by Lauren Rowe
I smile at Keane through my watering eyes.
Of course, I know what word Keane was about to say to my sister: pleasure. And I also know, seeing as how I’m now an (honorary) handsome and happy lad, that Keane Morgan believes uttering that word to a woman, coupled with calling her by name and flashing his killer dimples (which he’s doing right now), would send a subliminal message about his unparalleled sexual prowess to the pleasure-center in that woman’s brain. Well, obviously, Keane’s not willing to send that particular message to my sister.
“Which one is my brother’s apartment?” Keane asks, and Hannah points to a door directly behind us.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding when you said Dax lives right across the hall.”
Keane leaps to his brother’s door like a kangaroo on cocaine and pounds on it loudly. “Hey, Rock Star! Open up! It’s your favorite brother!”
After a short beat, the door swings opens and there he is—Dax Morgan himself, the golden god who took my breath away while watching an hour’s worth of his videos. And, wow, I must say—the guy is every bit as gorgeous as his videos promised he’d be.
The two brothers hug enthusiastically and exchange a rapid-fire flurry of greetings and compliments and jabs, including Dax laughing his ass off about Keane’s hair, and, finally, Keane turns away from Dax and introduces him to me.
“Great to meet you, Maddy,” Dax says, putting out his hand.
I shake it. “You, too.”
“I’m excited about the video we’re gonna do.”
“Me, too.”
Wow. If I were thirteen years old, a poster of Dax Morgan would be hanging on my bedroom wall. He’s physical perfection, even more so than his big brother, if that’s even possible. And yet, I’m surprised to realize there are no butterflies flapping around in my stomach at the moment. No crazy heart palpitations squeezing my chest.
Well, actually. Wait. That’s not true. I do feel butterflies and heart palpitations. Most definitely. But it’s not Dax Morgan who’s causing them.
No, seeing Dax and Keane standing together like two blue-eyed salt and salt shakers, it’s suddenly crystal clear to me it’s not my fantasy guy who’s causing my body to zip and zap like a live wire; it’s the real-life guy—the quirky dude with blue hair and killer dimples and the softest, most delectable lips I’ve ever tasted in my entire life—not to mention the strongest arms that have ever held me through the night—who’s most definitely doing the honors.
Chapter 36
Maddy
Friday, 10:12 p.m.
So, apparently, this is what I do on a Friday night in my new life instead of editing wedding videos in my bedroom all by myself: I sit in a Hollywood nightclub drinking a blue-colored alcoholic beverage (in honor of Keane, of course) with Hannah, Henn, Zander, and Dax, and I watch male strippers make a whole bunch of extremely enthusiastic women lose their freaking minds.
Oh, and I also laugh my ass off, pretty much nonstop.
Aaand people-watch like cuh-raaaaaazy.
Aaaaaaaaaaand I also get buzzed, too—which is a mighty good thing because it means I’m only obsessing about last night’s make-out session with Keane every thirty seconds instead of every three. Yay! Thank you for slowing my brain function, Mr. Blue Sky Martini!
I check out the stripper onstage, a muscular dude dancing to “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince. The guy’s got a nice body with all federally recommended ripples and ridges as well as pretty good dance moves, but as with the four performers before him, he’s got absolutely no stage presence to speak of—nothing to make him stand out in a ripples-and-ridges crowd. To put it bluntly, he’s no Keane Morgan.
“So, hey, Dax,” Zander says, sipping his blue martini. “Is 22 Goats playing anywhere while I’m in town? I’d love to check you guys out.”
“Yeah, actually, we’re playing tomorrow night at The Viper Room.”
“Cool. I’ll take the wife for a romantic night out. You wanna come, too, Maddy? You can be my mistress.”
I giggle. “Of course.”
“Hey, Maddy, maybe you could shoot some footage for our video at the show tomorrow?” Dax says.
“Great idea,” I reply. “I’ll get performance footage tomorrow and then capture interviews and B-roll this coming week.”
“Sick. Hey, why don’t you hang backstage with the band before the show so you can shoot some ‘behind the scenes’ stuff there? That’d be cool, right? Green rooms always look super backstage-legit.”
