Ball Peen Hammer

by Lauren Rowe

  “Six months from now, 22 Goats will be the band we’re jamming to on the radio,” he says.

  I smile at him. “For sure.”

  “Dax’s music is incredible. You’re gonna flip out when you hear it.”

  I’m about to say, “Oh, I’ve heard every single one of Dax’s songs, thanks to the full hour I spent stalking him on YouTube—and, yes, he’s fantastic.” But, for some reason, I don’t want to admit that to Keane. So I keep my mouth shut.

  “Daxy’s gonna be a huge star,” Keane continues. “When the world discovers him, they’re gonna go nuts for him.”

  Aaaaand that’s it for now, apparently. Keane leans back in his seat again and looks out the passenger window, becoming oddly quiet again.

  So I remain quiet, too, letting Keane do his thing while I listen to Hozier’s beautiful love song on low-volume.

  But when the next song begins and it’s one of my all-time favorites—“Blue Jeans” by Lana Del Rey—all bets are off. I gotta sing my girl’s praises.

  “Oh my shitake mushrooms,” I begin, blaring the song, but when I glance over at Keane, he’s fast asleep.

  I smile to myself, turn the volume on the radio back down, and steal a long glance at Keane’s sleeping face.

  Good lord, he’s handsome. His features are so darned symmetrical and smooth. It’s like he’s the masculine version of Marilyn Monroe. Just sort of... objectively perfect. No bad angle.

  Or, hell, maybe it’s just the gorgeous song that’s getting to me. Because this song is oh-my-effing-God.

  I focus on the road again for a long moment, listening to Lana Del Rey’s haunting voice singing about eternal love and brutal heartbreak, willing myself not to look at Keane again. But before long, I can’t resist stealing another teeny glance at his gorgeous features.

  Yep, he’s still perfect. Same as the last time I looked.

  It’s funny, when Keane’s awake, it’s his eyes that grab my attention so much, I forget to look at anything else. But now that he’s asleep and inanimate, it’s his lips that are taking center stage. And his chiseled jawline. That little indentation in Keane’s chin makes him look like a cartoon action-hero—a blue-haired, re-imagined Captain America.

  I smile to myself again.

  Keane makes absolutely no sense in a logical world. He’s got superhero-looks with a sidekick personality. He’s Batman and Robin all rolled into one. To say the boy marches to the beat of his own drum is like saying Tiger Woods sometimes likes to hit little white balls with a stick.

  I steal yet another glance at Keane’s sleeping face and take in the shocking mess of his tousled hair. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I think I actually like Keane’s blue hair now. It suits him. Especially now that I know why he dyed it. Sure, maybe he’s impulsive and crazy, but, still, he did it to help a brother out. And I think that’s sweet.

  I sigh.

  That’s Keane Morgan in a nutshell. He’s the sweetest asshole-pig-narcissist I’ve ever met. Adorable. Gentle. Silly. Easy to talk to. When we were lying together on that blanket in the park, I felt so comfortable, I could have fallen asleep in his arms, right then and there, my cheek resting on his shoulder, my body warmed by his. To think I didn’t even know him twenty-four hours ago boggles my mind. I feel like I’ve known Keane my whole life.

  And, whoa, I’ve never talked to a guy about sex the way I do with Keane.

  I grip the steering wheel and fix my eyes on the road.

  Can Keane really do all that stuff he claims? He says he gave that horrible blackmailer four orgasms in less than half an hour? Is that even physically possible? It sometimes takes me twenty minutes to give myself one with a freakin’ vibrator. No guy I’ve been with, even Justin, has even come close to being able to do what Keane says he can do as easily as snapping his fingers.

  I shift my hands on the steering wheel again.

  Keane’s gotta be full of shit, right? There’s no other explanation. If “The Sure Thing,” whatever it is, actually makes women come over and over on command in rapid succession, then surely I would have experienced it by now, right? Because, especially in the age of the Internet, why wouldn’t all guys learn that trick and do it every time? He’s gotta be exaggerating. I bet if Keane went fishing in a puddle and caught a goldfish, he’d come back bragging about how he’d harpooned a great white shark on the stormy seas.

