by Lauren Rowe
“Jee-zus, he’s easy on the eyes.” I click on one of the videos in which Dax and his band are performing an edgy but soulful rock ballad in a crowded club. “Wow, he’s so passionate when he performs,” I whisper as I watch, my skin electrifying. “Oh my God, Banana, my left ovary just popped out an egg, and I’m not even mid-cycle.”
“Yeah, well, get in line. Every co-ed in my building has been hurling her eggs at Dax since he moved in. The guy gets assaulted with teeny-tiny yolks every time he leaves his apartment.”
We both laugh.
“I’m suddenly picturing Dax covered in tiny splotches of yellow goo,” I say. “The same way women in fur coats get doused with red paint.”
“Totally,” Hannah says, laughing.
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Twenty-one, I think? He said he’d be a junior at Seattle U this year if he hadn’t dropped out to pursue his music.”
I watch Dax and his band some more, utterly drawn to his undeniable charisma and talent, and finally take a deep, self-controlling breath. “Okay, enough stalking and fangirling for one night. I’ve gotta get this dang wedding video edited for Grandma Tilly’s Ninetieth Birthday Bash. Thanks again for arranging the parking spot for me, Hannah—you’re the best sister in the world.”
“Anything for you, lil sissy—you know that. But, hey, honestly, now that you’re driving here, I gotta admit I’m worried about you making the drive all by yourself.”
I scoff. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Is there someone who could make the drive with you? If you can find someone to road trip it with you, I’ll buy them a one-way flight back to Seattle, on me.”
“Oh my gosh, Banana. You’re so sweet. But I’ll be fine.”
“Seriously. Is there anyone you could ask? I’d feel a lot better about it if you weren’t alone.”
I twist my mouth, considering potential co-pilots, but I can’t think of anyone. “Washington schools have already started up again,” I say. “Everyone I know started classes last week.”
“Well, how about Mom, then?”
“No, she’s visiting her new boyfriend in Louisville next week.”
“Mom’s got a new boyfriend in Louisville?”
“Smith.”
“Smith? Is that his first or last name?”
“First name, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. That’s all she’s ever called him: Smith.”
“Whatever happened to that guy Brook?”
“Brooks. With an ‘s.’ He’s kaput.”
“I thought Brooks was supposed to be Mom’s ‘Prince Charming’?”
“Yeah, well, it turns out Prince Charming has gambling and porn addictions.”
“Next, please!” Hannah shouts, and we both laugh—but it’s “humor borne of pain,” as Hannah’s boyfriend Henn is fond of saying.
“If you wanna worry about someone taking a trip alone, worry about Mom,” I say. “She’s meeting this Smith guy in person for the first time after a solid month of ‘I love you’ emails and phone calls.”
“Love-at-first email again?” Hannah asks.
“Of course.”
“We ought to teach Mom about this newfangled thing called FaceTime,” Hannah says. “I think it’d change her life.” She lets out a long sigh. “Well, hopefully, this Smith guy is The One.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say.
“If not, she’ll figure it out,” Hannah says. “Mom’s a big girl.”
“Well, so am I,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about me driving alone.”
“No, you’re not a big girl. You’re my sweet little Madelyn the Badelyn and you always will be. Hey, why don’t I fly up there and drive down with you? We can play license-plate bingo like we used to do when we were kids.”
“Hann, you were just telling me yesterday how swamped you are at work. You can’t take time off from a brand new job to babysit me. You’re still trying to make everyone at your new job love you, remember?”
Hannah exhales a long breath, wordlessly confirming just how much she’s yearning to succeed at this new PR job of hers. Working in the publicity department of a major movie studio is my sister’s dream job, after all, and now she’s living her dream.
“If I feel even remotely drowsy while driving,” I assure her, “I’ll stop at the first motel I come across. In fact, right after we hang up, I’ll go online and chart out my pit stops. And I’ll put my phone in the glove box whenever I’m driving, just like I always do. There’ll be no distractions.”
“I’m not only worried about the driving part, I’m worried you’ll be a twenty-one-year-old woman traveling alone for twelve hundred miles. Who knows what sicko might see you at a gas station and attack you?”
“Jeez, Hannah.”