I nod vigorously, simply because I’m too excited to speak.
“Hey, I wanna see you guys play, too,” Hannah says. “Whaddaya say, Henny?”
“Hell yeah,” Henn says.
“Cool. I’ll put all your names on the list at will call,” Dax says.
“Awesome,” Hannah says. “Thank you.”
Everyone thanks Dax and he replies graciously that he’s happy to do it.
I take a sip of my drink, my heart pounding. I can’t stop staring at Dax’s shockingly gorgeous face, especially his lips. They look so much like Keane’s beautiful lips, it’s insane. Aaaaaaaand now I’m thinking, yet again, about my passionate kiss with Keane last night. Oh, God, it was the most electrifying kiss of my life.
“So, Dax,” Hannah says. “Sorry if you get asked this every day of your life, but why the hell are you guys called 22 Goats?”
Dax chuckles. “It’s a stupid story, actually.”
“Oh, I love stupid stories,” Hannah says.
“It’s true. She loves all my stories and they’re all stupid,” Henn says, making Hannah giggle.
I take another long sip of my martini, my cheeks hot, remembering the sensation of Keane’s body on top of mine, his hard chest pressed against my soft breasts, his fingers working between my legs with incredible skill.
“So, Fish, Colin, and I were partying with these girls one night after a show,” Dax begins, “and one of them had grown up on a farm in Nebraska or wherever and she was telling us all these weird factoids about farm animals.” He chuckles. “So she was like, ‘Did you know goats smile?’ And, of course, we were all like, ‘Are you shitting me? Is this a Chinese proverb?’ So she goes, ‘No, no, goats actually smile. Google it.’ So we search ‘goats smiling’ and this Buzzfeed article pops right up called ’22 Goats Smiling at You.’ And, holy shit, guess what? Goats totally smile at you.” He laughs. “And for some reason we all thought those twenty-two goats smiling at us were the funniest things we’d ever seen.” He leans forward like he’s telling a secret. “I should at this point in the story mention we were smoking the finest weed.”
Everyone laughs.
“Found it,” Henn says next to me, looking down at his phone. He bursts out laughing. “Oh my God—it’s true. Goats really do smile at you.” Henn passes his phone around the table, and everyone marvels and laughs at the silly photos.
“So, anyway, Fish was like, ‘That should be our band name, dudes—22 Goats Smiling at You.’ Right before then we’d decided our band name sucked and we wanted to change it to something super awesome, but up to that point we’d only come up with lame and self-important shit like, ‘Masters of Profundity’ and ‘Darkness Descendant.” He belly laughs at that and we all laugh with him. “So, anyway, that’s what we became—’22 Goats Smiling at You.’ But then my brother Colby said the name sounded like a Dr. Seuss book on acid and then my other brother Ryan said we sounded like a band of pedophiles who play little kids’ birthday parties only to scout out our next victims.”
Everyone laughs uproariously for a solid minute at that.
“So we shortened it to 22 Goats,” Dax finally says. “And there you go.”
“What was your band name before that?” Henn asks. “You said it sucked.”
“Okay, don’t judge. Fish, Colin, and I came up with our first band name back in tenth grade.”
We all hold our breath, waiting for whatever bomb Dax is about to drop.
“Dax Attack,” Dax finally mumbles, clea
rly embarrassed, and we all burst out laughing again.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the emcee suddenly bellows onstage, interrupting our collective laughter.
Zander looks at his watch, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, I bet this is gonna be Peenie.”
The emcee continues: “Put your hands together for a spicy hot dancer who’s gonna bring the caliente to you tonight: the one and only—Latin Lover!”
The crowd applauds enthusiastically and an attractive Latino dude comes onstage and begins shaking his ass to Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me.”
I sip my drink and watch the guy politely for a grand total of twenty seconds. And then I’m bored out of my mind. Meh. So I shift my attention from the guy onstage and do what I’ve been doing all night: I watch the frenzied women in the audience as they watch the performer onstage.
