by Lauren Rowe
I jerk my shaft, up and down, letting my mind wander to all things Maddy. Her gorgeous tits. Her tight pussy. Those little freckles on her nose. The look in her eyes when she comes for me—or, rather, when she used to come for me.
Fuck.
I thought I’d come home from L.A. and revert right back to the handsome and happy lad I’ve always been, but since being home, I just can’t get my mojo back. Everything I used to do to make myself happy just seems so pointless.
Focus, Peenie. This isn’t the time to philosophize about the meaning of life. It’s time to get yourself off.
I force myself to concentrate on the task at hand (pun intended), imagining I’m inside Maddy, pumping slowly in and out of her and whispering dirty-talk into her ear, and within no time at all, I’m coming all over my hand.
Maddy.
God, I physically ache for her. All the fucking time. No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about her. I want to kiss her. Touch her. Fuck her. Just sit and talk to her about anything at all.
But it doesn’t matter. This ache I’m feeling for this girl is a moot point because Maddy’s clearly not feeling the same way about me. Not anymore, she’s not. When I was in L.A. the other day for some callbacks, I texted Maddy to see if maybe she wanted to grab some dinner before my late flight home, but she turned me down.
“Sorry,” she texted. “I have a huge project due tomorrow and I can’t break away.”
“No problem,” I replied. “Maybe next time.”
So I met Dax and the guys for a quick drink and then hauled my aching balls to the airport to catch an earlier flight back home.
Shit.
Maybe Zander’s right: it’s time for me to move on. Maddy and I live in different cities, after all, and, regardless, even if she lived next door, I’m not in the market for a girlfriend, which is what she wants to be—what she deserves to be.
Seriously, I’ve just gotta turn the page.
But try telling that to my balls.
With a heavy sigh, I roll out of bed and haul my pitiful ass and aching balls into the shower.
Chapter 51
Keane
Tuesday, 12:04 p.m.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, a towel wrapped around my waist, my phone in my hand.
“Oh my God, you’re actually calling me?” my booking agent Melissa says when she picks up my call. “Is it the Apocalypse?”
“Hey, Mel,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a huge job for you on Saturday night.”
“Private gig?”
“Yeah.”
“Mel, I told you: I’m only doing club gigs for a while. No privates.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s been weeks, Keane, and this is a huge job. Five hundred up front, plus you’ll kill it on tips. It’s some rich cougar who saw you at Hot Spot a few months ago and had to have you for her birthday party.”
“Thanks, but not interested.”
Melissa exhales with exasperation. “Keane, what’s going on? The big money’s in the private gigs, not the clubs, you know that.”
“I just don’t have the stomach for privates these days.”
Melissa lets out a long sigh. “It’s okay. I get it. You need a break from the scene. It happens. A little time off and you’ll be good as new. Just lemme know when you’re ready to jump back into the game and I’ll book you for a month solid.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
When we hang up, I check my texts and my heart leaps at the sight of Maddy’s name in my inbox. But even a cursory glance at her message and it’s clear she’s just texting me Ball Peen Hammer’s daily homework assignment the same way she’s done for the past three weeks.
“Hello, Ball Peen Hammer!” Maddy writes. “Great news! You know that white-cheddar popcorn you love so much? They’ve agreed to pay you for product placement! All you have to do is eat some of their popcorn (which you’d do anyway, right?) in one video per month, making sure the brand name on the bag is visible. Gotta love the Internet. I’ll forward you the email about the pay. It’s not much, but, hopefully, this is just the beginning of the gravy train for you, BPH. Congrats!”
I reply immediately: “Thanks, Mad Genius! You da best! But just to be clear: this is just the beginning of the gravy train for BOTH of us, not just me. (We agreed to a 50-50 split on everything, remember?)”
Maddy replies with a smiley face and dollar-bill emoji.
“So what’s today’s assignment?” I write. “Lemme guess: a shirtless selfie?”
