Authors: Lauren Rowe
I’m dumbfounded, as I so frequently am while making one of these videos with Keane. “Seriously?” I ask, incredulous. “
That’s
your technique for winning an argument with a woman? ‘Deny any and all wrongdoing’?”
“Correct.”
“You
seriously
think if you continually deny wrongdoing in an argument, a woman will start doubting her reason for being angry or maybe even forget why she’s upset in the first place?”
“Well, the most likely outcome is the self-doubting thing—women unfortunately do that shit a lot. Making her forget the reason she’s upset in the first place is a bit tougher to pull off, I admit—
but
if you flash your dimples while doing the denying, it should work like a charm over half the time.”
“Oh, so dimple-flashing is part of this brilliant strategy?”
Keane flashes his dimples at me. “Correct.”
“Well, gosh, then is a guy shit out of luck if he attempts this tactic over the phone?”
“Hmm. Good point. I never thought about that. Lads, Maddy Behind the Camera makes a good point. You best be usin’ FaceTime if you find yourself in a
telephonic
argument with a chick. Thanks for thinking of that, Maddy. See, guys? She’s definitely the one with the brains in this duo.”
“And, um, another kind of obvious thing, Ball Peen Hammer—I’m not sure if you’ve thought this part through, either—but you’re assuming the guy doing the denying has killer dimples in the first place, just like you.”
Keane shoots me his most beaming smile. “Aw, you think my dimples are ‘
killer
,’ Maddy Behind the Camera?”
For a half-second, I consider replying the way I’ve done in the past—by claiming I’ve used the word “killer” sardonically. But this time, that claim simply isn’t true.
“Yeah, I do,” I whisper earnestly, my chest tightening.
Keane smiles wistfully as he stares at the road ahead of us. To my surprise, he doesn’t hit me with a gloating Keane-ism like I’m expecting him to do.
I clear my throat. “What about just saying ‘I’m sorry’ to a chick after you’ve been a flaming asshole to her?” I say. “That seems like it would be a simpler tactic than all that denying, doesn’t it? At least if you’re dealing with a particularly hard-to-please chick? A
nitpicky
chick?”
Keane snorts. “Nitpicky chick.”
“A nitpicky chick-chick,” I say.
“E-i-e-i-o,” Keane says softly.
He glances away from the road to gaze at me with somber blue eyes.
“But, seriously, Ball Peen Hammer,” I say, my heart squeezing in my chest, “is there
any
situation when you’d advise a handsome and happy lad to give a woman a simple and sincere
apology
after he’s been a total dick to her?”
Keane shakes his head solemnly. “Don’t do it, brah. It’s a slippery slope. Then she’ll expect you to apologize every fucking time you’ve been a total dick, and that’s the kind of thing that’ll get a handsome and happy lad lash marks across his back in the distinct shape of a pussy-whip.”
I can’t believe my ears. I lower my camera, flabbergasted. “But... Keane. ‘Deny, deny, deny’ isn’t at all what you did with me last night. In fact, you did the exact opposite—you told me the truth and apologized with complete sincerity. You were absolutely wonderful last night.”
“I was?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. Wait.
Me
?”
“Yes,
you
. You were amazing.”
“Wow.” Keane purses his lips and considers for a long moment. “Well, I think there’s a very good explanation for my erratic behavior last night: you’re not a
chick
—you’re
Maddy
. Normal rules don’t apply when it comes to you.”
My heart lurches. “I think what you did last night was extremely effective,” I say softly. “Maybe you should teach
that
to the handsome and happy lads.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’d be a helluva lot more respectful of the girl’s feelings than ‘deny, deny, deny.’ It’d be
real
.”
“Hmm.”
“Do me a favor, Keane, just for yucks: do the video again, but this time, pretend you’re giving instruction about what a guy should do if he’s been a flaming asshole to
Maddy Milliken
. Don’t say ‘Maddy Milliken’ in the actual video—replace my name with ‘your girl’ or ‘a chick’ or whatever when you speak—but
think
it in your head while you talk. Will you do that for me?”
Keane shrugs. “I can certainly try.”
I train the camera on Keane’s heart-stopping blueness again. “Okay, Ball Peen Hammer.
Action
.”
Chapter 35
Maddy
Friday, 5:19 p.m.
“Maddy!” my sister shrieks, throwing her arms around me.
