by Lauren Rowe
Ball Peen Hammer Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe
Published by SoCoRo Publishing
Layout by www.formatting4U.com
Photography: Blue Photo NYC.
Cover model: Bryan Benisvy.
Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Music Playlist for Ball Peen Hammer
Acknowledgments
Author Biography
Books by Lauren Rowe
Prologue
He bends over the woman’s back, grabs a fistful of her dark hair, and thrusts into her one last time, his eyes searing holes into my flesh.
And that’s it. I’m gone. Put a fork in me. I’m done.
I’ve got to have him.
I don’t care what I said last night. And I certainly don’t care about his stupid brother. In fact, I don’t care about anything or anyone except me and what I want.
And what I want is him.
I want to kiss him. And have sex with him. And then do it again. I want to touch and kiss and lick and suck every inch of that insane body of his, and then do it again. And I want him to touch me, every inch of me, inside and out, all the way inside the deepest, most secret places of my body, and make me come again and again.
No matter what we said to each other last night, or how my heart’s inevitably going to shatter when the pleasure’s all gone and there’s nothing left but pain, in this moment, I want him like I’ve never wanted another man.
And, by God, I’m going to get him.
Right freakin’ now.
Chapter 1
Maddy
Friday 7:42 p.m.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I peel my eyes off the video I’m editing to see who’s calling. It’s my big sister, Hannah—the one person in the world I’ll always pick up for, no matter what I’m doing.
“Hey, Banana,” I say, answering the call.
“Hey, hon. Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothing much—just, you know, smokin’ crack, having sex with an underwear model—the usual Friday night stuff. And that’s just a warm-up for tomorrow night when I’ll be mainlining black tar heroin and hosting a gangbang.”
“You’re editing another wedding video, I presume?”
“Yeah. The bride from last weekend was hoping to show her grandma the finished video at Granny’s Ninetieth Birthday Bash on Sunday. Apparently, her grandmother was too frail to travel to Seattle for the wedding, so I’ve been working ’round the clock to get it done in time for her.”
“You’re such a sweetheart, Maddy.”
“Not at all. Rush-editing a wedding video on a Friday night is my idea of fun, believe it or not. Maybe not quite as thrilling as hosting a gangbang, but it’s a close second.”
“Meh. Gangbangs are totally overrated. After a couple dozen of ’em, the novelty wears off.”
“Good to know.”
“So, hey, procrastinator, I’m calling to find out if you bought your plane ticket yet?”
“Nope, still holding out hope you’ll be able to snag me a parking spot in your building. Wishful thinking, I know.”
“Or maybe not wishful thinking...” Hannah says, her tone spiking with excitement. “Get your oil changed and your tires rotated, sissy—you’re gonna be driving your car to L.A., after all.”
I let out an excited howl. “Really? Oh my God!” This news is a godsend. It means I’ll be able to shoot weddings on weekends during the upcoming school year and make some much-needed extra cash. “Thank you so much, Hannah!”
“You’re welcome.”
“How the heck did you do it?”
“Sister magic.”
“But wait, Hannah.” My stomach clenches with sudden wariness. Hannah once told me people were renting out spots in her building for, like, four hundred bucks a month, thanks to the proximity of her building to campus. “If this spot is gonna cost me more than, say, fifty bucks a month, I can’t swing it,” I say. “Tuition for the first trimester wiped me out, and I still gotta buy books when I get to school.”
“No, no, no. This parking spot don’t cost a thing, baby, just like J.Lo and her love.” Hannah belts out the chorus of Jennifer Lopez’s song “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” at the top of her lungs, replacing the word “love” with “parking spot.”
“Yeow,” I say, pulling the phone from my ear. “You almost burst my eardrum there, babe. Warn me next time before you break into spontaneous J.Lo, please.”
“Okay, warning: I’m about to burst into spontaneous J.Lo again.” She promptly bursts into an enthusiastic mash-up of “Jenny on the Block,” “Let’s Get Loud,” and “Waiting for Tonight.”
I can’t help but giggle. There’s no one like my sister.
“Okay, I’m done J.Lo-ing for now,” Hannah says, exhaling. “You were saying?”
“Be serious for a minute, Banana. How much is this spot gonna set me back? We both know, thanks to observing our dear, hapless mother our entire lives, absolutely nothing comes for free, not even J.Lo’s love. Actually, come to think of it, Ben Affleck has gone on record to say the ‘Bennifer’ era was the lowest point of his life, so I’m sure he’d say quite emphatically that Jenny’s love does, in fact, cost ‘a thing.’ He might even say it cost him his very soul.”
Hannah scoffs. “Screw Ben. He can’t blame his tortured soul on Jenny from the Block. If the mighty Jennifer Garner couldn’t fix that broken-ass man, then he’s obviously not fixable.”
“Hannah, please be serious. If you’re planning to pay for the spot, I can’t let you do that—you’re already gonna let me live with you rent-free.”
“I’m not paying for the spot.”
