by Lauren Rowe
“Well, fine. Maybe I’m not normal, but I’m definitely charming as fuck. Way more charming than my fucking brother, that’s for sure. I’d even go so far as to say I’ve got ebullient charm.”
I chuckle. “Keep telling yourself that, Peenie Weenie.”
“I don’t need to tell myself that, sweet cheeks, because all the horny ladies tell it to me every day.”
I roll my eyes. “Why the heck did your brother call me, instead of you? Were you too scared to talk to a girl who’d called you a ‘flaming asshole’?” I mock shudder. “Oh, I’m so scary.”
“Fuck no, I wasn’t scared of you; I knew right from the start your bark is worse than your bite, Mad Dog. I was just too stoned to call you, that’s all. I didn’t wanna fuck things up even more than I already had. Plus, it’s Ryan’s job in life to fix my fuck-ups, and I didn’t wanna take away his reason for being.”
I don’t want to do it, because I hate to encourage him, but I laugh out loud again. “Yeah, I know what you mean about older siblings,” I say. “Hannah thinks it’s her job in life to protect me. In fact, I’m guessing my sister’s extreme protectiveness is the reason you’re on this road trip with me.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
“I knew it!” I say, slamming my palm against the table again.
“Dude. Would you stop doing that? You’re making me twitchy.”
“You didn’t really need to go to L.A., did you, Keane?”
Keane looks as guilty as sin. “Shit. Is that what I just said?”
“Pretty much.”
“Shit.”
“Were you planning to go to L.A. at all or is the whole thing a gigantic lie?” I ask. “Do you even have an audition with that talent agency?”
“Yeah, that’s all real. It was an open-ended invitation, though. I’m not in any rush.”
“I freaking knew it,” I say, shaking my head. “Hannah.”
“It’s no big deal. I was planning to visit Dax and do the audition thing at some point.”
“I’m so sorry you got forced into making this drive with me. You must have been so freakin’ annoyed with me. Here I thought I was doing you this huge favor, and all along you were doing my sister one.”
“It’s okay. I’m actually enjoying myself.”
I feel my cheeks burst with color. “So am I,” I say, my throat suddenly tight. I clear my throat. “Even though you’re abnormal and lacking in charm, of course.”
“Bullshit. I’ve got ebullient charm, baby. All the livelong day.”
“Mmm hmm. So you keep informing me.”
“I do.”
“Okay. Sure. So tell me the story of how Zander sent me that disgusting dick pic. Walk me through the thought process that led you and Zander to think sending me a photo of Zander’s dick and hairy balls was a splendid idea.”
“’Thought process’? Uh, I wouldn’t go quite that far. We were stoned outta our minds, watching The Matrix, and Z read your text where you said you wanted to know what I was ‘packing.’”
“Ah. Now I see.”
“Confession?” Keane leans forward like he’s about to tell me a huge secret. “Zander and I are idiots.”
I laugh.
“Well, that and I didn’t bother checking my voicemails for days so I didn’t understand your initial texts. And since chicks hit me up all the time, day and night, wanting to get a piece of me, or, actually, a piece of Ball Peen Hammer, Z and I thought you must have been one of my groupies.”
“You have groupies?”
“Well, no. Ball Peen Hammer does. Hordes of ’em. And bee tee dubs, baby doll, I just said ‘hordes,’ not ‘whores,’ so don’t get your panties in a twist, Miss Gender Equality.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. He’s freakin’ adorable.
The waitress returns to the table with Keane’s chili and a small green salad and we both lean back from the table as she places Keane’s food in front of him.
“The rest should be out soon,” she assures us.
“Great, Amy,” Keane says. “Thanks a bunch.”
The minute the waitress leaves, Keane digs into his chili, scooping large spoonfuls into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten for days.
“Good?” I ask.
“Great. You want some?”
“No, thanks.”
“Lemme know if you change your mind.”
