Authors: Lauren Rowe
“Quit stalling,” Keane says. “Tell me about Mr. Perfect.”
I sigh. “It’s totally cliché. You’ll make fun of me.”
“I won’t make fun of you. But if I did, who cares? I don’t even know who Nietzsche is.”
I puff out my cheeks.
Keane sighs loudly. “Spoiler alert, babe: we’re not gonna live forever. Time’s a-wastin’. Come on.”
I roll my eyes. “I always seem to be attracted to James Dean types—brooding, artsy types. Guys with tormented, poets’ souls who care more about creating their ‘art’ than having a doting girlfriend—and, hey, if the guy plays guitar and drives a motorcycle, even better—I’m a babbling goner.”
“Ha! That’s funny. You just described my brother Dax to a tee.” He snorts.
I freeze, my heart lurching into my throat. I look out the passenger window, pressing my lips together.
Shit
. I feel Keane’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him.
“Oh my
shit
,” Keane says slowly, realization apparently dawning on him. “You’ve totally got the hots for my baby brother.”
I swallow hard.
“Maddy?”
I don’t reply.
“Oh my God. You
do
.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I finally manage to say. “I’ve never even met your brother.”
“Yeah, but you talked to him, right?”
“Yeah, briefly. About me bringing your sorry ass to L.A.”
“Had you seen him before you talked to him? Did you know anything about him?”
I don’t reply.
“Oh my shit. You knew all about him, didn’t you? And were you a babbling, pathetic pile of goo who couldn’t string two coherent words together when you talked to him—the way you said you get whenever you talk to a hottie?”
Again, I don’t reply.
“Have you seen him performing with his band? Is that what you saw?”
I remain quiet.
“Ho-lee shit. You cyber-stalked the fuck outta my baby brother, didn’t you?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but lying has never come naturally for me, so I shut my mouth without speaking.
“Oh my fucking God, now it all makes sense,” Keane breathes.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, indignation rising in my voice. “I talked to Dax twice on the phone—once about me using his parking spot and another time about me driving your sorry ass to L.A. How could I possibly have the ‘hots’ for someone I’ve talked to twice on the phone?”
“Because you watched videos of him and saw he’s your ideal type of guy and then you talked to him on the phone and he was his usual, rock-star self and then your ovaries exploded and now you’re obsessed with him.”
I press my lips together. “
No
.”
“Which part is off the mark?”
I don’t reply.
“Oh my God. I’m totally right. You’re jonezing for my baby brother. You should see your face.”
I feel my cheeks blast with color, so I turn my head and look out the passenger window again.
Shit
.
“Now everything makes perfect sense,” Keane says. “
That’s
why you’re not hurling yourself outta your pickle jar at me—you don’t wanna blow your future chances with my baby brother when you get to L.A.”
“Oh my God,” I blurt. “Ridiculous.”
“You’re not immune to my
ebullient
charm,” Keane continues, “and you’re not ‘outside my target demo.’ You’re just
unavailable
.”
“Oh my
freaking
God,” I say. “You’re the mayor of Crazy Town, USA. I’ve never even met your brother. I talked to him on the phone twice and, yes, I watched a couple of his videos, but only because he asked me to shoot a video for him and I was doing
research
. I was
not
cyber-stalking and I’m not ‘jonezing’ and I’m certainly not obsessed with him.”
Keane glances away from the road to look at me. “You totally wanna bone the fuck outta my brother.”
I roll my eyes.
“It’s written all over your face, Maddy,” Keane whispers, his voice intense, his eyes smoldering.
“Redonkulous,” I manage to say.
“You’re full of shit,” he grits out.
“No,” I say emphatically. “I’m telling the truth, Keane.”
But I’m not. I’m totally lying. I wanna bone the fuck outta Keane’s baby brother. Oh, God, yes. Watching those videos of Dax performing with his band, seeing the passionate way he played his guitar and sang his songs, finding out Dax is the one who writes all his band’s heartfelt lyrics, seeing the way his taut muscles strained under the stage lights with each passionate note he sang—wooh! All of that made my ovaries tingle like crazy, if not downright explode. And then, on top of all that, when Dax gave up his parking spot for me and volunteered his brother to accompany me on my drive simply to appease my overprotective big sister, my heart got in on the feels along with my ovaries.