“Wow, you’re psychic,” Maddy writes. “Just make sure your muscles look extra hawt, BPH. You’re gaining a thousand followers a day on Instagram and your shirtless photos get the most likes by far.” She attaches a muscle-arm emoji and a dollar bill.
“Roger,” I write.
“Rabbit,” she replies. “Plus, let’s do something for Vine today. Shoot something where you’re taking your shirt off and saying something super douche-y like, ‘You’re welcome!’ Just send it to me and I’ll edit it down to six seconds and upload it. And then let’s have you do a couple minutes for YouTube. I’m thinking something with Zander, the two of you doing something exceedingly stupid (but NOT smoking weed!!). I’m thinking thumb wrestling, a burping contest, beer pong, whatever. Doesn’t matter as long as it’s something stupid and highly dude-like.”
I text back: “Everything Zander and I do is stupid and highly dude-like. Might as well tell me to post a video of us breathing. BTW, I haven’t touched weed or alcohol since I got back to Seattle. Been getting ripped for a modeling gig my agent’s working on getting me in L.A. Don’t know the date I’ll be doing it yet, but when I find out, I’ll let u know cuz I’m hoping we can hang out???”
Maddy replies quickly. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“I haven’t given u the date yet.”
“Yeah, but I’m super busy these days. Can’t really hang out with anyone. Nothing personal. Too much to do.”
I sigh.
“Hey!” Zander yells from the kitchen. “Z-train leaves for the gym in four minutes!”
I don’t reply. I’m too busy thinking about how my balls feel like they’re in a vise.
“Yo! Peen!” Zander yells.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a sec.”
This is bullshit. I don’t care what she said in L.A. There’s no reason we can’t at least be friends. Real friends. Even before the sex thing, Maddy and I could talk for hours about anything.
I quickly type out a text to Maddy: “Hey, running to the gym. Will u be around later? Would really like to talk to u. Just wanna catch up.”
The reply comes back quickly: “Going to the library to study. Maybe another time? Have fun at the gym. Say hi to Z for me. Gotta go. Bye.”
Chapter 52
Keane
Friday, 9:28 a.m.
My phone rings on my nightstand and I roll on my side to grab it. When I look at the display screen, expecting it to be my mother or landlord (because who else would be lame enough to call me?), I’m surprised to see the call is from my agent in L.A. Oh my God. That guy doesn’t call to chat about the weather—if he’s calling me, something’s up.
“Hey, Adam,” I say, my heart racing. “What’s up?”
“You got the reality show,” he says, his voice brimming with excitement.
“What? Oh my God. Really?”
Adam laughs. “Yup. It’s gonna be six guys featured, but they’re gonna build the entire show around you, Keane.”
“Oh my God.”
“Guaranteed full season. Ten episodes. The money per episode isn’t life changing or anything, but that’s reality TV for you. Cheap bastards.” He tells me the amount of money they’re offering to pay me for three months of shooting and, although it’s not mind-blowing or anything, I’m far from disappointed. In three months, I’ll earn what I made in the minor leagues for a full season of baseball. “But the real game-changer is gonna be parlaying your fame from the TV show into other gi
gs—commercials, appearance fees, endorsements, print ads. I should be able to get you a ton of work from the notoriety.”
“Ho-lee shit,” I mutter, my mind racing.
“And if the show gets picked up for a second season, well, that’s when the real money per episode will kick in, especially if you’ve established yourself as a celebrity by then, which I have no doubt you will.”
“Wow. So... did they tell you the game plan for the show?”
“Pretty standard reality-TV fare. Half the time they’ll follow you around and film you as you live your exciting and sexy life as a male stripper. You’ll do your usual gigs—bachelorette parties, clubs, birthday parties, whatever, just like you already do—and you’ll also pick up women right and left the way you describe in your Ball Peen Hammer videos. They really want you to play up the manwhore thing to the hilt—really go over the top with it.” He laughs. “I take it that won’t be a problem for you?”