I watch him eating for a moment, fascinated. I’ve never met anyone like Keane Morgan. He’s Daffy Duck trapped inside Prince Charming’s body. Quite an entertaining combination, I must admit. He’s like watching my own private reality TV show.
“So do you and Zander regularly help each other with the ladies?” I ask.
“Well, yes and no,” he says between bites of food. “I’m Z’s wingman all the time, but he’s never mine.”
“Well, gosh. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Oh, he’d totally lay down his sword for me if I needed him. But I never need him so it’s a moot point.” He scrapes the bottom of his chili bowl and moves enthusiastically onto his salad.
“Never? I thought every guy could use a wingman, at least once in a while.”
Keane shrugs and takes a huge bite of his salad.
“So how do you do it without a wingman? Do women just fall at your feet because you’re so normal and charming?”
“Well, yes, women fall at my feet—they fall outta the sky and land at my feet like raindrops on a stormy day—but not because I’m normal and charming.” He snickers.
“Gosh, that must be awfully nice for you.”
“It is.”
“Any woman you want, huh?”
“Yup. On command.” He snaps his fingers.
I snort. “Are we talking about women or dogs here?”
Keane levels me with his startling blue eyes. “Oh, we’re talking about women. Beautiful, sexy, horny women.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“As long as, you know, the woman in question is single and available—although I’ve certainly fucked my share of married and ‘unavailable’ women on the down low, don’t get me wrong. I just mean, yeah, if she’s single and available and I want to sleep with her, then I can pretty much have her. It’s like picking chocolates outta box. Pickles from a jar.”
“’Pickles from a jar?’” I say, laughing.
“Pickles from a jar.” He winks.
“And you sometimes sleep with married pickles?” I say.
“Occasionally.”
I crinkle my nose with distaste.
“It’s not my preference, actually. That was mostly a while ago, when I was still drunk with my superpowers. I’ve learned to control myself better since then—figured out how to use my powers for good. Lately, I’ve been on a little trend of having sex with divorced women with small children, just for kicks. Sleeping with marrieds started to make me feel pretty gross about myself after a while, so I stopped cold turkey. Now, I only do it if the pickle’s been married at least ten years, but those opps come few and far between, usually at weddings, so marrieds aren’t really on the menu these days.”
I’m utterly fascinated. What is this creature? I’ve never encountered anything like him. “But cheating is cheating,” I say. “Whether it’s at year one, ten, or twenty. Why the ten-year distinction?”
“Hey, I’m not the one cheating. I’m single. I’d never cheat.”
I look at him with skepticism.
“Dude. I’m a Morgan. We don’t cheat. Meet my mom and dad and you’ll understand. Married thirty years, still in love. When Morgans commit, we commit. When Morgans are single, we play the field. It’s how we roll.”
“But what’s the logic about the ten-year thing? If you’re willing to sleep with a married woman, why care how long she’s been married?”
“Okay, actually, this is kinda deep. So don’t roll your eyes about this part or I’ll be totally offended and I might even cry.”
I chuckle. “Okay. I’ll do my best not to make you cry, Keane.”
<
br /> Keane levels me with surprisingly earnest eyes. “I believe with all my heart women don’t cheat unless they’re not getting what they need at home. You keep a woman sexually satisfied, she’s not going anywhere, ever, because women are biologically wired for monogamy. It’s pure science, baby. So I figure before the ten-year mark, I gotta be a good karmic bro to all the husbands out there and cut them some slack. I mean, odds are high a couple’s gonna pop out a couple kids during their first decade, right? Maybe they fucked like rabbits at first and then they hit the seven-year itch and the husband’s doing his mighty best to get his mojo back in between diaper changes and breastfeeding. So I follow the Ten Year Rule and I figure that’s more than a fair shake, from a karmic standpoint. Because, like I say, I believe in karma big-time and I wouldn’t want some twenty-three-year-old punk layin’ pipe with my future hot-as-fuck wife and mother of my four babies, you know? Bros before hoes on a cosmic scale. But I swear to God if I’m not still satisfying my future wife by the time our ten-year anniversary rolls around, if I’m not still making her speak in tongues every goddamned night of our marriage, then I’ll be the first one to tell her to leave me or get her bell rung somewhere else.”
