Ball Peen Hammer

by Lauren Rowe

  “Did it work?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Keane says. “Big-time.”

  Without warning, he leans toward my face, licking his lips, and every hair on my body stands on end with excited anticipation—is Keane about to kiss me? But, no, his lips skim past mine and land gently on my cheek. “Thanks for doing all this,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my jawline.

  “No need to thank me,” I whisper back, my skin suddenly electrified. “I’m a man-eater now, remember? I only do what I want.”

  Keane looks me in the eyes, biting his lower lip. “I’m having a blast with you, Maddy.”

  “Me, too.”

  “If by some crazy chance this Ball Peen Hammer thing starts making money, we’re a team, okay? Fifty-fifty. I’m the bullshit-slinger and you’re the brains. It’s a partnership.”

  My heart leaps in my chest. “Awesome. I’d much rather do Ball Peen Hammer stuff with you than shoot wedding videos.” Man, his eyes are so damned gorgeous. And that little cleft in his chin is so cute. I suddenly feel the bizarre urge to kiss him, which makes absolutely no sense, so I throw my arms around him and give him a hug, instead.

  Keane kisses me on the cheek again, pressing his body into mine, but this time he lets his lips linger on my cheek, his arms wrapped around my back.

  I take a step back from our embrace, my entire body tingling. “You ready to go?” I ask, motioning to my car, my heart clanging in my chest.

  Keane looks flustered. “You bet,” he says, his cheeks flushed. “Cool.”

  “Cool?” I say. I clear my throat. “Cool.”

  Chapter 26

  Maddy

  “Okay, I have another question about Shoot Like a Girl,” Keane says after we’ve been driving on the freeway in silence for about twenty minutes. “Did any of the guys on the basketball team hit on you during filming?”

  I open my mouth to reply but shut it again, my cheeks rising with heat.

  “I knew it!” Keane says. “Which ones?”

  “Not ones. Just one.”

  “Freddie?”

  “How’d you know?”

  Keane chuckles. “Because whenever Freddie talked directly to the camera, he was obviously digging whoever was behind the camera asking him questions—which I’m assuming was you.”

  “Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Freddie would flirt with a house plant. He’s got a huge personality, no matter who he’s talking to.”

  “Maddy, are you choosing to be stupid? Freddie might have a huge personality, but he was turning on the charm especially for the girl behind the camera. You couldn’t see that?”

  “Not at all. When Freddie hit on me, I was shocked.”

  “Oh my God, you’re hopeless. Deaf, dumb, and blind to guys’ signals. No wonder you’re a born-again virgin.” He shakes his head. “Well, don’t you worry, Helen Keller. I’ll help you figure your shit out so you can bag yourself a hottie any time you please.”

  “Gosh, thanks.”

  Keane motions to my chest. “Trust me, now that you’re showing your girls off a bit, you’re gonna need a two-by-four to fend off all the dudes coming at you twenty-four-seven.”

  “That’s a lot of numbers in that sentence.”

  “Hey, that tank top inspires numerical superlatives.”

  I laugh.

  “Now if I can just get you to waggle those beauties, we’ll really be in bid-nass.”

  Rolling my eyes, I turn on the radio to full blast. “Dream on, dude.”

  “Maddy Milliken, Professional Eye-Roller.”

  The song on the radio is Hozier’s “Like Real People Do.”

  “Is this song following us?” I say. “I feel like we keep hearing this one.”

  “Seems that way,” Keane says.

  As Keane drives, we sit and listen to the beautiful song in silence. But when Hozier’s lyrics about kissing make me think about kissing Keane, I abruptly change the station. “Good song,” I say. “Just need a break from it.”

  We drive without speaking for a long moment.

  “So did you give poor Freddie a shot or what?” Keane asks, breaking the silence between us.

  “No. I told him it would be best if we remained friends.”

  “What the...?” Keane blurts. “Jesus Christ, woman, are you actively trying not to get boned ever again?”

  “No. I’d love to ‘get boned,’ believe me. I’m just a relationship-girl, that’s all. If I don’t see the potential for more than one night, I don’t feel the need to pursue anything at all. It’s just a waste of everyone’s time.”