“Um,” I say, my stomach clenching.
“And the other half of the time,” my agent continues, “they’ll film you and the other five guys as you live together in the stripper-mansion. Oh, yeah, I should mention: you and the other guys will live together in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills during the whole shoot. ”
Again, my stomach churns. “Oh,” I say.
“Of course, they want you and the other guys to have all sorts of crazy drama—you know, fights over women, maybe you can accuse some guy of ‘disrespecting you’ and almost come to blows. That sort of thing, you know. But, of course, they also want to see you having a bromance, too. They love the videos you’ve been putting up lately with you and your roommate. What’s his name again?”
“Zander.”
“That’s right. They love you guys together, so they want you to have a friendship just like that with one of the guys in the house. They’re actually thinking about casting a black guy for the role.”
I physically shudder. “Hey, maybe I won’t even notice the difference,” I say coldly.
Adam laughs. “Funny. But, mostly, they just want lots and lots of drama.”
“Hmm,” I say, feeling at a loss for words. My stomach is churning so violently, I feel like I’m gonna barf.
“It’s an amazing opportunity, Keane. Congratulations. There’s only one thing they wanted to confirm before they ink the deal—but I already told ’em it shouldn’t be a problem: they want you to take down all your Ball Peen Hammer videos and sign over ownership of the name to them.”
I can’t think straight. I’m physically nauseated. “Why?” I choke out.
“Because they’re gonna duplicate all those videos on the show. They absolutely love them, Keane. They think they’re genius. They went on and on about what a fresh and original voice you have—how there’s no one else like you. So there’s gonna be a big thing every episode—‘Ball Peen Hammer Says’—where you talk straight to the camera and give your one-of-a-kind advice on how to live a handsome and happy life and they don’t want any of the content you’ve already posted to steal their thunder. But you don’t care about that, right? I mean, a rinky-dink YouTube channel is chump change compared to the exposure you’ll get on national television, especially if we can parlay this thing into multiple seasons. Shit, they squeezed four seasons out of Jersey Shore and those kids were getting a couple mill per season by the end. He laughs with glee. “If we can get this thing picked up for a second season, you’ll be on the gravy train, big-time.”
“But I can’t be Ball Peen Hammer anymore?” I ask lamely. I feel like a deer in headlights.
“Well, I mean, your character on the show will be known as ‘Ball Peen Hammer,’ and you can still call yourself that in relation to the show and your live performances, but they’ll own that character for media purposes.” He chuckles like I’m a silly toddler who’s trying to stick a bobby pin into a light socket. “Trust me, Keane, this is standard procedure. Don’t stress it.”
I don’t reply.
“Oh, and they want you to keep your blue hair,” he continues. “You’re cool with that, right? I told them you wouldn’t have a problem with that. They think it makes you ‘instantly recognizable,’ which is great for branding. Although they’re thinking you’d start out season one with your natural hair color and then dye it blue in episode one to help another guy in the house get laid. You know, they just want you to recreate the story you told them in the audition.” He chuckles. “They love that story.”
“Wow,” I say, incapable of saying anything else. I run my hand through my blue hair.
Adam chuckles again. “Speechless, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“You should be. This is an amazing opportunity for anyone, but especially a newbie like you. Some people spend years dreaming of getting a shot like this, and you swooped into town with your blue hair and eight-pack and sparkling personality and turned everyone’s head. It’s amazing how much buzz there is about you right now, Keane. We’ve got lightning in a bottle with you, I’m telling you. Once I seal this deal for you, I’m gonna use it to get you booked solid for commercials and print ads. Fasten your seatbelt, baby, because you’re about to get whiplash.”
“When do I have to give them an answer?” I ask, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“What do you mean?” Adam asks slowly. “What’s there to think about?”
“It’s a big decision. I just need to mull it over for a bit.”
“What?” Adam says, clearly floored. “Is this about the money?”
“No, the money’s fine.”