“Well, then, did Henn finagle some kind of favor from Reed? Because I don’t feel comfortable letting Henn—”
“Listen to me, Linda,” Hannah says, cutting me off. It’s a reference to a viral video Hannah’s become obsessed with recently in which a precocious little boy repeatedly calls his mother by her first name (Linda) and commands her to “listen t
o him.” “This parking spot is a gift from the universe, simple as that—completely free. Well, it won’t cost you any money, that is—nothing’s ever completely free.”
“Ha! I knew it. You sold your little sister into sexual slavery, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course. How else could I get you a parking spot mere blocks from campus for nothing out of pocket? Besides, you won’t mind your sexual servitude when you see the guy who’s giving you his spot—in fact, I’m pretty sure you’ll thank me.”
“Ooooooh. You’ve got my attention, Linda. Is he hot?”
“As hell.”
“But is he my idea of hot or yours? Because your idea of hot is some dork in a black cape, playing Magic, The Gathering.”
“Not Magic, The Gathering. I’m all about World of Warcraft these days.”
“Oh my God, Hannah. You’re hopeless.”
My sister giggles. “Trust me, Mr. Parking Spot is everyone’s idea of hot. Mine, yours, J.Lo’s, Mom’s—well, okay, not Mom’s. He’s not a total loser.”
We both snicker.
“Tell me more about Mr. Parking Spot,” I say. “I must admit, I’m skeptical of his hotness.”
My skepticism is well grounded, by the way. My sister’s idea of hotness rarely overlaps with mine. While Hannah’s always had a thing for quirky hipster-nerdy-gamer types like her adorable boyfriend, Henn, I’ve always had a near-fatal weakness for artsy-musician James Dean types (guys who, unfortunately, always seem to hand me a one-way ticket to the friend-zone before I’ve managed to string two coherent words together in their presence).
“Well, gosh, lemme think,” Hannah says in a teasing voice. “Well, first off, Mr. Parking Spot is in a band.”
“Bah-wooh?” I blurt, doing my best Scooby-Doo-smelling-a-Scooby-snack impression.
Hannah chuckles. “Yeah, I thought that’d get a Scooby-Doo-bawooh out of you.”
“What instrument does he play?”
“Guitar. Oh, and he’s the lead singer, too.”
“Santa Maria!”
“And he writes all his band’s lyrics.”
“Oh my.”
“And the lyrics he writes are deep and profound.”
I gasp. “Santa Madonna!”
“But, wait, there’s more. Guess why he doesn’t need his parking spot?”
“Oh, dear God, no,” I whisper.
“’Cause he rides a motorcycle,” Hannah says, confirming my hunch.
“Sweet Sassy Molassey!”
Hannah laughs.
“Okay, it’s official,” I say. “Fire up the engines of unrequited love to full-throttle, Johnny. I’m goin’ in.”
“And, to top it all off, he lives right across the hall from me, so you two will practically be roomies.”
I clutch my heart, anxiety gripping me. “Shit just got real—and very precarious.”
Hannah laughs again.
“Hannah, all joking aside, this is gonna end really badly for me,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m so sad for what’s about to happen to me.”
Hannah scoffs. “Why do you always think that way? You have to think positively—envision what you want and then make it a reality.”
“Banana, I’m an extremely positive person and you know it. I just don’t happen to be delusional.”
“Come on, Linda, listen to me,” Hannah says. “How many times have I told you? New city, new school, new Maddy. That’s your mantra now. You’re not shy and introverted anymore; you’re a man-eater, baby.”
I let out a loud exhale. My sister can give me as many pep talks about manifesting my reality and transforming myself into some kind of femme fatale as she wants, but we both know what’s gonna happen here: I’m gonna fall for this rock-star guy and he’s going to pat me on the head, feed me some kibble, and say, “Hey there, little buddy. Let’s be friends!” It’s just the way it always goes with me when it comes to me and the guys I find sexually attractive.
Now don’t get me wrong: hot guys have liked me—the same way they like kittens and Homer Simpson and waffle cones. “You’re awesome, Maddy!” they’ve said, if we happen to be in a class together and they’ve had the chance to get to know me over time. But for some reason, no matter how much the hotties come to like me once they’ve gotten to know me, they’re never inspired to jump my bones.
Of course, boys have shown interest in being more than friends with me throughout the years, many of them making it clear they wanted to do the horizontal tango with me (and I’ve quite pleasantly done exactly that with three of them, including my first long-term boyfriend, Justin); but, if I’m being honest, other than Justin, the guys I’ve dated (and eventually slept with) haven’t included anyone who’s particularly turned me on.
“Come on,” Hannah says. “Say it for me: ‘new city, new school, new Maddy.’”
I roll my eyes, but begrudgingly repeat after my big sister.
“Excellent, Linda,” Hannah replies after I’ve given her what she wants. “You’re not Madelyn the sweet, shy, rule-following good girl anymore. Starting now, you’re Madelyn the Badasselyn every minute of every day, not just when you’re kicking ass and taking names behind the lens of a camera.”