Oh, how the women in this club love themselves some nearly naked, gyrating man-meat. I had no idea women went this nuts over male strippers, and I must say I’m fascinated. I can’t help thinking the uninhibited female revelry I’m witnessing wouldn’t fly at all if the genders in this room were reversed. I mean, seriously, if the stripper onstage were a woman and the audience full of men—and if even one guy in that hypothetical male audience behaved the way this entire female audience is behaving—that skeevy guy would no doubt find himself bounced out of the club faster than he could say, “Show me your tits!” Frankly, he might even be arrested for sexual assault.
Oh my gosh.
My eyes widen to the size of saucers.
My chest tightens.
I put my drink down.
Eureka.
The vague swirl of ideas percolating inside my brain since yesterday has just crystallized into an actual idea—and a brilliant one, at that, I do believe.
“By George, I think I’ve got it!” I blurt, slapping my palm onto the table.
All conversation at my table ceases and everyone looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, she’s got an idea,” Hannah says to everyone, her eyes lighting up. “What is it, honey?’
I can’t speak. My brain is whirring and clacking like factory equipment roaring to life after a power outage.
“What kind of idea?” Dax asks, looking genuinely interested.
“For your documentary, honey?” Hannah asks.
I nod.
“Awesome!” Hannah squeals. She looks at the group. “Maddy’s got to turn in a huge film project by the end of the year for her documentary filmmaking class and she’s been trying to come up with her ‘big idea’ all summer.” Hannah looks at me, her face aglow. “So what’s your big idea, lil sissy?”
My heart is absolutely racing with excitement. I can barely speak. I take a deep breath to collect myself. “What if I do a sequel to Shoot Like a Girl, only this time set in the world of stripping instead of basketball?” I blurt. “The exact same concept—looking at a popular activity slash cultural phenomenon and examining it through the prism of gender? Only this time with strippers!”
“Omigosh! I love it!” Hannah gasps, and everyone at the table echoes her enthusiasm.
My pulse is absolutely pounding. “I can feature interviews with strippers of each gender, the same way I did interviews of male and female basketball players, and then I’ll juxtapose the fun and lighthearted world of male stripping with the darker, more exploitative world of female stripping—and then dig into the million-dollar question of why the difference, you know?” I’m practically panting. Oh my God, I love it when my brain explodes with inspiration like this.
“I’d totally watch that movie,” Dax says.
“Me, too,” Zander says. “But, um, just double-checking before I pay the price of admission—there’ll be at least a glimpse of a woman on a pole in this documentary, right?”
Everyone laughs and Zander flashes me a huge smile, telling me he’s just messing with me, and I melt under his adorable gaze.
God, I love Zander Shaw. The moment I met him in Dax’s apartment a few hours ago, I instantly understood why Keane adores the hell out of him. Which he so obviously does, oh my freaking God. Have you ever seen one of those videos where a solider comes home from deployment and is reunited with his beloved Labrador—and the dog is so overcome with joy, his entire body wags? Well, that’s exactly what it was like when Keane was reunited with Zander this afternoon (and, yes, just in case you’re wondering, Zander was most definitely the returning soldier and Keane the Labrador).
I flash Zander a huge smile across the table. “Well, I make no promises, Z,” I say, “but I’d think at least glimpsing a woman on a pole in a movie about strippers is a pretty good bet.”
“Then count me in.”
I laugh with glee, suddenly overcome with excitement. “I really think I’m onto something here. I read up on stripping a little bit while Keane was driving yesterday and what I’ve learned about the male-female dichotomy is intriguing. It seems male strippers do the job mainly for fun and to boost their egos, way more so than for money, while female strippers, on the other hand, overwhelmingly say they’re in it for the money and nothing else. In fact, women overwhelmingly say the job actually degrades their self-esteem.”
“Wow, you’ve already researched all that?” Zander says.
“Sounds like you already had a pretty firm grasp on your idea before coming here tonight,” Hannah says.
“Not really. It took coming here and seeing this crowd for the idea to click into place.”
“Ah, inspiration,” Dax says wistfully. “So hard to pin down. I can certainly relate.” He grins at me.
“It’s gonna be so good, Maddy,” Hannah says.
