Authors: Lauren Rowe
“And that’s why I love you the most.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go pack a bag and get your ass to bed. You gotta be well rested if you’re gonna have any chance of making this girl think you’re a semi-normal human tomorrow.”
“Will you call Daxy for me?”
“Yeah, I got it covered. I’ll tell him to chill the fuck out and stop acting like a fucking lunatic.”
“Thanks.”
“But don’t fuck this up for Daxy—I’m warning you. He’s got a lot riding on this album. We all gotta support him however we can. This is big.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior—handsome and happy, all the livelong day.” I wink at him. “’Night, brah.” I turn and shuffle toward my bedroom.
“Hey,” Ryan calls after me.
I stop and turn around.
“Whatever you do, don’t fuck this girl, Keane. That won’t end well and you know it, and we don’t wanna create unnecessary drama for Dax, like he said. She’s gonna live across the hall from him, remember? He’s not acting crazy about that part. She’s off-limits, Keane.”
I throw up my hands like I’m offended at the suggestion. “Jesus Christ, Ryan, I’m not gonna fuck Maddy Milliken. I can already tell she’s annoying as shit, a total tight-ass.
Definitely
not my type.”
“Well, I think she’s adorable,” Z sniffs.
“If by ‘adorable’ you mean
annoying
,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat her like a little sister—an
annoying
little sister who hauls off and calls people ‘dickweed’ before she’s even bothered to provide a fuck’s worth of
exposition
in her goddamned texts.”
Zander laughs. “Don’t forget ‘flaming asshole.’ She called you that, too.”
“Yeah, well, that was only after she saw your baloney pony, you fucker.”
“No way. She called you a ‘flaming asshole’ way before I sent her a smiling photo of Mr. Happy.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She sure as shit did.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ryan says sharply, and we both stop and stare at him. “God, you’re both such fucking idiots.”
Z and I smile at each other.
“What the fuck were you two thinking, sending this poor girl an unsolicited photo of Z’s junk?” Ryan says. “Not cool. You can’t be doing that shit, guys.”
“Hey, I had nothing to do with it,” I say, holding up my hands.
“It’s true,” Z says. “That one’s on me.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Jesus, Z. You don’t even know this girl. You gotta be careful with dick-pics, especially with a girl you don’t know.”
“Ah,” Zander says. “But sometimes a dick-pic to a chick-chick isn’t really a dick-pick to a chick-chick, son.”
“E-i-e-i-o,” I add, and Zander laughs.
Ryan looks up at the ceiling, apparently praying for patience. “Go pack your bag, Keane. You gotta be handsome and happy bright and early tomorrow.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” I say, saluting him. “Don’t worry, come tomorrow morning, Maddy Milliken won’t be able to resist my
ebullient
charm.”
“Ooooh, great word,” Zander says.
“
No
,” Ryan says emphatically. “Don’t try to charm her, for the love of God. No Ball Peen Hammer shit, okay? Just pretend to be normal, for once in your life.”
“Gotcha,” I say, winking. “Normal shit, all the livelong day.”
Zander chuckles. “Good luck with that.”
“And don’t try to get a rise out of her either, like you always do with people who annoy you,” Ryan adds. “Just engage in pleasant conversation about the weather or, I dunno, ask her about her hobbies, hopes, and dreams.”
“Of course,” I say. “The ol’ H, H, and Ds. I got this, baby doll. Ain’t no thang.”
“And don’t start calling her by some weird nicknames within the first thirty seconds of meeting her, either,” Ryan says. “Not every woman likes to be treated like your fraternity brother, Keane. You gotta feel her out before unleashing the Peen on her.”
“I don’t treat people like my fraternity brother,” I say defensively. “I wasn’t even in a fraternity.”
“I mean don’t start calling her Mad Dog or baby doll or sweet cheeks or some other shit like that within the first thirty seconds, okay? Go easy on her. Get a read on her first before you barrage her with your unbridled Peenie-ness.”
“Save your breath, Rum Cake. Women love me.”
“They do,” Zander says. “Women love Peenie. And so do I, by the way.” He winks.
“Thank you,” I say. “I love you, too.”
Ryan exhales. “You two are Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumbshit, I swear to fucking God.”
Zander and I simultaneously reach out and high-five each other.
