Authors: Lauren Rowe
Hannah doesn’t reply.
“Hannah, stop it. We’re
friends
, I swear. If you saw him, you’d understand. We’d never go for each other in a million years.”
“Mmm hmm. Your tone of voice suggests otherwise.”
I scoff. “Hannah, you don’t understand. Keane lights up any room he’s in. People fall all over themselves in his presence. We went to a diner for lunch and the waitress practically fell onto the floor giggling at every stupid thing he said. Everyone’s drawn to him. It can’t be helped.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom. Damn, that was fast.
“He is. But don’t tell him I said that because he’s also a cocky bastard with the biggest ego of anyone I’ve ever met—a total narcissist. Oh, and he’s super flakey. And annoying. And immature. He might also be a megalomaniac, though I’m not certain about that yet. He’s definitely verging on psychotic, though. Oh, and he’s also most definitely a pig—though that seems to be a hot-button word with him so don’t tell him I called him that.”
“He sounds like a gem.”
I sigh. “He is. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.” I glance toward the bathroom door, making sure Keane’s not about to enter the room and overhear this next part. “I think he’s a bit lost right now,” I whisper. “You know, trying to figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.”
“Aren’t we all,” Hannah says.
“Yeah, but, I mean, I think he’s at a real fork in the road. He’s kinda breaking my heart just a little bit.”
“Oh, honey. You’ve always loved lost puppies, haven’t you?”
“They’re just so fun to rescue.”
“Oh, Maddy.”
Without warning, the bathroom door swings opens wildly and Keane bursts into the room like a superhero, literally beating his chest—
his shirtless chest
—and my jaw drops to the freaking floor at the sight of him.
“Sweet Sassy Molassey,” I breathe into the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Hang on. Have you talked to Mom—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“
Wait
.”
Keane plops himself down onto the bed next to mine, stretches his glorious body to its full length, rests his cheek on the palm of his hand, and flashes me his un-freaking-believable dimples. “Hi, hot stuff,” he whispers. He winks.
“Did you talk to Mom?” Hannah says into my ear. She giggles. “She called me and was, like, ‘Ohmigawd, Smith is so amaaaazing! He’s—’”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I bark at Hannah like a total bitch, cutting her off. “I’m fine, Hannah. I’m safe. Kissy-kissy. Love you lots. Best sister ever. Bye.” I hang up my phone. “For the love of fuck,” I say to Keane. “Abso-frickin-lutely
not
.” I motion to his bare torso like his sheer perfection pisses me off.
“What?” he asks innocently. He touches his rock-hard abs. “You’re not a fan of the Seahawks?” My gaze drifts from his un-
freaking
-believable abs to his black sweatpants, emblazoned near the waistband with the Seattle Seahawks’ logo.
“I have no problem with the
Seahawks
,” I say. I point to his bare torso—to his stunning pecs and abs and ridiculously gorgeous arms and shoulders and perfect nipples and insanely attractive forearms (what the hell is up with those
forearms
?). “I have a problem with”—I make a presto-change-o motion in front of his eight-pack—“
all that
.”
“All what?” He stretches out his right arm, displaying his triceps muscle. “Oh, you mean
this
?” He rotates his arm and his bicep bulges right in front of my face. “Or do you mean
this
?” He flexes his washboard abs.
“Dude, I’m not gonna sit here for an hour and a half, watching my movie next to a half-naked Adonis on a bed. Cover that shit up
right now
.”
A huge smile spreads across Keane’s handsome face. “You think I’m an Adonis?”
“Figure of speech.”
“Maddy, this is how I
sleep
,” he says, rubbing his palm across his naked chest. “You’re wearing your preferred jammies; I’m wearing mine.”
“When it’s time to sleep in your own bed, wear whatever the heck you want. But for now, if you’re planning to come over to
my
bed to watch
my
movie, and sit two inches away from
my
body in a motel room, then cover that shit the fuck up. This isn’t one of your gigs, Ball Peen Hammer.”
Keane laughs, leaps up from his bed, and stands at the edge of mine. “Scoot over, sweet meat,” he says, swatting my thigh. “I’m dying to see this masterpiece of yours.”
I don’t budge. “Keane, I’m not joking. I can’t sit here next to the most perfect male specimen ever created while he’s barely clothed and calmly watch my movie like lah-de-dah-this-is-so-normal. Now cover that shit up right the fuck now, Ball Peen Hammer. I’m not gonna ask you again.”