“Indubitably,” Henn agrees.
“Hey, you could call it Strip Like a Guy—that sounds kind of sequel-ish, doesn’t it?” Hannah says.
“Omigosh, I love it!” I shout.
Everyone at the table agrees that title rocks.
“Leave it to the PR woman to come up with the badass title,” Henn says, looking lovingly at Hannah. He kisses her on the cheek. “You’re a fucking genius, babe.”
“Aw, Henny,” Hannah says, her cheeks glowing.
Henn raises his blue martini to me. “Here’s to you, Maddy. It sounds like we’re gonna be cheering you on at the Oscars in a couple years, huh? I’ll get my tux pressed now, just in case.”
Everyone clinks my glass and offers me best wishes, making me blush.
“Thanks so much, guys,” I say. I shoot a special smile to Henn. “Thanks, Henn.”
He grins at me. “You betcha, pretty lady. Go forth and conquer. We’re all cheering you on. If you ever need my help with anything, just lemme know.”
“Aw, Henny,” my sister says again, sighing. She lays a big kiss on her adorable boyfriend’s cheek. “I love you.”
Henn lights up at my sister’s words of affection. “I love you, too, Banana,” he whispers. He turns his face to Hannah’s, nuzzles her nose gently, and then plants a soft and sexy kiss on her lips that sends blood whooshing into my crotch. Damn, that nerd can kiss.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now I’m thinking about last night’s incredible kiss with Keane. Again. Why does everything I see make me think about that damned kiss?
I put my hands over my face, trying to get a grip, but my body is reacting to the memory of last night’s passionate kiss with Keane like it’s happening right now. For the love of God, I can feel my nipples hardening in my bra. Aaaaaand now I’m thinking about how Keane took my nipple into his mouth, just before I came. Oh, Jesus. Now I’m thinking about the delicious orgasm he gave me that rocked my world. And the way he held me on the dance floor in the bar when he told me he liked me too much to treat me like just another notch on his manwhoring belt. And then held me in his arms Lionel Richie style last night.
I sigh wistfully, lost in my thoughts, until an explosion of screams and applause draws my attention to the stage. Oh. It seems the Latin Lover has just finished his caliente performance. After blowing kisses to the audience, the guy gath
ers his clothes off the floor of the stage and makes his way to a cordoned-off table—a table Keane told us earlier is filled with talent scouts and agents, including an agent from the huge talent agency Keane’s hoping will sign him tonight.
As the Latin Lover approaches the VIP table, I observe the tepid body language of the people seated there. I could be wrong, of course, but it seems to me they weren’t any more enthralled by the Latin Lover than I was.
A wave of nerves crashes into me for Keane. God, I hope he knocks it out of the park tonight. If the industry people at that table see even one-tenth the star potential I see in Keane, who knows what opportunities might come his way?
Zander looks at his watch. “Peenie should be on next.”
“He’s gonna make everyone else look like chumps,” Dax says, sipping his drink.
“He said he’s gonna do his Magic Mike routine,” I offer. “The one where he dances to ‘Pony’?”
“Good,” Zander says. “That one always slays. Wait ’til you see our boy in action, Maddy—he’s gonna blow your mind.”
Well, yeah, I know, I think. I already saw our boy in action last night in the privacy of my motel room and he most definitely blew my mind.
Aaaaaaaaand now I’m thinking about last night again. The orgasm. His body smashed against mine. His arms. His wet tongue on my breasts. The way he pulled up my tank top and lay on top of me and how my soft, naked breasts molded into his muscular chest. And that kiss.
Gah!
I’ve got to stop this. Keane and I have mutually decided to be strictly friends and I’ve simply got to move on and accept that fact, no matter how much my crotch throbs every time I think about last night’s deliciousness.
I take two huge gulps from my glass and drain it.
“Whoa, you want another one, Maddy?” Henn asks, and I nod vigorously.
Henn signals the cocktail waitress. “You okay?” he asks, leaning into me with concern.
I nod again, but I’m a freakin’ liar. I’m not okay. I’m a woman on the verge of a lust-induced, clit-throbbing nervous breakdown.