I literally cannot form words.
“Ten Year Rule,” Keane says. He claps his hands like a magician finished with a trick.
“How the hell did you come up with all that?”
Keane shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just how my mind works. I talk about women and sex with Z and my brothers all the time. But since I’m the only one of us who’s ever dabbled in marrieds, I’m pretty sure that one’s mostly my concoction.”
“Would you be willing to say all that stuff again on camera?”
“Which part?”
“The whole thing.”
“Why?”
“Because you just blew my freakin’ mind and I’ve got to document it. I’d never be able to describe what I just witnessed and do it justice.”
“Who would you want to describe it to?”
“The entire world.”
Keane laughs. “What would you do with the video?”
“I have no idea. Absolutely nothing unless I get your permission first, I promise. But I have to get all that on video before I let this moment pass. I just have to document this. Please, Keane, it’s the way I am. I. Must. Document.”
“Oh my God.” A huge smile spreads across Keane’s handsome face. “Am I a ‘quiet moment of magic,’ Maddy Milliken? Admit it, I totally am.”
I’m trying to keep from smiling, but I’m sure I’m not succeeding.
“Say it for me and then I’ll do the video,” he persists.
I twist my mouth. “You’re a quiet moment of magic, Keane Morgan.”
Keane nods emphatically. “Yee-boy.” He shifts his weight in his chair like he’s preparing himself for battle. “Okay, let ’er rip, you documentary filmmaker, you. I am now officially your muse.”
“Thank you.” I point my phone at him. “Okay. Action.”
Chapter 14
Maddy
Keane places his forearms on the table and breezily goes through his explanation of The Ten Year Rule again for me, only this time, now that my camera’s on him, he’s even more charming than before, if that’s even possible.
“You come alive for the camera,” I say when he’s done talking. “It’s insane how much charisma you have.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I’m a natural-born ham. My mom calls me a ham and cheese sandwich. The weird thing is, as a kid, I was actually really shy, believe it or not.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“God’s truth. When my mom used to drop me off for pre-school, I was the kid who clung to her skirt and then sat in the corner after she left, bawling my eyes out, saying, ‘I want my mommy.’”
“Aw. Poor little Keaney.”
“True story.”
“How’d you get over your shyness?”
“Baseball at first. Being on a team. Being good at something. And then I met my beloved Wifey and he was the last piece of the puzzle. Zander unleashed my inner Peen and I just never stuffed that fucker back in again.” Keane motions to my phone. “So you got what you need, baby doll?”
“Uh, yeah, I think I’m good, honey biscuit,” I say. I take a quick peek at the footage we just shot and my heart skips a beat. “Keane, oh my God. You’re crazy-photogenic. You absolutely light up the screen.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you ever done any acting or modeling?”
“Nah.”
“You should.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. You’re a natural.”
“Hmm. Thanks. I’ll take that under consideration.”
“I bet if we loaded this video onto YouTube and seeded it the right way, it’d go viral. Hey, you could be a YouTuber. Some of those guys make a lot of money.”
“Yeah, but then I’d have to post shit all the time. No thanks. I can’t even answer all my texts. How would I remember to post shit on the daily?”
“Can I upload this video, just to see if I’m right? I can always take it down if you want.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Can I go large?”
“I don’t even know what the hell that would mean, but, sure, do whatever.”
“Cool. I’m gonna style you.” I quickly create Twitter and YouTube accounts for “Ball Peen Hammer” and upload the video. “How about an Instagram account?” I ask. “Do you have one for Ball Peen Hammer?”
