Authors: Lauren Rowe
“It’s the place where I solve the crimes and spit out the rhymes, baby.”
“That’s not exactly a GPS location.”
Keane bursts out laughing. “Isn’t she funny, guys? Damn, that girl is funny.” He glances at the camera, bestowing his audience with a smirk that can only be described as panty-melting. “Okay, let me be more specific: the A-spot’s as deep inside a woman as you can possibly get.”
Keane goes on to describe the location of the A-spot in detail, and then he moves on to contrasting it with the G-spot. “The G-spot’s awesome, but not quite as easy to trigger as the A-spot,” he concludes. “So that’s why I always say, if you’re looking to blow shit up right from the start, especially with someone you’re just getting to know, then go for the A-Spot.” He goes on to describe what to do when you find the spot. “If a guy knows how to touch that spot just right—exactly the way I just told you—then, trust me, it’s gonna be ‘Ka-bam, son!’—
Lionel Richie style
.”
I look at Keane blankly for a beat. “Lionel Richie style?”
Keane chuckles and then bursts into singing the chorus of “All Night Long.”
I turn off my camera and put my phone in my lap, adrenaline coursing through me. Oh my God. This creature sitting next to me is like nothing the world has ever seen—and, holy hell, on a personal note, I sure as hell want someone to touch me “Lionel Richie style” in the magical way he’s just described in astonishing detail. Holy crap, I feel like half my body’s blood volume has suddenly pooled between my legs. “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask. “Do you just watch a staggering amount of porn?”
Keane scoffs like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “No, Steve Sanders, I don’t watch
porn
. Watching porn is like watching a cooking show where they demonstrate how to cook lasagna using plastic noodles and rubber cheese. I watch
instructional
videos, son—and then I trade ‘recipes’ and ‘cooking tips’ with my brothers and Z.” He flashes a wicked smirk. “And after all that, once I got the best recipes and ingredients for my lasagna all lined up, the only thing left to do is get my ass into a kitchen and whip up a culinary masterpiece.” He winks.
When I don’t reply—because, really, what can a girl possibly say in reply to that?—Keane glances away from the road again and flashes me yet another huge smile. “Uh-oh, Maddy Milliken, you’re blushing like crazy. Whatever mental image of me just crossed your mind must have been an
especially
good one.” He chuckles. “Better sign another waiver, baby doll. I think you’re about to become hopelessly obsessed with me.”
Chapter 25
Maddy
Thursday, 3:25 p.m.
“Can I drive?” Keane asks.
“
Si, señor
,” I say, handing him my keys.
“
Gracias, chiquita bonita
.”
“
De nada, señor guapo
.”
“Dude, we’re totally bilingual,” Keane says. “They should totally put us in charge at the United Nations.”
“Totally,” I reply.
We’re walking toward my car after having just finished eating tacos at a cute little hole-in-the-wall in Sacramento, chatting the whole time about our families, childhoods, best friends, Keane’s baseball days, and, of course, my movie (the one topic Keane keeps going back to), followed by us recording several more Ball Peen Hammer videos about all sorts of topics, not just sex, including one in which Keane instructs his viewers about the “fine art” of sending “subliminal messages” to the “pleasure center” in a woman’s brain (a technique I
instantly
recognized as one Keane’s used on me multiple times, the sneaky bastard).
“I’ll edit the videos tonight before I upload them,” I say, my arm linked comfortably in Keane’s as we stroll to my car. “I’m thinking we should post one video per day for the next two weeks to really jumpstart your following.”
“Whatever you say, Mad Genius.”
“I’m thinking of adding some graphics to the videos,” I continue, laying my cheek on Keane’s shoulder as we walk together. “Maybe some titling or funny little bubbles of commentary? And maybe some sort of Ball Peen Hammer logo? What do you think of a cartoon-hammer with a Prince Charming face and a shock of blue hair, maybe a cute little cleft in its chin?” I giggle.
“Hilarious,” Keane says, laughing. He slides his hand into mine. “But, hey, will you promise me something, Scorsese?”
I lift my head from his shoulder and look at him, my hand resting comfortably in his.