“This is ridiculous,” Keane says, still smiling. “What if we were at the beach? Or a pool? What if I were
European
? I’d be wearing way less than I am right now. At least I’m wearing full sweat pants. I normally sleep in my briefs or nothing at all.” He winks.
“We’re not at the beach or a pool—and you’re not European. You’re from freakin’ Seattle. And we’re in a motel room.
On a bed
. Just the two of us, after knowing each other for one freaking day. Now cover that shit up or I’m gonna slap the motherfucking shit out of you.”
Keane crosses his gorgeous arms over his spectacular chest. “I’ve never heard you curse like this, Madelyn Milliken.” He flashes a huge smile. “I
like
it.”
“Oh, yeah? You like it, huh? Well, then, how ’bout this—put your
fucking
shirt on, motherfucking Keane Morgan. What’s your middle name?”
His smile is at full-wattage. “Elijah,” he says.
“Okay. Put your
fucking
shirt on, Keane Elijah
Fucking
Morgan.”
Keane laughs. “What’s your middle name?”
“My middle name is ‘Put Your
Fucking
Shirt On, Keane Elijah
Fucking
Morgan,’” I say.
Keane laughs uproariously. “God, you’re adorbsicles, Maddy, just like Zander said you’d be.”
“And you’re annoy-sicles.”
Keane laughs again. “Tell me your middle name, sweet meat.”
I twist my mouth, trying not to smile, but it’s hard not to react to the glorious smile on Keane’s face. “Elizabeth,” I say.
“Elijah and Elizabeth,” Keane says. “We sound like some old timey Amish couple. Eliza!” he bellows in some old timey Amish voice. “I’m going out to hitch the oxen to the plow ‘fore the rains come—looks like a mackerel sky!”
“
What
?” I say, laughing.
Keane flashes me his dimples. “Madelyn Elizabeth Milliken,” he says reverently. “That’s pretty. Just like you.”
I feel myself blush. Goddammit, my cheeks are freakin’ traitors. “Thank you, Keane Elijah Morgan,” I say evenly. “Now put your
fucking
shirt on.
Please
.”
Keane assesses me for a beat. “You’re serious?”
I flash him an expression that confirms my seriousness.
Keane exhales. “Well,
shit
. I’m not gonna be able to sit and watch a movie next to a fucking
Yeti
.” He motions to my sweatshirt, a scowl on his face. “You’re making me hot just looking at you in that goddamned thing—and I don’t mean ‘hot’ in a good way. I mean ‘hot’ like you’re causing searing pain behind my eyes.”
I squint at him and he squints right back.
“You give me the evil eye, I give it back bigger, better, and evil-er,” he says. “You forget I’ve got four brothers and a demonic sister. You’re gonna have to be a shit-ton scarier than
that
to make me jump.”
“Why the heck do you care if I’m wearing a sweatshirt?” I ask.
“It annoys me.”
“You just wanna see me waggle my boobs,” I say.
“This is not a secret.”
There’s a beat.
“Pig,” I say.
“Yeti,” he says—and then he grins from ear to ear.
“I’m not gonna take my sweatshirt off just so you can ‘survey the merchandise,’” I sniff. “I’m a bit chilly. If that changes, I’ll remove my sweatshirt. My comfort is more important than your piggish desire to see me waggle my boobs.”
Keane rolls his eyes. “You can’t possibly be chilly.”
“I am.”
Keane exhales. “Fine, you freak.” He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a T-shirt, clearly annoyed by the effort.
“Thank you,” I say primly. I turn away from him to attach my hard drive to my laptop, a smug smile of victory on my face.
A moment later, Keane’s sitting next to me on my lumpy bed, his tight gray T-shirt leaving nothing to the imagination, his skin smelling deliciously of soap.
“Are you ready to commence the inaugural Maddy-Keane Film Festival?” I ask, clicking into my hard drive.
“First things first,” Keane says. He holds up the Abba Zaba bar we got at the supermarket down the street before coming to the motel. “I’m gonna pop your Abba Zaba cherry first, sweet meat.” Keane begins unwrapping the candy bar. “If you’re feeling any pain or discomfort whatsoever, please let me know, sweetheart,” he coos. “This is supposed to feel good and nothing else. Really, really
gooood
.”