  Keane rolls his eyes. “You’re too young to be thinking that way.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.”

  “Okay, even so. Don’t you think you should maybe widen the net a bit? I mean, how the hell are you so sure you can tell if someone’s ‘relationship material’ if you haven’t even gone on a single date with them?”

  I twist my mouth, considering that.

  “You should have said yes to my man Freddie. He seems like a cool dude. Quite a basketball player, too—he’s got a perfect shot. This type of thing is exactly what I was talking about yesterday. If you’ve got a guy like Freddie sniffing you, why not jump in the sack and see if he might get your motor running? What have you got to lose?”

  “Um. My self-respect?”

  Keane scoffs. “Lame. That’s Puritanical thinking.”

  “Wow, big word, Peenie.”

  “Zander.”

  “Well, regardless, with Freddie, it was a nonstarter. I was focused on making my film. If things didn’t work out between us, I didn’t want it to get super awkward for the rest of filming.”

  “Okay, fair enough. But what about the other guys on the team who weren’t involved in the movie as much as Freddie? You were surrounded by basketball players for months and you didn’t let one of ’em nail ya just for yucks?”

  “First off, I don’t let people ‘nail me for yucks.’ And, second off, jocks just aren’t my type, like I keep telling you.”

  Keane sighs with extreme exasperation. “Enough already with the ‘not my type’ shit. I’m not your type; Brian’s not your type; Freddie’s not your type; and now every guy with an ounce of athleticism isn’t your type? I mean, seriously, who the fuck is your type?”

  I look out the window of the car, not wanting to reply.

  “Tall, dark, and handsome? Short, fat, and mean? One-legged ventriloquists? Yodelers in lederhosen? Guys with rock-hard abs and blue hair?” He flashes me his dimples on that last one.

  “It’s not specific like that. I’ve felt attraction to all sorts of physical types. It’s just something I feel. Impossible to explain.”

  “Bullshit. My bet is you like hipsters. Am I right? Artsy dudes with man-buns who go on and on about fucking Nietzsche all the livelong day?”

  “Whoa. Keane Morgan knows who Nietzsche is?” I say.

  “Dude, I went to college for two years. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  My skin pricks. “I know you’re not. I don’t think you’re an idiot, Keane. I was just teasing you.”

  “It’s okay. Even my own family thinks I’m an idiot. It’s fine.”

  “Well, I don’t. Really.”

  I’m telling the truth. Despite my less-than-stellar first impression of Keane’s intellect, I’ve come to realize he’s incredibly intelligent—clever and bright and witty and perceptive—way, way smarter than I originally gave him credit for. Brilliant, I’d even say, just not in ways tested by standardized IQ tests.

  After a moment, Keane lets out an audible puff of air. “Okay, confession? I don’t actually know who Nietzsche is. All I know is he’s the guy I’m supposed to name-drop whenever I wanna sound super smart.”

  I belly laugh. God, he’s adorable.

  Keane flashes his killer dimples. “So, come on, Mad Dog. How ’bout this? Tell me about the perfect guy who’d turn you into a sputtering, incoherent dork if he walked up right now and said, �
�Hey, baby doll, can I buy you drink?’”

  “Well, first off, my perfect guy would never call me ‘baby doll.’”

  “Sure he would.”

  “Well, okay, maybe. But definitely not within one second of meeting me.”

  “Quit stalling,” Keane says. “Tell me about Mr. Perfect.”

  I sigh. “It’s totally cliché. You’ll make fun of me.”

  “I won’t make fun of you. But if I did, who cares? I don’t even know who Nietzsche is.”

  I puff out my cheeks.

  Keane sighs loudly. “Spoiler alert, babe: we’re not gonna live forever. Time’s a-wastin’. Come on.”

  I roll my eyes. “I always seem to be attracted to James Dean types—brooding, artsy types. Guys with tormented, poets’ souls who care more about creating their ‘art’ than having a doting girlfriend—and, hey, if the guy plays guitar and drives a motorcycle, even better—I’m a babbling goner.”