“Promise you won’t feel obligated to do any of this stuff, okay? You should be using your gigantic brain to think about your next Oscar-winning documentary, not trying to make me into some sort of YouTuber.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say brightly, squeezing his hand as we continue to walk. “I’m having a blast. I’m loving all the comments to the videos we’ve already posted. Plus, I’ve got a master plan to monetize the whole thing. Trust me.”
Keane squeezes my hand. “Cool. If you’re digging what I’m slinging, then I’ll keep slinging it. But if you get sick of doing it or bogged down, feel free to pull the plug.”
“Keane, no one can pull the plug on Ball Peen Hammer but you—he’s yours.”
We’ve reached my car and Keane turns to face me, his hand still holding mine. He looks earnest. “Why are you doing this?” Keane asks. “It’s awesome and all, but... Why?”
I pause, considering my answer for a beat. “Because it’s insanely fun. And because I like you.”
Keane grins. “Thank you. I like you, too.”
I bite my lip, but I can’t stop my mouth from twisting into a crooked smile. “It gives me great
pleeeeeeeasure
to help you,
Keeeeeeane
.”
Keane’s mouth contorts into a smile that matches my own. “
Hey
. Did Maddy Milliken just send a subliminal message to the pleasure-center in my brain?”
“Did it work?”
“Oh, yeah,” Keane says. “Big-time.”
Without warning, he leans toward my face, licking his lips, and every hair on my body stands on end with excited anticipation—
is Keane about to kiss me
? But, no, his lips skim past mine and land gently on my cheek. “Thanks for doing all this,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my jawline.
“No need to thank me,” I whisper back, my skin suddenly electrified. “I’m a man-eater now, remember? I only do what I want.”
Keane looks me in the eyes, biting his lower lip. “I’m having a blast with you, Maddy.”
“Me, too.”
“If by some crazy chance this Ball Peen Hammer thing starts making money, we’re a team, okay? Fifty-fifty. I’m the bullshit-slinger and you’re the brains. It’s a partnership.”
My heart leaps in my chest. “Awesome. I’d much rather do Ball Peen Hammer stuff with you than shoot wedding videos.” Man, his eyes are so damned gorgeous. And that little cleft in his chin is so cute. I suddenly feel the bizarre urge to kiss him, which makes absolutely no sense, so I throw my arms around him and give him a hug, instead.
Keane kisses me on the cheek again, pressing his body into mine, but this time he lets his lips linger on my cheek, his arms wrapped around my back.
I take a step back from our embrace, my entire body tingling. “You ready to go?” I ask, motioning to my car, my heart clanging in my chest.
Keane looks flustered. “You bet,” he says, his cheeks flushed. “Cool.”
“Cool?” I say. I clear my throat. “
Cool
.”
Chapter 26
Maddy
“Okay, I have another question about
Shoot Like a Girl
,” Keane says after we’ve been driving on the freeway in silence for about twenty minutes. “Did any of the guys on the basketball team hit on you during filming?”
I open my mouth to reply but shut it again, my cheeks rising with heat.
“I knew it!” Keane says. “Which ones?”
“Not
ones
. Just
one
.”
“Freddie?”
“How’d you know?”
Keane chuckles. “Because whenever Freddie talked directly to the camera, he was obviously digging whoever was behind the camera asking him questions—which I’m assuming was you.”
“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Freddie would flirt with a house plant. He’s got a huge personality, no matter who he’s talking to.”
“Maddy, are you
choosing
to be stupid? Freddie might have a huge personality, but he was turning on the charm
especially
for the girl behind the camera. You couldn’t see that?”
“Not at all. When Freddie hit on me, I was shocked.”
“Oh my God, you’re hopeless. Deaf, dumb, and blind to guys’ signals. No wonder you’re a born-again virgin.” He shakes his head. “Well, don’t you worry, Helen Keller. I’ll help you figure your shit out so you can bag yourself a hottie any time you please.”
“Gosh, thanks.”
Keane motions to my chest. “Trust me, now that you’re showing your girls off a bit, you’re gonna need a two-by-four to fend off all the dudes coming at you twenty-four-seven.”
“That’s a lot of numbers in that sentence.”
“Hey, that tank top inspires numerical
superlatives
.”
I laugh.
“Now if I can just get you to waggle those beauties, we’ll really be in bid-nass.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn on the radio to full blast. “Dream on, dude.”