Okay, maybe what I was feeling for Dax was nothing but full-bodied lust. But, even if that’s the case, it’s nothing to sneeze at, seeing as how I haven’t felt even a glimmer of that particular emotion since Justin. Sure, I’ve had sex during the past three years with my two boyfriends after Justin (both of whom were very nice guys), and I’ve enjoyed it, but my feelings for them were more “gee, this is very pleasant and you’re very sweet” than actual
lust
.
So, fine, I admit it. I wanna see if that initial spark I felt about Dax from afar might lead to a forest fire when I meet the guy in person (despite the fact that, yes, I’m well aware Dax has already pushed me firmly into the sister-zone).
But why should I tell Keane any of this? The fact of the matter is, even if I’d never laid eyes on Dax, Keane would still be a nonstarter for me in the romance department. First off, Keane’s a jock, through and through. True, one could argue Justin was nothing but a jock, too, since he played competitive hockey his whole life, but, unlike Keane, Justin had his music and songwriting to keep his athlete’s ego in check.
Second off, to put it bluntly, I don’t do manwhores. And Keane? Um, yeah.
I mean, philosophically speaking, I have no problem with promiscuity. If (safe) casual sex is what other people (including Keane) enjoy, then more power to them. But I personally don’t have any desire to hop from person to person or to become yet another nameless, forgotten notch on some promiscuous guy’s belt.
And third off, as if all that weren’t enough to put Keane firmly in my friend zone, Keane’s just...
Keane
. There’s no other way to say it. Yes, he’s gorgeous. Duh. And, yes, okay, I’d even go so far as to say he’s sexy. In fact, yes, I admit, I’m even a little curious what it’d feel like to kiss him once. And, yes, I haven’t met anyone since Justin who’s made me laugh and let go and forget my dorkitude so completely the way Keane so easily has. But now that I’ve found such a unique and unexpected friendship with this crazy baby-dolling-stripper-man, and especially now that we’ve decided to keep making Ball Peen Hammer videos together and see where that might lead, I would never risk ruining our amazing friendship for one meaningless night that wouldn’t amount to anything but a “it was nice knowing you” slap on my back from Keane.
I glance at Keane on the other side of the car. He’s staring straight ahead as he drives the car, but when he senses my eyes on him, he glances away from the road to flash me a look that could cut steel.
“I just figured the whole thing out,” he says, his jaw clenching.
“You figured what out?” I ask, the hairs on my neck standing up.
“I said I can get any woman I want, as long as she’s
single
and
available
. You’re not drooling over me like all the other pickles because you’re simply not
available
.”
“What the heck are you babbling about? I’m not drooling over you like all the other pickles because I’m not
attracted
to you in that way. We’re
friends
, Keane.”
“Pfft. You can be my friend and still drool over me. I’m your friend and I’m drooling over you.”
“
What
?”
But Keane ignores my flabbergasted reply and forges right ahead. “You’re not drooling over me because you’re subconsciously keeping the door open for my baby brother.”
My mouth is hanging open. “You’re
drooling
over me?” I whisper.
“Fuck yeah.” He motions to my chest. “Look at those gorgeous tits of yours. What guy wouldn’t be losing his mind over those things? I can barely keep my eyes on the road with those things taunting me over there.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You truly think some supposed crush on a guy I’ve never even met is the sole reason I’m not hurling myself outta my pickle jar and attacking you?” I ask.
“One hundred percent.”
“Well, you’re crazy, then.”
“I’m crazy, but not about this.”
“I’m not attracted to you that way, Keane,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “It has nothing to do with anyone else, least of all a guy I’ve never met. I’m not attracted to you the same way you’re not attracted to me—other than to my ‘gorgeous tits, ’ apparently.”
Keane doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at the road, his features tight and intense.
“I think you’re forgetting an important part of the equation,” I say. “You said you can get any woman you
want
, remember? Not just any
woman
. Maybe I haven’t been responding to your
ebullient
charm like other women because you’re clearly not interested in
me
—besides my ‘gorgeous tits,’ of course. Maybe guys like you who drool over my ‘gorgeous tits’ are a dime a dozen. Ever think of that?” I snort. “Get in line, son. Maybe my ‘gorgeous tits’ have groupies—
hordes
of groupies, just like Ball Peen Hammer. The simple fact is you’re not attracted to me and I’m not attracted to you, no rock-star brother required.” I glare at Keane, awaiting his response, my chest heaving, but he doesn’t speak.