  I look at Keane yet again.

  God, he’s just so gorgeous, especially when he sleeps. When he’s sleeping, he almost looks... humble.

  The thought makes me snort to myself.

  I look at Keane yet again, unable to resist, and it suddenly occurs to me I’ll probably never witness this sight again—the simple sight of Keane sleeping, the light of the late-afternoon sun casting a golden hue over his perfectly formed features.

  Shoot.

  I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t. It’s reckless. Risky. Wrong. Plus, I promised my sister I’d keep my phone in the glove box at all times while driving.

  And yet...

  This is one quiet moment of magic I simply can’t resist documenting.

  Still keeping my eyes on the road ahead of me, I reach across Keane’s sleeping body to my glove box and slowly pull out my phone. And then, ever so carefully, my eyes shifting between the road ahead of me and my phone, I swipe into my camera, set it to ‘video mode,’ and oh so quickly capture a short clip of Keane’s gorgeous, sleeping face illuminated by the late-afternoon light.

  Chapter 21

  Maddy

  Wednesday, 7:04 p.m.

  “Whoa,” Keane says, stirring from his nap and sitting up in his seat, his tousled blue hair a complete disaster. “I fell asleep?”

  “For almost an hour.”

  Keane looks at the clock on my dashboard. “Wow.” He looks outside his window at the setting sun. “Sorry.”

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask softly. “Looked like you were sleeping like a big ol’ blue-haired baby.”

  “Yeah. Like a rock.” He wipes his eyes. “Do you want me to drive for a bit, Mario Andretti?”

  “Nope, I got it. I’m gonna pull off to a motel soon, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m dying to watch your movie.” Keane runs his hand through his hair, pats it down and smooths it, and just like that, he magically looks like a (blue-haired) Abercrombie & Fitch model again. “Sorry I deserted you, Mad Dog,” he says. “Won’t happen again. Co-pilot reporting for duty.” He salutes me.

  “It was fine. Gave me a chance to think and recharge for a bit.”

  “Yeah, I try not to do that.”

  “Recharge?”

  “Think.” He grins.

  “Are you a big napper?” I ask.

  “Totally,” he says. “I don’t usually get a full night’s sleep ’cause of my job. Weird hours. Plus, when I get home from a gig, I can’t fall asleep right away—I’m just too amped—so I’m pretty much always playing catch-up on sleep.”

  “Yeah, and besides your schedule, I’m sure it takes regular recharging to keep that ‘ebullient charm’ of yours at full wattage,” I say.

  Keane looks surprised, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “I wasn’t being snarky,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying being the life of the party all the time, both in your personal and professional lives, must take its toll, especially given your natural tendencies.”

  Keane looks at me like he’s expecting me to elaborate further.

  “I mean, you know, since you’re a natural introvert,” I add.

  Keane looks surprised. “Why do you think I’m a natural introvert?”

  “You said you were shy when you were little. That’s what that tells me. It doesn’t mean you can’t be extroverted in certain situations; obviously you are, quite successfully. It just means you need to take quiet time to recharge on a regular basis to keep yourself running on all cylinders.”

  Keane looks thoughtful for a moment. “No one ever sees that about me,” h
e says. “Everyone always thinks I’m Ball Peen Hammer, twenty-four-seven.”

  “Nobody can be Ball Peen Hammer, twenty-four-seven,” I say. “Not even Ball Peen Hammer.”

  “That’s why I don’t answer my phone sometimes. I get this weird, I dunno, overwhelmed feeling, like I gotta shut it down or my circuits are gonna overload.”

  “I’d imagine that’s pretty common for people with ‘ebullient charm.’” I grin at him.

  Keane looks earnest. “You think?”

  “Sure,” I say softly, taken aback by the sincerity on Keane’s face. “Nothing comes for free. Not even J.Lo’s love.”

  “Um. Actually, I think you’ve got that one wrong, baby doll. J.Lo’s love ‘don’t cost a thing.’”