“Because for a newbie with no credits to your name, they’re paying you pretty well. Like I say, you’re not gonna get rich off the actual contract, but the real game isn’t the per-episode fee, it’s all the stuff I can book for you based on your newfound celebrity status. And, by the way, the deal they were originally offering was twenty percent less than what I negotiated for you.”
“Yeah, the money’s great. Thanks.”
There’s a pause. “Okay, well. As your agent, I highly advise you to take this opportunity and run with it like hell.”
“I understand. Thanks. When do you need an answer?”
Adam pauses again. “Monday at the very latest.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll let you know by Monday.”
“What’s the hiccup for you, Keane? I thought you’d be jumping for joy.”
“Just wanna think it over, that’s all. Big decision. Not sure it’s for me.”
“Not for you? It’s perfect for you.”
How the fuck does this guy know what’s “perfect” for me? He’s talked to me for a grand total of two hours. He doesn’t know shit about me. “I’ll let you know,” I say evenly.
Adam lets out a long exhale. “Well, that didn’t go as expected.”
I don’t reply.
“Okay, um, so, in other news—when it rains it pours, I guess.” He pauses for effect. “You won’t believe this but right before I got the call about the reality show, I got a call from the casting director for that black Magic Mike movie. They offered you the token white guy role.”
“Oh my God. Seriously?” My skin explodes with electricity. “Oh my God.”
“Wow. Now that’s the reaction I was expecting for the reality show.”
“What’d they say?” I ask, barely able to breathe.
“Okay, hang on. Don’t get too excited. It’s not nearly as much money as the TV show, since it’s a small role for scale plus ten and they only need you for a few weeks of shooting. This movie isn’t gonna make you a celebrity like the TV show—I mean, it might get you in the door of your next audition, introduce you to some well-connected people, which is always good, but this part alone isn’t gonna be a game-changer.”
“Holy fuck,” I say, standing up from my bed and pacing around my bedroom. “This is fantastic.”
“Yeah, if you didn’t get offered the TV show the same day, I’d probably be jumping up and down, popping champagne for you about the movi
e. But the TV show is a much better opportunity in the big picture—I’m positive I can get things going for you much faster if you’re the star of a reality show than a bit player with a couple lines in a Magic Mike rip-off.”
“But, still, the Magic Mike rip-off is a feature film, right? From a major studio? That’s pretty huge. And if I do a good job and make friends with everyone, and the casting director winds up really liking me, who knows what other movies they might think of putting me in at some point. Right?”
“Yeah, sure. Don’t get me wrong. It’s fantastic they want you, especially since you’ve got no prior experience. That speaks volumes about how much they believe in you. In fact, they already like you so much, they told me they’re planning to expand your role a bit from what’s in the original script. They’re gonna throw you a few more lines, make you more featured. They’re even gonna give you a name—you’d no longer be ‘Stripper Number Six.’” He laughs.
“Are you serious? I’ve got an actual name?” I blurt. “Awesome! What is it?”
“Brad.”
I laugh. “That’s most definitely a white-guy name.”
“Yeah, the casting director was laughing her ass off about it when she called me.”
“Wow, thanks, man,” I say. “I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Offers for a speaking part in a major Hollywood movie and a TV show on the same day. Holy fuck, I feel like I just got called up to the big leagues.”
“Slow down, high-speed. Don’t get too excited,” Adam says. “Unfortunately, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. It’s gotta be one or the other—the TV show or the movie. The shooting schedules conflict.”
“Oh.” I pause for a long beat, considering the situation. “Would the movie require me to stop doing my Ball Peen Hammer videos?”
“No. Actually, it was the videos that tipped them in your favor,” Adam says. “They loved you in your auditions, of course—you charmed their pants off—but those Ball Peen Hammer videos convinced them you’re not just a dancing monkey. In fact, just ’cause you’re so pretty, they might even throw you on the press junket when the movie releases, depending how things go.” He laughs. “They called you a ‘marketing genius.’”