  “Ha! That’s funny. You just described my brother Dax to a tee.” He snorts.

  I freeze, my heart lurching into my throat. I look out the passenger window, pressing my lips together. Shit. I feel Keane’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him.

  “Oh my shit,” Keane says slowly, realization apparently dawning on him. “You’ve totally got the hots for my baby brother.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Maddy?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Oh my God. You do.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I finally manage to say. “I’ve never even met your brother.”

  “Yeah, but you talked to him, right?”

  “Yeah, briefly. About me bringing your sorry ass to L.A.”

  “Had you seen him before you talked to him? Did you know anything about him?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Oh my shit. You knew all about him, didn’t you? And were you a babbling, pathetic pile of goo who couldn’t string two coherent words together when you talked to him—the way you said you get whenever you talk to a hottie?”

  Again, I don’t reply.

  “Have you seen him performing with his band? Is that what you saw?”

  I remain quiet.

  “Ho-lee shit. You cyber-stalked the fuck outta my baby brother, didn’t you?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but lying has never come naturally for me, so I shut my mouth without speaking.

  “Oh my fucking God, now it all makes sense,” Keane breathes.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, indignation rising in my voice. “I talked to Dax twice on the phone—once about me using his parking spot and another time about me driving your sorry ass to L.A. How could I possibly have the ‘hots’ for someone I’ve talked to twice on the phone?”

  “Because you watched videos of him and saw he’s your ideal type of guy and then you talked to him on the phone and he was his usual, rock-star self and then your ovaries exploded and now you’re obsessed with him.”

  I press my lips together. “No.”

  “Which part is off the mark?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Oh my God. I’m totally right. You’re jonezing for my baby brother. You should see your face.”

  I feel my cheeks blast with color, so I turn my head and look out the passenger window again. Shit.

  “Now everything makes perfect sense,” Keane says. “That’s why you’re not hurling yourself outta your pickle jar at me—you don’t wanna blow your future chances with my baby brother when you get to L.A.”

  “Oh my God,” I blurt. “Ridiculous.”

  “You’re not immune to my ebullient charm,” Keane continues, “and you’re not ‘outside my target demo.’ You’re just unavailable.”

  “Oh my freaking God,” I say. “You’re the mayor of Crazy Town, USA. I’ve never even met your brother. I talked to him on the phone twice and, yes, I watched a couple of his videos, but only because he asked me to shoot a video for him and I was doing research. I was not cyber-stalking and I’m not ‘jonezing’ and I’m certainly not obsessed with him.”

  Keane glances away from the road to look at me. “You totally wanna bone the fuck outta my brother.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “It’s written all over your face, Maddy,” Keane whispers, his voice intense, his eyes smoldering.

  “Redonkulous,” I manage to say.

  “You’re full of shit,” he grits out.

  “No,” I say emphatically. “I’m telling the truth, Keane.”

  But I’m not. I’m totally lying. I wanna bone the fuck outta Keane’s baby brother. Oh, God, yes. Watching those videos of Dax performing with his band, seeing the passionate way he played his guitar and sang his songs, finding out Dax is the one who writes all his band’s heartfelt lyrics, seeing the way his taut muscles strained under the stage lights with each passionate note he sang—wooh! All of that made my ovaries tingle like crazy, if not downright explode. And then, on top of all that, when Dax gave up his parking spot for me and volunteered his brother to accompany me on my drive simply to appease my overprotective big sister, my heart got in on the feels along with my ovaries.

  Okay, maybe what I was feeling for Dax was nothing but full-bodied lust. But, even if that’s the case, it’s nothing to sneeze at, seeing as how I haven’t felt even a glimmer of that particular emotion since Justin. Sure, I’ve had sex during the past three years with my two boyfriends after Justin (both of whom were very nice guys), and I’ve enjoyed it, but my feelings for them were more “gee, this is very pleasant and you’re very sweet” than actual lust.

  So, fine, I admit it. I wanna see if that initial spark I felt about Dax from afar might lead to a forest fire when I meet the guy in person (despite the fact that, yes, I’m well aware Dax has already pushed me firmly into the sister-zone).