“Just pretend to be normal, that’s all I’m saying,” Ryan continues.
“You got it, baby,” I say. “One order of Normal Dude coming right up—hold the mayo. So is that it? Are we done?”
“Yeah.”
“Okeedoke. Thanks again for saving my bacon, brah.” I turn around and shuffle toward my room. “Nighty night.”
“Don’t fuck this up,” Ryan barks at me as I walk away.
“I heard you the seventh time,” I call over my shoulder. “No fucking up will transpire.”
I hear Zander chuckling behind me.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Ryan says. “You’re as big an idiot as Peen. You can’t send a dick-pic to a girl you don’t even know, Z.”
“It was a
strategy
, Captain,” Zander replies. “I was
sussing
her.”
“
What
?”
“I was
sussing
her,” Z says slowly, emphasizing every sound. “I was sussing Maddy Milliken. Back me up on this, Wifey.”
I stop and turn around, just before reaching the threshold of my bedroom. “Yup. Z was full-on sussing Maddy Milliken.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
“Sussing,” Zander says. “You know, like luring a gopher outta hole.”
Ryan makes a face that communicates his disbelief. “Well, I’m sure this poor girl didn’t feel
sussed
by your big, black cock, Zander—I’m pretty sure she felt more like
traumatized
. That’s quite a dick you got there, son.”
“And fuzzy balls,” I add.
“Yee-boy!” Zander shouts, and I laugh.
“Go to your room, Keane,” Ryan says, pointing sternly to my bedroom like he’s ordering a misbehaving beagle into his doghouse.
“Okay, okay,” I say. I turn around and stride purposefully into my bedroom, a huge smile on my face. But just as I turn to shut my door, I hear Ryan’s scolding voice one last time:
“Jesus, Zander. Haven’t you ever heard of man-scaping, for fuck’s sake?
Fuck
.”
Chapter 10
Maddy
Wednesday, 8:02 a.m.
He’s got blue hair.
“Hi,” I say, shaking Keane’s hand.
Keane Morgan’s got blue hair?
Well, that’s an unexpected development. His hair is tousled and spikey at the same time—the kind of hairstyle a guy fusses over in the mirror for a solid twenty minutes in order to make it look like he’s just rolled out of bed... and... it’s...
blue
.
Huh.
I’ve seen plenty of
girls
with blue hair—and I typically think it’s a super cute look for them—but I’ve never seen this look on a guy. And certainly not on a guy who looks like he just rolled in from playing beer pong at a frat party. Definitely not what I was expecting.
Other than his unexpectedly blue hair, however, I must admit Keane Morgan’s an outrageously good-lookin’ guy. Hannah warned me all Kat’s brothers are as bizarrely attractive as their stupefying sister, of course, but I wasn’t prepared for Keane to be
this
big a freak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes quite this blue in all my life. Is he wearing colored contact lenses? Or is the implausible color of his eyes some sort of optical illusion, a false suggestion subliminally implanted into my brain by his startling hair?
“Hey,
Maddy
,” Keane says, shaking my hand and flashing a smile that reveals outlandish dimples and straight, white teeth. “It’s a
pleasure
to meet you,
Maddy
.”
“Uh, thanks?” I warble. Shoot! I’m doing that question-mark thing with my voice again. I pull my palm from his and cross my arms. “
Thanks
,” I amend.
Holy bajeebus. Keane’s body is crazy-fit. The way he’s filling out his simple jeans and T-shirt is nothing short of insanity-sauce. Even his frickin’
forearms
are attractive, for the love of Adonis. His hands. His
ears
. Is there anything even remotely unattractive on this guy other than his blue hair?
I uncross my arms and immediately cross them again. He’s...
wow
.
“Thanks for the ride,” Keane says breezily. “It’s gonna be a
pleasure
hanging out with you,
Maddy
.”
“Thanks?” I say.
“And, hey, I’m sorry again about my laggery these past few days. I’ve been stretched like an Abba Zaba lately—ya know, work hard, play hard.”
“Stretched like... huh?”
“Stretched like an Abba Zaba.” He gesticulates like he’s stretching something between his hands. “You know—taffy?”
“Oh.”
“You’ve never had an Abba Zaba bar?”
I shake my head.