  “Nah, even J.Lo’s love costs something. It’s just the way the universe works. If you’re Ball Peen Hammer day and night with the horny pickles, or puppets, or earthquake-sensing dogs, or whatever the hell they are—”

  Keane laughs.

  “Then at some point you’ve gotta pay the ferryman and revert back to being shy little Keaney Morgan, at least briefly, just long enough to refuel the tanks. You gotta pay for your sparkling personality somehow.”

  I glance at Keane and, oh my God, the sweet look on his face is light years away from the cocky peacock I’ve come to know.

  I focus back on the road, my heart squeezing.

  “Honestly, I know we joke about it, but sometimes I think I’m, I dunno, seriously abnormal,” Keane says, his tone earnest. “I don’t mean abnormal like, you know, wearing an aluminum hat so I can talk to Martians, or collecting tiny figurines for an elaborate dollhouse in my cellar.”

  I laugh. “Did you just pull those two examples out of thin air or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Keane laughs. “I think I just get abnormally overwhelmed sometimes. So that’s when I shut down and check out.”

  “We all need time to ourselves,” I say. “That’s not abnormal at all.” I look away from the road, briefly, just long enough to wink at him and he bites his beautifully shaped lower lip. “Have you always felt that way—like you get abnormally overwhelmed?” I ask.

  “Um, yeah. Pretty much. But it’s gotten worse since...” He exhales and looks out the window, apparently not planning to finish his sentence.

  “Since what?” I prompt.

  But Keane doesn’t reply. He’s looking out the window, his face turned away from me.

  “Since the voices started telling you to chop people up?” I venture. But Keane doesn’t react. “Since your cat told you to buy a Powerball lottery ticket?” I ask, peeking at him. Still nothing. “Since you started collecting other people’s toenail clippings?”

  That last one elicits a chuckle from Keane. He turns to look at me, a crooked smile on his face. “You just pull those out of thin air, or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  I beam a smile at him.

  “Nah, it’s nothing quite as exotic as collecting other people’s toenail clippings,” Keane says. “I’ve just had a bit of a hard time since I stopped playing baseball, that’s all.”

  “Why’d you stop playing? If you like it, then you should keep playing.”

  Keane looks out the window again.

  And just like that, I realize we’re not having a lighthearted, casual conversation any more. Clearly, whatever Keane’s telling me is something deeply important to him.

  “Keane, why’d you stop playing?” I ask softly, the hairs on the nape of my neck standing up.

  Keane exhales. “Because I got hurt.” He absently touches his elbow on his left arm and looks at me. “My elbow crapped out on me. My pitching motion got fucked up. And that was that.”

  “But you’re so young and in such good shape. I mean, jeez, you just walked on your hands for me. It seems like you could swing a bat and run around some bases if that’s what you still want to do.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. I was a pitcher.”

  “Oh. Well, can you play some other position, maybe? You know, like shortstop or something?”

  “Doesn’t work like that,” he says softly, but there’s no irritation in his tone, only explanation. “Pitchers are highly specialized. A guy can’t pitch anymore, he’s done.”

  It suddenly dawns on me Keane must have played baseball at a really high level—not just in some recreational league with friends on weekends, as I’ve been thinking we’re talking about.

  “Did you play in college?” I ask.

  Keane nods. “Arizona State. I dropped out my junior year when I got drafted by the Cubs. Played in their farm system and slayed it. I was working my way up in their organization like a beast. All my coaches said I was just about to get called up to the major leagues.” He sighs. “And that’s when I hurt my fucking traitor of an elbow—my ulnar collateral ligament.” He pauses. “Surgery didn’t go according to plan. I couldn’t get my fastball going and my curveball sucked ass.” He shrugs, obviously deflated. “So that was it. The headline on the newspaper of my life read ‘Baseball Dreams Finito for Peenito.’”

  “I had no idea you played at such a high level,” I say softly. “Wow, Keane. You were a professional athlete.”

  He waves at the air dismissively. “Meh, minor leagues. Not even worth mentioning to anyone. No one ever dreams of playing in the minors, trust me. That’s just a means to an end—the stepping stone to the real dream.”