  But why should I tell Keane any of this? The fact of the matter is, even if I’d never laid eyes on Dax, Keane would still be a nonstarter for me in the romance department. First off, Keane’s a jock, through and through. True, one could argue Justin was nothing but a jock, too, since he played competitive hockey his whole life, but, unlike Keane, Justin had his music and songwriting to keep his athlete’s ego in check.

  Second off, to put it bluntly, I don’t do manwhores. And Keane? Um, yeah.

  I mean, philosophically speaking, I have no problem with promiscuity. If (safe) casual sex is what other people (including Keane) enjoy, then more power to them. But I personally don’t have any desire to hop from person to person or to become yet another nameless, forgotten notch on some promiscuous guy’s belt.

  And third off, as if all that weren’t enough to put Keane firmly in my friend zone, Keane’s just... Keane. There’s no other way to say it. Yes, he’s gorgeous. Duh. And, yes, okay, I’d even go so far as to say he’s sexy. In fact, yes, I admit, I’m even a little curious what it’d feel like to kiss him once. And, yes, I haven’t met anyone since Justin who’s made me laugh and let go and forget my dorkitude so completely the way Keane so easily has. But now that I’ve found such a unique and unexpected friendship with this crazy baby-dolling-stripper-man, and especially now that we’ve decided to keep making Ball Peen Hammer videos together and see where that might lead, I would never risk ruining our amazing friendship for one meaningless night that wouldn’t amount to anything but a “it was nice knowing you” slap on my back from Keane.

  I glance at Keane on the other side of the car. He’s staring straight ahead as he drives the car, but when he senses my eyes on him, he glances away from the road to flash me a look that could cut steel.

  “I just figured the whole thing out,” he says, his jaw clenching.

  “You figured what out?” I ask, the hairs on my neck standing up.

  “I said I can get any woman I want, as long as she’s single and available. You’re not drooling over me like all the other pickles because you’re simply not available.”

  “What the heck are you babbling about? I’m not drooling over you like all the other
pickles because I’m not attracted to you in that way. We’re friends, Keane.”

  “Pfft. You can be my friend and still drool over me. I’m your friend and I’m drooling over you.”

  “What?”

  But Keane ignores my flabbergasted reply and forges right ahead. “You’re not drooling over me because you’re subconsciously keeping the door open for my baby brother.”

  My mouth is hanging open. “You’re drooling over me?” I whisper.

  “Fuck yeah.” He motions to my chest. “Look at those gorgeous tits of yours. What guy wouldn’t be losing his mind over those things? I can barely keep my eyes on the road with those things taunting me over there.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You truly think some supposed crush on a guy I’ve never even met is the sole reason I’m not hurling myself outta my pickle jar and attacking you?” I ask.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Well, you’re crazy, then.”

  “I’m crazy, but not about this.”

  “I’m not attracted to you that way, Keane,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “It has nothing to do with anyone else, least of all a guy I’ve never met. I’m not attracted to you the same way you’re not attracted to me—other than to my ‘gorgeous tits, ’ apparently.”

  Keane doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at the road, his features tight and intense.

  “I think you’re forgetting an important part of the equation,” I say. “You said you can get any woman you want, remember? Not just any woman. Maybe I haven’t been responding to your ebullient charm like other women because you’re clearly not interested in me—besides my ‘gorgeous tits,’ of course. Maybe guys like you who drool over my ‘gorgeous tits’ are a dime a dozen. Ever think of that?” I snort. “Get in line, son. Maybe my ‘gorgeous tits’ have groupies—hordes of groupies, just like Ball Peen Hammer. The simple fact is you’re not attracted to me and I’m not attracted to you, no rock-star brother required.” I glare at Keane, awaiting his response, my chest heaving, but he doesn’t speak.

  I wait.

  But Keane remains quiet.

  Jeez. I thought he’d hit me with some crazy Keane-ism after a speech like that. His silence is disquieting. “Keane?” I say. “Hellooooo?”