Keane shrugs. “Not for Ball Peen Hammer, just for me, but I never check it.”
“Say cheese,” I say, holding up my camera. “Show me those dimples, honey nuggets.” I snap a drop-dead gorgeous photo of Keane and upload it to his brand new Instagram account, and then I post links for all Keane’s new accounts to some sites for lovers of “hot guys” and “cute boys” and “male strippers” and “man candy.” “I’ll upload a six-second edit of the video to Vine later,” I say. “You’re a natural for Vine. You’re a walking GIF.”
“Why are you doing all that?” Keane asks.
“It’s fun,” I say, shrugging. “This is my version of a video game. I just wanna see how many points I can rack up. When I decided to start doing wedding videos to earn money for school, I made a website and social media accounts for Wedding Videos by Maddy, threw some videos up there, seeded those suckers to social media sites for newly engaged couples, and within a matter of weeks I had every weekend of the summer booked with weddings. I’m a savage beast with social media marketing, believe me—this is totally my thing.”
“I thought documentaries were totally your thing.”
“This is my other thing. You can’t really have one without the other these days. No sense making videos or films no one sees, right? You gotta be able to make ’em and market ’em.”
Keane shrugs and takes a big bite of his food. “Whatever floats your boat, Madagascar. Go forth and conquer.”
I squeal. “Awesome. God, I love doing this stuff.” I put my phone down on the table. “So, back to your pickles. You said they fall at your feet like raindrops, but not because you’re normal and charming?”
“Correct.”
“So what is it that lures them? Do you simply flash your blue hair and killer dimples and the pickles leap out of their jars and hurl themselves at you like little pickle-missiles?”
Keane leans forward, grinning. “You think I’ve got ‘killer’ dimples?”
I can’t stop myself from returning his huge smile. “I think you’ve got dimples. I can see them, plain as day.” I point. “One. Two.”
“Yeah, but you called them ‘killer.’” He flashes them at me again.
“I was speaking sardonically. I think you think your dimples are killer.”
“Liar. You think they’re killer and you know it.” He flashes them at me again. “Great word, by the way. Sardonically. Please define.”
“Done in a mocking, cynical, or sarcastic manner.”<
br />
Keane purses his lips, considering something for a beat. “The handsome lad called the cute girl with the fancy vocabulary a liar, and he absolutely did not mean it sardonically.”
I laugh.
“Come on, pickle,” Keane says. “Admit my dimples make you wanna hurl yourself outta your jar and jump my bones.”
I snort. “Not even a little bit.”
“A lot bit, then.”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
“Not lying. Neither you nor your dimples have any effect on this particular pickle. But, don’t worry, Ball Peen Hammer, I don’t happen to be one of the pickles in your target demographic. I’ve never even seen Magic Mike.”
“What?”
“Actually, I’ve never witnessed a male stripper in any form.”
“Not even in Vegas?”
“I’ve never been to Vegas.”
“What? Good lord. Are you a monster?”
“I know. It’s my cross to bear, unfortunately.”
“Come on. You’ve at least seen a stripper at a bachelorette party.”
“Dude. I’m twenty-one. I’ve never been to a bachelorette party. My best friends are still in college.”
“What the hell? First Abba Zaba and Rainman and now Magic Mike and Las Vegas? Poor sheltered, cloistered, innocent little Maddy Milliken. The list of ways your cherry needs popping is longer than my... arm.” He snickers and leans forward like he’s telling a secret. “I normally woulda said a different part of my anatomy right then, but I’m keeping things super Disney for you ’cause you’re my sweet and innocent little sister.”
“Gosh, thanks a bunch. Phew.”
“You’ve seriously never seen a male stripper in action?”
“I guess they’re just not my thing.”
“How do you know if you’ve never seen one in action?”
“If strippers were my thing, I’m sure I’d have managed to see one by now.”
Keane twists his mouth, considering that bit of logic.