Heat spreads between my legs. “Okeedokey.”
I’m thinking Keane’s going to hand me the unwrapped Abba Zaba bar, but, instead, he surprises me by bringing the candy bar to my mouth like I’m a helpless baby chick.
My chest tightens at the closeness of his body to mine, at the expression of desire flickering in his eyes.
I open my mouth, my pulse suddenly pounding in my ears, and Keane gently places the taffy between my lips.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispers as I bite down, his eyes darkening.
I shake my head.
“Good?” he whispers.
“Good,” I mumble, surprised by the combination of chewy vanilla and creamy peanut butter on my taste buds.
“Are you feeling
pleasure
?”
I nod profusely.
“
Excellent
.”
Keeping his face mere inches from mine, Keane slowly takes a bite of the candy bar, right from the spot where I just chomped down, and we chew in silence for a beat, staring at each other.
“You’re no longer an Abba Zaba virgin, Maddy Milliken,” he whispers solemnly. “You’re an Abba Zaba
woman
now, baby, exactly the way God intended.” He reaches out and strokes my hair, causing goose bumps to erupt all over my body.
Out of nowhere, my clit flutters, making my breath hitch. What the hell?
Keane moves his hand from my hair to my cheek, brushing his knuckles against my skin, and my nipples rise and harden in response to his unexpected touch.
What the fuckity?
Keane leans toward me slowly as if to kiss me—or am I just imagining that?—and I reflexively close my eyes. Oh God. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my lips, as if they’ve been stung by a thousand bees and swollen to twice their normal size. I part my lips, my body vibrating with anticipation.
I feel Keane’s body heat hovering inches from my face, as if his lips are hovering over mine.
I wait, my eyes closed, my breathing shallow. But I feel nothing.
After a beat, Keane lets out an audible exhale, his warm breath tickling over my lips, and drops his hand from my hair. I open my eyes to find Keane staring at me intently, his cheeks flushed.
I let out an audible exhale to match Keane’s. What the frickity-frack just happened? We’re
friends
. In fact, I’ve never felt so securely in the friend zone with any guy in all my life. The only explanation for what just happened is I fell momentarily into some sort of hormonal trance after seeing his near-naked body on a bed. That’s got to be it.
Keane clears his throat. “And that, my
honorary little sister
,” he says slowly, “is the simple
pleasure
of an Abba Zaba bar.”
I clear my throat the way Keane just did and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say. “Not quite as
pleasurable
as my actual de-virginization, but still highly
pleasurable
.” I try to smile breezily, but I can’t—my heart is still pounding like a jackhammer along with my crotch.
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Keane says. “Tell me all about it.”
“About what?”
“Your actual de-virginization.”
Aaaaaaaaaand the hormonal trance, whatever it was, is now broken.
“Was it with that first boyfriend you told me about?” Keane asks. “The guy you said was the only guy who’s ever really gotten your motor running?”
Crap, crap, crap. Why on earth did I bring this up?
“What was his name again?” Keane asks.
I pause for a long moment. I don’t want to talk about Justin—not now or ever.
Keane’s staring at me, waiting for me to reply.
“Justin,” I finally say.
“Oh, yeah. Was Justin the lucky lad who got to pop your actual cherry?”
I nod.
“Good times?” Keane asks.
I nod again.
“
Excellent
. Always good to have a
pleasurable
first time. I sure did.” He snickers. “Kelsey Kerrington. Wooh! Hot little momma. She lived across the street. Damn near broke my heart when her family moved away. Thought I was gonna die of grief.” He chuckles at the memory.
I feel my cheeks blaze. I have no desire to talk about Justin with Keane, or anyone. Not now, not ever. Not about how I lost my virginity to him one magical night at his parents’ lake cabin. Not about how I loved him with every cell of my body. Not about how, in the blink of an eye, he was gone forever.
“So what happened with Justin?” Keane asks. He takes another bite of the Abba Zaba bar and continues talking while chewing. “Did he bone the fuck outta ya all the livelong day and then you two just flamed out or what?”
Goddammit
. I don’t want to talk about this. Since Justin died three years ago, I’ve talked about him plenty, thank you very much, including talking with a therapist once a week for three months, per the insistence of my mother, and now I’m emphatically done talking. “It just didn’t work out,” I say curtly.