“Just saying. You can never be too careful.”
“I know, but... jeez.”
Hannah exhales again, clearly ill at ease.
This is nothing new, of course. My sweet sister’s always been my fierce protector, ever since we were little, and that protectiveness only intensified three years ago when the car I was riding in as a passenger was T-boned at an intersection. I got carted away from the wreckage with a broken collarbone and wrist, a severe concussion, a collapsed lung, and some bone-deep bruises to my body, heart, and soul; but both drivers—my boyfriend, Justin, and a father of four in the other car who’d apparently looked down to reply to a text as he approached our intersection—died at the scene.
“So, hey, I gotta go,” I say. “Be sure to send me Dax’s phone number. I’ll call him to work out the terms of my sexual servitude.”
“Will do. I love you lots and lots, Tootsie Pop.”
“I love you, too, Banana Cream Pie. Thanks again.”
Chapter 2
Maddy
“Dax,” a male voice answers.
Oh, jeez. His voice is as sexy as the rest of him. Or maybe I’m just projecting extreme vocal sexiness onto him, based on the seven YouTube videos of him I just watched, one after the other, immediately before placing this call.
“Uh, hi, Dax?” I say. “This is Madelyn Milliken?” Oh man, my voice is betraying the racing of my heart. “Hannah’s sister?” I continue.
“Oh, yeah, hey.”
“My sister told me to give you a call about the parking spot?” Shoot. I’m finishing every sentence with a question mark. I hate it when I do that. I take a deep breath. “My sister told me to call you?” Shoot. I did it again. Gah.
“Yeah, Hannah said you need to have your car during the school year so you can work on weekends.”
“Yeah, tuition and books is kind of wiping me out?” Shit. Another question mark.
“Well, you can totally use my parking spot,” Dax says. “I’ve got a motorcycle, so I don’t need the second spot assigned to our apartment.”
“Thank you?” Goddammit. “Thank you?” Goddammit! “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome!” Dax shouts, mimicking the exuberant tone of my last offering. “Glad to help out. Kat’s always talking about how much she loves Hannah Banana Montana Milliken, so I figure any sister of Hannah’s is a sister of mine.”
Well, damn, that’s gotta be a new record for me. “Thank you so much, Dax!” I sing out, trying my damnedest not to sound the least bit crestfallen that I’ve just been dropkicked into the frickin’ sister zone.
“So you’re transferring to UCLA?” Dax says, apparently unaware of my current state of disappointment.
“Yeah?” I reply.
“Where from?”
“U Dub?”
“I was studying music at Seattle U until last year.”
“Yeah?”
“Dropped out when the band got signed.”
“Congratulations on that, by the way.” Phew, no question mark that time.
“Thanks. So Hannah said you’re going to film school—that you won the top prize at some film festival last year?”
“Yeah?” I say. Fuck a duck—the question mark is
back! “Yes,” I correct myself. “I did.”
Dax pauses, apparently waiting for me to elaborate on that statement, but he’s gonna have to wait all day. I feel like my tongue is tied into knots along with my stomach.
“Okay, well, that’s cool,” Dax finally says. “So, hey, I’m thinking, if it’s cool with you, my band could use a promo video—you know, something to kind of introduce us to the world when the album comes out. I’m thinking maybe some performance stuff, maybe some behind the scene stuff? Nothing too long or fancy, pretty basic. I’m hoping the label’s gonna do some stuff at release time, but I don’t wanna count on it, you know? And, even so, every little bit helps to break a new band these days, even if you’re signed to a badass label.” Dax exhales a deep breath that speaks volumes about the pressure he must be feeling.
“I’d be thrilled to help you, Dax,” I chirp. “I absolutely love music and musicians.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I just said that. I clear my throat. “I’d be happy to do whatever I can to help you. Like you said, we’re practically family, right?” Oh, God. Someone muzzle me.
“Cool,” Dax says, sounding genuinely thrilled. “So why don’t we plan to chat about the video when you get down here?”
“Sure thing.”
“So when are you coming to town?”