I clutch my sister to me. “Banana,” I whisper into her ear, my eyes welling up with tears.
Oh, good lord. Why the heck am I tearing up? Yes, I’m elated to finally be here to start my new life, and, yes, living with my sister is gonna be the bomb dot com. But I think my tears are flowing for another reason. When Keane and I stepped out of my car three minutes ago and began walking up the pathway toward my sister’s apartment—when I knew Keane and I would never again settle into my hatchback for another leg of our drive, just the two of us—I felt such an overwhelming sense of loss, I thought I was gonna cry. And now, it seems, at the sight of my sister’s sweet face, her big brown eyes peeking at me from behind her glasses, I’m doing just that.
Hannah pulls back from our embrace. “Aw, Madelyn.” She wipes my tears. “Tears of joy, I hope?”
I nod.
Hannah turns her attention to the force of nature to my right. “And you’re Keane, right? We met at the wedding.”
“Oh, yeah. Great to see you again.” Keane puts out his hand, but Hannah goes in for the hug.
“Thank you for taking such good care of my little sister,” Hannah says as she pulls out of her embrace with Keane.
“Oh, believe me, Hannah, it’s been my...” Keane begins, but he stops talking midsentence and starts anew. “I’ve loved every minute of hanging out with Mad Dog here,” he says.
I smile at Keane through my watering eyes.
Of course, I know what word Keane was about to say to my sister:
pleasure
. And I also know, seeing as how I’m now an (honorary) handsome and happy lad, that Keane Morgan believes uttering that word to a woman, coupled with calling her by name and flashing his killer dimples (which he’s doing right now), would send a subliminal message about his unparalleled sexual prowess to the pleasure-center in that woman’s brain. Well, obviously, Keane’s not willing to send that particular message to my sister.
“Which one is my brother’s apartment?” Keane asks, and Hannah points to a door directly behind us.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding when you said Dax lives
right
across the hall.”
Keane leaps to his brother’s door like a kangaroo on cocaine and pounds on it loudly. “Hey, Rock Star! Open up! It’s your favorite brother!”
After a short beat, the door swings opens and there he is—Dax Morgan himself, the golden god who took my breath away while watching an hour’s worth of his videos. And, wow, I must say—the guy is every bit as gorgeous as his videos promised he’d be.
The two brothers hug enthusiastically and exchange a rapid-fire flurry of greetings and compliments and jabs, including Dax laughing his ass off about Keane’s hair, and, finally, Keane turns away from Dax and introduces him to me.
“Great to meet you, Maddy,” Dax says, putting out his hand.
I shake it. “You, too.”
“I’m excited about the video we’re gonna do.”
“Me, too.”
Wow. If I were thirteen years old, a poster of Dax Morgan would be hanging on my bedroom wall. He’s physical perfection, even more so than his big brother, if that’s even possible. And yet, I’m surprised to realize there are no butterflies flapping around in my stomach at the moment. No crazy heart palpitations squeezing my chest.
Well, actually. Wait. That’s not true. I
do
feel butterflies and heart palpitations. Most definitely. But it’s not Dax Morgan who’s causing them.
No, seeing Dax and Keane standing together like two blue-eyed salt and salt shakers, it’s suddenly crystal clear to me it’s not my fantasy guy who’s causing my body to zip and zap like a live wire; it’s the real-life guy—the quirky dude with blue hair and killer dimples and the softest, most delectable lips I’ve ever tasted in my entire life—not to mention the strongest arms that have ever held me through the night—who’s most definitely doing the honors.
Chapter 36
Maddy
Friday, 10:12 p.m.
So, apparently, this is what I do on a Friday night in my new life instead of editing wedding videos in my bedroom all by myself: I sit in a Hollywood nightclub drinking a blue-colored alcoholic beverage (in honor of Keane, of course) with Hannah, Henn, Zander, and Dax, and I watch male strippers make a whole bunch of
extremely
enthusiastic women lose their freaking minds.
Oh, and I also laugh my ass off, pretty much nonstop.
Aaand people-watch like cuh-raaaaaazy.
Aaaaaaaaaaand I also get buzzed, too—which is a mighty good thing because it means I’m only obsessing about last night’s make-out session with Keane every thirty seconds instead of every three. Yay! Thank you for slowing my brain function, Mr. Blue Sky Martini!