“Yeah, right. I’m Madelyn the Badasselyn.” I snort. “You know what I was envisioning when you said Mr. Hottie lives across the hall? I had a premonition of me knocking on his door at three in the morning in my ‘Adventure Time’ pajamas, holding a basket full of baked goods, saying, ‘Hey there, neighbor! I heard you playing your guitar in there and thought you might like some baked goods to fuel your creativity?’”
Hannah giggles.
“Please, Hannah, for the love of God, don’t let me bring this über-cool-rock-star-motorcycle-dude baked goods at three in the morning. Chain me up or threaten to show him one of my dance-recital videos if I so much as mix sugar, flour, and eggs.”
“Aw, come on, your tap-dancing videos are adorable.”
“The ones when I’m six are adorable, maybe; the ones when I’m thirteen with buck teeth and frizzy hair? Not so much.”
“They’re all adorable, Maddy. You were always a cutie—just a little bug in a rug.”
“Mmm hmm. Remember the one where I tap-danced to ‘Born in the USA’?” I ask.
“Is that the one when you’re wearing that red-white-and-blue top hat?”
“That’s the one.”
Hannah giggles for a good long minute. “Okay, yeah, you looked kinda like the Cat in the Hat on meth in that one, I must admit.”
I laugh despite myself. She’s right. I totally did.
“Oh my God, Maddy—I love you so much,” Hannah says, exhaling. “Okay, fine, if you’re ever on the verge of going full-on Martha Stewart on Dax’s ass, I’ll take drastic measures.”
“His name is Dax?”
“Yeah, Dax Morgan. He’s Kat Morgan’s little brother—er, Kat Faraday’s little brother. I keep forgetting to call her that.”
“Ah,” I say, the situation suddenly making a whole lot more sense. “Why didn’t you say he’s Kat’s little brother? Now it makes total sense why he’d donate his parking spot to our cause.”
Hannah met her dear friend Kat Morgan a few years ago when they started working together at a PR firm here in Seattle, and Hannah hasn’t stopped telling outrageous and hilarious Kat-stories ever since. Hannah wound up quitting her job and moving to L.A. to be with her boyfriend, Henn (right before Kat got married and had a baby), but the pair has nonetheless stayed super close, especially since Kat’s husband, Josh, is besties with Hannah’s boyfriend, Henn.
“Wow,” I say. “If Dax is half as attractive as his sister, then he must be drop-dead gorgeous.”
“He’s absolutely hideous.”
I laugh.
“Actually, Dax and Kat look like male-female versions of each other. Their family calls them The Wonder Twins.”
“Ah, jeez, there are two of them? Well, that’s just God showing off.”
“No, there are five of them. Kat has
four brothers—I met the whole Morgan clan at Kat’s wedding in Hawaii—and every single one of them is a freak of nature. But Dax is the one who looks like Kat’s cookie-cutter twin.”
“Holy hell. My left ovary just started vibrating.”
Hannah giggles.
“So does Dax go to UCLA?” I ask. “Did Reed cut him a deal on an apartment, too?”
It’s a fair question. Hannah’s building is mere blocks from UCLA’s campus (hence, the reason I’m moving in with her next week), and almost every resident in her building is a student. And since Henn and Josh’s third musketeer from their days at UCLA (a music mogul named Reed Rivers) owns Hannah’s apartment building, it seems likely to me he would have given Kat’s brother a deal on an apartment the same way he gave one to his best friend’s girlfriend.
“No, Dax isn’t a student,” Hannah says. “He moved to L.A. because his band got signed by River Records.”
“Oh my God. Wow. Good for them.”
“I know. It’s huge. So, anyway, I’m told Reed likes to put his new bands up in his apartment building while they’re recording their debut album.”
“Wowza. Dax must be ecstatic.”
“Well, yeah, but I think he’s also kinda stressed out, from what I can tell.”
“I can only imagine. Must be a lot of pressure. So did Dax give you a hint about what he wants for the parking spot—other than my sexual servitude, of course?”
“He said maybe you could do some sort of promo video for his band?”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “That’s what he wants as payment?”
“So he says.”
“I’d love to do that.” I place my fingertips on my laptop keyboard, poised to run a search. “Okay, I’m in Google-mode, babe. Is his name spelled D-A-X?”
“Yeah. Dax Morgan—and his band is called 22 Goats.”
“22 Goats? What the heck?”
“Don’t ask—I have no idea.”
I input the search and a whole bunch of photos, videos, and links pop up on my screen. “Oh, hello,” I say, beholding the glorious visions of gorgeousness gracing my computer. “Wow, Dax really is the male version of Kat.”
“Like I said.”
“And the entire universe’s idea of hot,” I add.
“Told you so. He’s a freak, just like all the Morgan siblings. Freaks, freaks, freaks, all of ’em. Disgusting. Hideous. Grotesque.”