“Um. I’ll probably leave in four or five days—I still need to pack and finish up a few things here. And then it should take me two or three days to do the drive, depending on weather and traffic.” I clear my throat. “But, um, yeah, once I get down there, whatever you need, I’ll be happy to supply it.” Oh my effing God. Did I just say, “I’ll be happy to ‘supply it’?” What am I—a customer service rep for a lumberyard? “Uh, I should have about a week before classes start once I get down there, so maybe we can shoot the video then?”
“Great.”
“The editing might take a little while for me to finish, to be honest—I’ll have a full load of classes and weddings to shoot on weekends, thanks to your parking spot.”
“No worries. We’ve got six months ’til the album release.”
“Oh, okay. Great.”
“I’m super excited about this, Maddy. Thanks. Hannah said you’re, like, a genius filmmaker.”
“She did? Well, I dunno about that. I just love visual storytelling. I think maybe I see connections and themes where other people don’t?”
“That’s exactly how I think about songwriting: connections, themes, stories. Same-same.”
“Wow. Cool.” I want to say more but my tongue is too tied up. I can feel my cheeks flushing.
“So, okay, Maddy,” Dax says breezily. “I gotta get my ass to the studio.”
“Right on,” I say, but then I cringe at myself. I never say that. “Thank you so much for the parking spot, Dax. It’s a life-saver.”
“Glad to do it. Well, okay. Catch ya later, Madelyn the Badelyn.”
Oh my God. Hannah told him about that? I’m gonna kill her.
“Catch ya later, Dax... the... ,” I reply. Battle Axe? Frickity Fracks? Crap, I can’t think of anything even remotely clever to say.
Oh, he’s already hung up. Thank God.
I put my phone down and slap my forehead with my palm. Why do I always crumble like feta cheese around guys I’m attracted to? How the heck do other girls manage to come off as smooth and flirtatious and snarky in these situations? I’ll be happy to supply it, I said to him. Good lord.
Like a turtle crawling into her shell, I return to doing the one thing that always transports me to my happy place: editing video.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Oh my God. That’s Dax’s number on the display screen.
“Hello?” I say, my heart racing.
“Hey,” Dax says. “It’s Dax—Dax Morgan.”
I smile to myself. As if I know another Dax? “Hi?” I say.
“So, hey, I just went across the hall and told Hannah about our conversation and, um, it turns out I’ve got one more favor besides the video to ask in exchange for the parking spot. Sorry.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” My skin pricks with anticipation. “What do you need?”
Dax exhales. “Um, so I’ve got this brother. Keane.”
“Keane?”
“K-e-a-n-e. He’s been wanting to visit me here in L.A.—I guess he’s been invited by some huge talent agency to audition for them. So, anyway, would you be willing to give Keane a ride? I know it’s a huge favor, but he’d pay for half your gas.”
“Sure,” I say without hesitation, and instantly make a face at myself. What the hell am I doing? I don’t want to drive over a thousand miles with a complete stranger in my cramped hatchback. “Sounds great,” I add brightly, yet again pissing myself off.
Dax lets out a little puff of air, obviously relieved. “Great. I’ll let him know what’s up and text you his number so you two can work out the timing.”
“Great.”
“Okay, well,” Dax says, “I’d better get myself something to eat before I head to the studio.”
“Okay. Thanks again for the parking spot.”
“Sure thing. Catch ya later. Bye.”
The minute I hang up, I flap my lips together, annoyed with myself for saying yes so easily. I have no desire to drive for two solid days with some dude I don’t know. I’m terrible with new people. And, damn it, I was looking forward to having some uninterrupted solitude to mentally prepare for the major life changes ahead of me.
I sigh audibly and put my face in my hands.
Shit.
Chapter 3
Keane
Friday. 10:07 p.m.
I pull my car in front of a large home in Bellevue and glance at my watch. I’ve somehow managed to make it to this gig with twenty minutes to spare—pretty impressive, considering I was a human pile of rubble a mere ten hours ago.
I check my phone to make sure I’ve got the right address, and I’m assaulted with an onslaught of unread texts and Instagram notifications, all apparently sent to me earlier today while I’ve been sleeping off last night’s rager. Shit. I must have traded contact info with more people than I realized at my booking agent’s birthday party last night.