“Chewy taffy with a peanut butter center?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, holy shit, Mad Dog. We gotta pop your Abba Zaba cherry as soon as humanly possible. Abba Zaba’s one of life’s simple”—he grins and winks again— “
pleasures
.”
There’s an awkward beat as I stare at Keane, dumbfounded. What the heck on a Ritz cracker is this strange creature standing before me who says the word “pleasure” every third word? This blue-haired, blue-eyed, dimpled, broad-shouldered creature who within the first thirty seconds of meeting me has already called me “Mad Dog” and said he wants to “pop my Abba Zaba cherry”? Did he talk like this during our brief phone call last night? I really don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure he talked like a regular human last night.
I point to the small duffel bag in Keane’s hand. “Is that all you’re bringing with you?”
“Yup, this is it,
Maddy
.” He holds up the bag. “Everything I need to be handsome and happy all the livelong day, stuffed into one little bag.” He winks at me for the third time in forty seconds. “I guess I’m just a man of simple
pleasures
, baby doll.”
Aaaaaaaaaand I’m back.
Whatever hormone-induced spell has been threatening to overtake my body was just now broken—or dare I say
smashed
?—by that “wink + pleasure + baby doll” thing Keane Morgan just tried to pawn off on me as “charm.” I feel like I’ve been smacked across the face with a “pull yourself together!” stick and, just that fast, I’m remembering this blue-haired Adonis is the very same jerk who didn’t have the courtesy to reply to a single one of my messages for
days
and then, totally unprovoked, sent me an up-close-and-personal photo of his friend’s Alabama black snake.
Honestly, I’m not buying the line of crap Keane tried to peddle me last night on the phone. Am I really supposed to believe that, after Keane’s best friend’s phone battery died, he drunkenly used
Keane’s
phone to try to send a dick-and-balls photo to his girlfriend, but erroneously sent it to me? Please, child. Does he think I was born yesterday?
And on top of that, does Keane truly expect me to believe he missed
all
my calls and messages thanks to some sort of self-imposed “technology cleanse”? Seems pretty far-fetched to me, especially now that I’m meeting the guy. I mean, come on, Keane doesn’t strike me as a devout practitioner of transcendental meditation. Pfft.
Okay, so the guy’s physically gorgeous—so what? As far as I’m concerned, Keane is nothing but a big ol’ bullshitter, and quite possibly even a douche. Yeah, I said it. I mean, seriously, who uses the term “baby doll” other than total douches? It’s just plain rude. Not to mention completely sexist.
“So, are you ready to hit the road, then?” I ask, motioning to my car.
“Sure thing.”
I open my car’s hatchback, grab Keane’s bag, and stuff it into a tiny crevice between my jam-packed stuff.
“So, hey, Maddy,” Keane says behind me.
I turn around and look at him.
“So are you game to press the restart button here?” he asks. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Totally my fault, of course.” He flashes a crooked smile. “I’d be grateful if you could find it in your heart to forgive my idiocy and start over.”
Gosh, that was a lovely speech. Perfect, really. He displayed just the right amount of humility and remorse—flashed just the right amount of dimples while maintaining earnest and direct eye contact at all times. Bravo. But, sorry, I’m not buying any of it. If he lied to me last night, then he’s lying to me now.
“Sure, Keane, your idiocy is officially forgotten,” I say (because, whether Keane Morgan is a liar or saint, he’s still my one-way ticket to a free parking spot mere blocks from campus). “Water under the bridge.”
Keane’s smile lights up his entire face. “Awesome,” he says, sounding relieved. He shifts his weight, spreads his legs slightly, and levels me with his astonishing eyes-that-match-his-hair. “Hearing you say that gives me extreme
pleasure
, Maddy.” He grins and his dimples pop again. “Extreme
pleasure
, indeed.”
Chapter 11
Keane
For the past forty minutes or so, Maddy and I have been silently driving south on I-5 out of Seattle, listening to a mutually agreed upon indie rock station on Pandora. I’ve tried to start conversations several times, believe me, but it turns out Maddy Milliken’s not what I’d call “a natural conversationalist.”
“Hey, bee tee dubs,” I say after a long stretch of awkward silence. “I can drive whenever you want. Just lemme know if you need a break, baby doll.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to drive,” she replies, pursing her lips. “And please don’t call me ‘baby doll.’”
“I’m an excellent driver,” I say.