“Maddy Milliken, Professional Eye-Roller.”
The song on the radio is Hozier’s “Like Real People Do.”
“Is this song following us?” I say. “I feel like we keep hearing this one.”
“Seems that way,” Keane says.
As Keane drives, we sit and listen to the beautiful song in silence. But when Hozier’s lyrics about kissing make me think about kissing Keane, I abruptly change the station. “Good song,” I say. “Just need a break from it.”
We drive without speaking for a long moment.
“So did you give poor Freddie a shot or what?” Keane asks, breaking the silence between us.
“No. I told him it would be best if we remained friends.”
“What the...?” Keane blurts. “Jesus Christ, woman, are you actively
trying
not to get boned ever again?”
“
No
. I’d love to ‘get boned,’ believe me. I’m just a relationship-girl, that’s all. If I don’t see the potential for more than one night, I don’t feel the need to pursue anything at all. It’s just a waste of everyone’s time.”
Keane rolls his eyes. “You’re too young to be thinking that way.”
“I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.”
“Okay, even so. Don’t you think you should maybe widen the net a bit? I mean, how the hell are you so sure you can tell if someone’s ‘relationship material’ if you haven’t even gone on a single date with them?”
I twist my mouth, considering that.
“You should have said yes to my man Freddie. He seems like a cool dude. Quite a basketball player, too—he’s got a perfect shot. This type of thing is exactly what I was talking about yesterday. If you’ve got a guy like Freddie sniffing you, why not jump in the sack and see if he
might
get your motor running? What have you got to lose?”
“Um. My self-respect?”
Keane scoffs. “Lame. That’s Puritanical thinking.”
“Wow, big word, Peenie.”
“Zander.”
“Well, regardless, with Freddie, it was a nonstarter. I was focused on making my film. If things didn’t work out between us, I didn’t want it to get super awkward for the rest of filming.”
“Okay, fair enough. But what about the other guys on the team who weren’t involved in the movie as much as Freddie? You were surrounded by basketball players for
months
and you didn’t let
one
of ’em nail ya just for yucks?”
“First off, I don’t let people ‘nail me for yucks.’ And, second off, jocks just aren’t my type, like I keep telling you.”
Keane sighs with extreme exasperation. “Enough already with the ‘not my type’ shit.
I’m
not your type;
Brian’s
not your type; Freddie’s not your type; and now every guy with an ounce of
athleticism
isn’t your type? I mean, seriously, who the fuck
is
your type?”
I look out the window of the car, not wanting to reply.
“Tall, dark, and handsome? Short, fat, and mean? One-legged ventriloquists? Yodelers in lederhosen? Guys with rock-hard abs and blue hair?” He flashes me his dimples on that last one.
“It’s not specific like that. I’ve felt attraction to all sorts of physical types. It’s just something I
feel
. Impossible to explain.”
“Bullshit. My bet is you like hipsters. Am I right? Artsy dudes with man-buns who go on and on about fucking
Nietzsche
all the livelong day?”
“Whoa. Keane Morgan knows who Nietzsche is?” I say.
“Dude, I went to college for two years. I’m not a
complete
idiot.”
My skin pricks. “I know you’re not. I don’t think you’re an idiot, Keane. I was just teasing you.”
“It’s okay. Even my own family thinks I’m an idiot. It’s fine.”
“Well, I don’t. Really.”
I’m telling the truth. Despite my less-than-stellar first impression of Keane’s intellect, I’ve come to realize he’s incredibly intelligent—clever and bright and witty and perceptive—way, way smarter than I originally gave him credit for. Brilliant, I’d even say, just not in ways tested by standardized IQ tests.
After a moment, Keane lets out an audible puff of air. “Okay, confession? I don’t actually know who Nietzsche is. All I know is he’s the guy I’m supposed to name-drop whenever I wanna sound super smart.”
I belly laugh. God, he’s adorable.
Keane flashes his killer dimples. “So, come on, Mad Dog. How ’bout this? Tell me about the perfect guy who’d turn you into a sputtering, incoherent dork if he walked up right now and said, ‘Hey, baby doll, can I buy you drink?’”
“Well, first off, my perfect guy would never call me ‘baby doll.’”
“Sure he would.”
“Well, okay,
maybe
. But definitely not within one second of meeting me.”