I scroll through the barrage of unread texts and notifications, not particularly interested in any of them, until my eyes land on a text from my younger brother, Dax: “Yo, Peen Star. Call me ASAP. I need a favor from you, dude. It’s important. Thx.”
I tap out a quick reply: “Yo, Rock Star. I’m heading into a job right now, about to make some lucky ladies’ fantasies come true (as usual). Tonight BPH is Johnny Law with a Big Ol’ Dong and the bachelorette is America’s Most Wanted.” I attach a police officer emoji, a bride, and a crying-happy-tears emoji. “I’ll call u tomorrow. Maybe Sunday. Monday at latest, brah. (Because, ya kna, it’s hard work being EVERY WOMAN’S FUCKING FANTASY). Peace out.”
Actually, despite what I just wrote, I’m not in any rush to call my little brother back, though I love the guy to pieces. Here’s a tip: If you want Keane Morgan to hit you back any time soon, don’t send him a text that says, “I need a favor from you, dude.” Just sayin’.
I look at my watch. Eighteen minutes to showtime.
I continue scrolling through my texts and discover two from my older brother Ryan, both from yesterday: “Hey, Peen. I’ve got 2 tix to the Mariners game on Thurs night if you and the Mrs. want em? I’m thinking maybe you and your lovely wife could use a romantic night out at the ballpark? Turns out I’ll be seeing Muse Thurs night with Kum Shot and the entire Faraday crew. Lambo scored us backstage passes (because he’s the wise and powerful Joshua Fucking Faraday, baby!). Confession? I love my brother-in-law more than I love any of my actual blood brothers, including you. Sorry, Peenie, but it can’t be helped. P.S. Don’t shake your ass too hard, Magic Mike. Wouldn’t want something to shake loose and detach.”
Now, that’s how you do it, brah. You want another tip about getting Keane Morgan to hit you back? Offer him free base
ball tix. (Daxy really should take notes.) But before tapping out my “Hell yeah, I want the tix!” reply to my older brother, I quickly read his second text, which is time-stamped thirty minutes after his first:
“Hey, PEENelope Cruz!” Ryan writes. “Mom says to call her. She left you a vm 2 days ago, telling you she has extras for you (lasagna, you fuckwit!) and you never called her back. Bwahahahaaaa! Looks like your loss is my gain, sucka! Nom nom nom. Best lasagna ever!”
And just like that, all the goodwill inspired by Ryan’s first text about the baseball tix vanishes. I tap out a reply with angry fingers, gritting my teeth as I do:
“FUCK U, you extras-stealing, Viking-ass, pillaging motherfucker! Z and I are growing boys! We needed that lasagna, man! U shoulda had my back and texted me about Mom making me some grub, not swooped in to steal my extras, u twat head! Oh well, haha, joke’s on u, Pretty Boy! I’ll just sweet-talk Mom into making me an ENTIRE PAN of lasagna and probs a pot of chili, too. Ka-BAM, son! It shouldn’t be too hard to do, since Mom loves me the most.” I attach a middle-finger emoji to the end of my text and press send.
Goddammit! I live for Mom’s extras and Ryan knows it. For fuck’s sake, I’m the only one of the five of us who can’t boil water. I need Mom’s home cookin’ to survive and thrive, man. Fucker.
I quickly tap out a second message to Ryan: “It’s now abundantly clear ur the enemy, brah, so I suggest u watch your back-stabbing back.” I attach a dagger-emoji and a pair of eyes. “BTW, would u PLEASE tell Mom to quit calling me all the time and TEXT me, for fuck’s sake? I’ve told her a thousand times I never check my VMs since nobody ever calls me except Mom and my fucking landlord. And, hey, tell Jizz I’m deeply offended she didn’t invite me to see Muse with all u cool kids. What’s the point of having a sister who’s married to a kazillionaire with famous friends if she doesn’t use her newfound wealth and connections to finagle her FAVORITE brother backstage tix to Muse? Tell Kat I am NOT pleased with her. In fact, tell her she’s officially on my shit list and she’s gonna have to work REALLY hard to make me love her again. Peace out.” I attach a microphone-emoji—the Morgan siblings’ universal method for declaring “I just dropped the mic on your punk ass, you little bitch.”