broadly, his biceps bulging. “I had a hunch you were packing heat under there, but I had no idea you were a five-alarm fire. If you ever get up the confidence to ‘waggle’ those motherfuckers like you keep teasing me you’re gonna do, I swear on a stack of bibles you’ll not only attract pigs like me, you’ll attract any guy you even remotely wanna bang.”

  Blood whooshes between my legs in a sudden torrent of arousal, making me shift my weight. “Thank you,” I breathe.

  Keane looks pointedly at my chest again, his eyes on fire, the hard-on behind his briefs straining. “No, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes blazing. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 24

  Maddy

  Thursday, 10:23 a.m.

  After eating breakfast at a diner next door to our motel (where Keane ate an astonishing pile of bacon, eggs, sausages, and pancakes) and then shopping at the Walmart across the street (where Keane bought me three ribbed tank tops and two form-fitting T-shirts because he “categorically refused” to set foot in my car unless I was “clad in appropriate boob-waggling gear”), we’re finally on the road again, heading southbound on I-5 out of Oregon and into California (my new home state!), the windows of my car rolled down, the indie rock playlist on Pandora blaring. And the craziest thing of all—the thing I never would have predicted in a million years? I’m letting Keane drive my car.

  Giving someone else control of my physical safety isn’t something I do lightly or often. And yet, for some reason, when Keane offered to drive as we walked back to the motel parking lot from Walmart this morning, I heard myself reply, like it was no big deal at all, “Thanks.” And the most amazing part about the whole thing was that, when that seemingly normal, but oh-so-extraordinary word of surrender left my mouth, I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.

  I look at Keane’s profile as he drives, his fingers wrapped loosely around my steering wheel. Damn, he’s a handsome-as-hell human. And, damn, that was quite a hard-on behind his briefs this morning.

  “I just thought of another thing Shoot Like a Girl made me think about,” Keane says, bringing up my movie for probably the eighth time this morning. “All those years I played baseball as a kid, I just assumed I’d make it to the major leagues when I grew up—which, of course, didn’t pan out. But I always had the dream, you know? But now after watching your movie I’m thinking, ‘Hey, what if Little G wants to play baseball?’ There’s no baseball for girls. Sure, she can play softball—but there’s no major league for softball. Whi
ch means the dream I just assumed for myself as a kid doesn’t even exist for Gracie. I mean, I’m not saying girls should be allowed to play baseball—girls and guys are just different when it comes to strength—but thanks to your movie I’m thinking deep thoughts like, ‘Hey if Gracie decides she wants to play softball, then she’s gonna have to dream a lot smaller than the little boys playing the same fucking sport on the field right next door.’ And that kinda sucks, if you stop and think about it.”

  I pause for a long beat, utterly floored. “Keane,” I finally breathe. “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “Is it possible my little documentary has turned you into a... feminist?”

  Keane scoffs. “Hell no. Your little documentary didn’t turn me into shit, baby doll. I already was a feminist—I just didn’t know it until I saw your movie. I guess I just needed my inner feminist to be awakened by the right chick.” He winks.

  I stare at him, my mouth hanging open, rendered speechless.

  “Hey, hand me that bag of popcorn, baby doll,” Keane says, pointing to the bag by my feet. “It takes a lot to keep this body lookin’ like manna from heaven.”

  I open the bag and hold it out to him, still incapable of speech.

  “Thanks.” He plunges his hand into the bag. “So, hey, you wanna chillax in front of Magic Mike tonight?”

  “Uh... yeah,” I say, finally getting ahold of myself. “Now that I know you don’t rub your crotch against women like a cat on a scratching pole or pop woodies like a middle-schooler with a Victoria’s Secret catalog, I’m dying to know what you actually do for those dollah billz.”

  “Prepare to be rendered speechless.”

  “I can’t imagine Magic Mike will render me speechless any more than what you just said about the right ‘chick’ awakening your inner feminist. Jeez, Keane.”

  “I dunno, Mad Dog. You might be surprised. Channing Tatum’s got some pretty smoove mooves.”

  “Do you do any of his moves when you perform?”

  “Are you kidding? All of ’em. I even use Channing’s signature song. Why reinvent the wheel, right?”