I check out the stripper onstage, a muscular dude dancing to “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince. The guy’s got a nice body with all federally recommended ripples and ridges as well as pretty good dance moves, but as with the four performers before him, he’s got absolutely no stage presence to speak of—nothing to make him stand out in a ripples-and-ridges crowd. To put it bluntly, he’s no Keane Morgan.
“So, hey, Dax,” Zander says, sipping his blue martini. “Is 22 Goats playing anywhere while I’m in town? I’d love to check you guys out.”
“Yeah, actually, we’re playing tomorrow night at The Viper Room.”
“Cool. I’ll take the wife for a romantic night out. You wanna come, too, Maddy? You can be my mistress.”
I giggle. “Of course.”
“Hey, Maddy, maybe you could shoot some footage for our video at the show tomorrow?” Dax says.
“Great idea,” I reply. “I’ll get performance footage tomorrow and then capture interviews and B-roll this coming week.”
“Sick. Hey, why don’t you hang backstage with the band before the show so you can shoot some ‘behind the scenes’ stuff there? That’d be cool, right? Green rooms always look super backstage-legit.”
I nod vigorously, simply because I’m too excited to speak.
“Hey, I wanna see you guys play, too,” Hannah says. “Whaddaya say, Henny?”
“Hell yeah,” Henn says.
“Cool. I’ll put all your names on the list at will call,” Dax says.
“Awesome,” Hannah says. “Thank you.”
Everyone thanks Dax and he replies graciously that he’s happy to do it.
I take a sip of my drink, my heart pounding. I can’t stop staring at Dax’s shockingly gorgeous face, especially his lips. They look so much like Keane’s beautiful lips, it’s insane. Aaaaaaaand now I’m thinking, yet again, about my passionate kiss with Keane last night. Oh, God, it was the most electrifying kiss of my life.
“So, Dax,” Hannah says. “Sorry if you get asked this every day of your life, but why the hell are you guys called 22 Goats?”
Dax chuckles. “It’s a stupid story, actually.”
“Oh, I love stupid stories,” Hannah says.
“It’s true. She loves all my stories and they’re all stupid,” Henn says, making Hannah giggle.
I take another long sip of my martini, my cheeks hot, remembering the sensation of Keane’s body on top of mine, his hard chest pressed against my soft breasts, his fingers working between my legs with incredible skill.
“So, Fish, Colin, and I were partying with these girls one night after a show,” Dax begins, “and one of them had grown up on a farm in Nebraska or wherever and she was telling us all these weird factoids about farm animals.” He chuckles. “So she was like, ‘Did you know goats
smile
?’ And, of course, we were all like, ‘Are you shitting me? Is this a Chinese proverb?’ So she goes, ‘No, no, goats actually
smile
. Google it.’ So we search ‘goats smiling’ and this Buzzfeed article pops right up called ’22 Goats Smiling at You.’ And, holy shit, guess what? Goats totally smile at you.” He laughs. “And for some reason we all thought those twenty-two goats smiling at us were the funniest things we’d ever seen.” He leans forward like he’s telling a secret. “I should at this point in the story mention we were smoking the finest weed.”
Everyone laughs.
“Found it,” Henn says next to me, looking down at his phone. He bursts out laughing. “Oh my God—it’s true. Goats really do
smile
at you.” Henn passes his phone around the table, and everyone marvels and laughs at the silly photos.
“So, anyway, Fish was like, ‘That should be our band name, dudes—
22 Goats Smiling at You
.’ Right before then we’d decided our band name sucked and we wanted to change it to something super
awesome
, but up to that point we’d only come up with lame and self-important shit like, ‘Masters of Profundity’ and ‘Darkness Descendant.” He belly laughs at that and we all laugh with him. “So, anyway, that’s what we became—’22 Goats Smiling at You.’ But then my brother Colby said the name sounded like a Dr. Seuss book on acid and then my other brother Ryan said we sounded like a band of pedophiles who play little kids’ birthday parties only to scout out our next victims.”
Everyone laughs uproariously for a solid minute at that.
“So we shortened it to 22 Goats,” Dax finally says. “And there you go.”
“What was your band name before that?” Henn asks. “You said it sucked.”
“Okay, don’t judge. Fish, Colin, and I came up with our first band name back in tenth grade.”