I wait.
But Keane remains quiet.
Jeez. I thought he’d hit me with some crazy Keane-ism after a speech like that. His silence is disquieting. “Keane?” I say. “Hellooooo?”
Another long beat.
“Well,” Keane finally says, his voice barely audible. “Good thing we both feel the same way, huh? Woulda sucked if you were crushing on me and I had to let you down easy.”
Chapter 27
Keane
Thursday, 10:16 p.m.
Oh, motherfucker.
Everything’s all fucked up.
I can’t think straight.
For the past two hours, as Maddy and I snuggled up together drinking beer and watching
Magic Mike
, I couldn’t concentrate worth a shit. I felt distracted the whole time—hyper-aware of every breath Maddy took, every time the top of Maddy’s hair rubbed against my jawline, every time even a square inch of Maddy’s bare skin brushed against mine. Oh, and the most distracting thing of all? The way Maddy’s gorgeous tits jiggled in her tank top every time she giggled at the movie (because, apparently, Channing Tatum’s hilarious, even when he’s dry-humping a stage in a red G-string).
The sound of the shower being turned on draws my attention away from the baseball game on TV and toward the bathroom door. Just behind that closed door, Maddy’s standing under a stream of hot water completely naked, her gorgeous tits slick and wet and turning pink. If I stripped off my clothes and wordlessly joined Maddy in that little shower, touching her naked body in ways it’s never been touched before, would she want Dax then?
Fuck
.
I take a long swig of my beer and return my attention to the game. The pitcher steps up to the mound, looks to first base to freeze the runner, nods at his catcher, winds up and releases a curveball straight over the middle of home plate. A swing and a miss by the batter. Strike two. Nice pitch.
When I first figured out Maddy’s got a lady-boner for Dax, I was initially shocked, to be honest, just ’cause I didn’t see that one coming. And then, for a split-second, I was relieved because that meant my universal appeal to all
available
womankind was still intact. But then, out of nowhere, an unexpected third emotion gripped me and wouldn’t let go, an emotion that’s kept me in its iron claw ever since:
jealousy
.
I take a long swig of my beer.
Why the
fuck
does Maddy wanna bone my brother instead of me? Sure, Dax is better looking and smarter than me and, sure, he’s a fucking rock star, I get that—but I’m Ball Peen Hammer! Women hit on me right and left and sideways and backwards. I don’t care if I sound like a prick for saying that—it’s the goddamned truth.
Females want to fuck me
. You can set your clock to it. Which is why, fifteen months ago, when I suddenly found myself with no pitching arm, no college degree, no income, no dream, and no marketable skills—I said to myself, “Fuck it, might as well try to make a living doing the one thing I know how to do besides throwing a baseball.”
I take another sip of my beer and watch as the pitcher hurls his next pitch. It’s a sitting-duck fastball, total junk. Not surprisingly, the batter swings and connects, sending a rocket to the left side.
Yeah, I know Maddy’s not impressed by the whole male stripper thing—she’s made that abundantly clear, and, yeah, I know the fact that I was a pro athlete for a nanosecond is as unimpressive to her as my eight-pack. But do I really have
nothing
to make that chick pop a lady-boner? Not even my sense of humor, which chicks tell me all the time melts their panties every bit as much as my dimples? Speaking of which:
why the fuck don’t my dimples make Maddy want to bone the fuck outta me
? She’s the one who called them “killer,” after all, and I don’t believe for a second she was being
sardonic
when she said that.
The pitcher nods at his catcher and throws heat to the outside corner, making the batter look like a fool. Ka-bam, son!
I take another gulp of my beer.
If I were still pitching, I bet Maddy wouldn’t be able to resist me then, no matter what she says about jocks not being “her type.” Not that I want Maddy to
not
resist me, of course; I made a promise not to fuck her and I plan on keeping it.
But, still
. It would be nice if Maddy would behave like a normal, red-blooded female for a change and throw herself at me. Then at least I’d know the world was still spinning on its fucking axis.