  “You must have been devastated when you got hurt. I’m so sorry, Keane.”

  “Hey, that’s life, baby. Sometimes it goes according to plan, and sometimes it punches you in the balls. When your balls get punched, you just gotta wipe ’em off and figure out a new dream, right?”

  The look on Keane’s face is making my heart physically hurt. If I weren’t driving, I’d throw my arms around him and hug him to me.

  Keane stretches and exhales loudly. “So, anyhoozles, baby doll. Enough about me and my saga of woe. Let’s talk about you. Specifically, let’s talk about the fact that you’re totally and completely full of shit, shall we?”

  I’m sure my face registers my surprise.

  “You said you usually have a hard time talking to new people, but you seemed awfully smooth talking to Brian in the minimart—and you’ve been smooth as a morning lake talking to me all day.”

  Keane’s body language doesn’t match his lighthearted words. But, clearly, he’s not in the mood to talk about the loss of his baseball dreams anymore.

  “What the hell is your obsession with Brian?” I ask. “It’s getting weird, Keane.”

  “I’m not obsessed with Brian. I’m obsessed with solving the puzzle that is Maddy Milliken. And so far, your supposed shyness can be filed along with the Loch Ness Monster.”

  “Keane, I’m not socially inept—I’m shy. Well, okay, yes, I’m socially inept at times.” I sigh. “Any of my old tap-dancing videos would confirm that.”

  “You tap-danced?”

  “For years.”

  “And there’s video to prove it?”

  “Tons and tons.”

  “Tap-dancing can be pretty dope.”

  “Not the way I did it.”

  Keane laughs. “Add those tap-dancing videos to the Maddy-Keane Film Festival, brah. I’ll watch those bad boys tonight.”

  “Ha!” I say. “That will never happen.”

  “Oh, I’ve got my ways,” Keane says. “So, anyway, nice attempt at deflection, baby doll, but I still wanna talk about Brian. I could hear you giggling in the minimart before I even got through the front door.” He makes a high-pitched giggling sound, clearly intended as an impression of me.

  “Again with the Brian obsession. Dude. Give it a rest. Maybe babbling with you for five straight hours before I met Brian got me in the right frame of mind to babble to a stranger, who knows?”

  Keane cringes. “You’re saying I lubed you up for Brian? So I’m Brian’s fluffer?” He laughs like he’s said something incredibly funny, but I don’t get the joke.
>
  “What’s a fluffer?” I ask.

  Keane shakes his head. “Oh, sweet, innocent, sheltered Maddy Milliken.”

  “Is it something gross?”

  “It’s something awesome.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll just have to look it up, buttercup.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re annoying.”

  “I’ve heard that a time or two.”

  I shrug. “The truth is I’ve kind of surprised myself today. I swear I’m not normally so comfortable talking to new people, especially guys, and today I’ve been totally comfortable talking to two of them. Maybe I’m turning into a man-eater after all, huh?”

  “Yee-boy!” Keane shouts. He sticks his hand up and we high-five.

  “Trust me, though,” I say, laughing. “You wouldn’t be quite so impressed if you saw me trying to talk to a guy I’m actually attracted to.” I snort. “I stutter and sputter and end every sentence with a question mark.”

  An unmistakable shadow passes across Keane’s face.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s wrong? You don’t believe me? I swear to God, I’m telling the truth. I geek out and lose all composure when I’m feeling anything even remotely resembling the urge to ‘bone the fuck outta’ someone. I become a total and complete dork.”

  Keane’s mouth twists into a scowl just before he turns his head toward the passenger-side window. “So you keep telling me,” he says quietly, his face turned away from me. “Maybe one of these days I’ll be lucky enough to witness you in action.”

  Chapter 22

  Maddy

  Wednesday, 8:46 p.m.

  Keane and I burst into our motel room and put down our overnight bags and the food, water, and beer we purchased at a supermarket down the street.

  “Which bed you want?” Keane asks, motioning to the two queen size beds taking up all available space in the small room.

  “Don’t care,” I say. “They both look equally lumpy.”

  “Cool, ’cause I got a thing for being on the right side.”