Ball Peen Hammer (14 page)

Chapter 15

Keane

“You want me to drive now?” I ask as we walk toward Maddy’s car in the restaurant parking lot.

“No, thanks. I prefer to drive.”

Maddy’s cheeks are still flushed from my “puppet master” speech inside the restaurant and she hasn’t looked me in the eye since.

“I’m an excellent driver,” I say, leaning against Maddy’s car as I wait for her to unlock it from her side.

“So I’ve heard,” she says, still not looking at me. “Hey, I should probably fill up my tank before we hit the road again,” she adds, unlocking her door.

I look up the street. “There’s a gas station,” I say, indicating a station up the road.

“Perfect.”

We pile into her car to make the short trip.

“Thanks for buying lunch,” Maddy says. “I’ll buy next time.”

“Nah, we can go dutch from here on out. This time was on me ’cause we were celebrating your badassery. A girl can’t pay for her own Celebration of Badassery.”

“Thank you. That was really sweet of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Maddy starts the engine and backs her car out of the parking spot (so carefully, by the way, you’d think she was a little old lady with her ten beloved grandchildren in the backseat) and I look out the passenger window, my chest tight, my heart racing.

What the hell am I doing?

Fuck.

I’m under strict orders not to bang this chick and all I wanna do is bang this chick. And not because I actually
wanna
bang this chick, mind you, but because I’m not
allowed
to bang this chick. I know that’s the psychological phenomenon going on here, and yet I can’t stop myself from falling prey to it and at least trying to make her wanna fuck me—which is something I know for a fact is an ego thing and nothing more because I’ll never, ever fuck her.

Shit. I’ve always been this way. Tell me I’m not allowed to have a cookie, and I sure as fuck wanna have a motherfucking cookie. Or two or three. (Just ask my siblings, whose many, many cookies I’ve stolen throughout the years.) But this time, shit, I gotta keep my hands outta the cookie jar and my pecker in my pants and stop trying to make this girl blush just for the sheer sport of it.

I don’t even want Maddy. She’s a sweet girl. Definitely not the kind of girl who sleeps around, which means she’s not my type
at all
. Maddy’s the kind of girl who places deep meaning on sex—the sort of girl who’s probably never even had a one-night stand. I’m one hundred percent positive if I banged Maddy and opened her eyes and body to what she’s been missing out on her whole life (with the three or four small-dicked, talentless dudes she’s slept with), she’d get attached to me like a puppy adopted from a shelter. And just like Ryan said, that most certainly wouldn’t end well.

I take a deep breath.

This is just a dastardly case of mind-fuckery, son. I just gotta get control of my mind.

Maddy turns into the gas station, pulls the car alongside a pump, and reaches for her purse from the backseat.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I got gas this time. You can pay next time.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Hey, while I pump the gas, why don’t you go in there and see if they’ve got Abba Zabas?” I say, indicating the small minimart on the far end of the station. “We’ll pop your Abba Zaba cherry tonight while popping my documentary cherry.” Oh, fuck. I gotta stop this shit right now.

“Wow, sounds like we’re gonna have ourselves a cherry-popping extravaganza—a virtual cherry orchard of poppery.” She laughs and grabs her purse from the backseat.

“Oh, and grab a bag of popcorn, too, and Junior Mints and Milk Duds,” I say as she shuts her car door.

“Roger,” she says.

“Rabbit,” I reply, and she giggles. Yeah, that one always slays. I woulda said that to anyone, right? That wasn’t flirting. That’s just what I always say when someone says “roger,” right? Fuck, my head’s a mess all of a sudden. “Did you know it’s illegal under federal law to watch movies without consuming popcorn, Milk Duds and Junior Mints?” I call to her as she begins walking away.

Maddy turns to look at me and flashes a truly lovely smile. “No, I did not know that. Good law.”

I shove the gas nozzle into the tank and watch Maddy walking away, her yellow hippie-blouse billowing around her frame in the slight breeze.

Maddy’s actually got a nice ass on her. Round cheeks. I like round cheeks. Something to hold onto. But why the
fuck
is she wearing that goddamned shirt? Would it kill the girl to show off her curves the tiniest bit—give the teeniest peek of the merchandise?

Aw, shit. I’m doing it again.
Fuck
.

I top off the gas tank, take a seat in Maddy’s car, and pull out my phone to distract myself from my racing thoughts of cookie thievery.

Well, let’s see.

First things first, I’ve got a text from my wife, attaching a GIF of some weird guy making a ridiculous love-dovey face on a loop with the flashing caption, “I’m in luuuurve!” “Daphne’s coming over tonight after work,” Z writes in a text accompanying the GIF. “Don’t ever come home, Peenie!”

I laugh. “You’re welcome,” I type in reply.

There’s a text from Dax: “Hey, Peen Star. What’s up? You on the road?”

“Hey, Rock Star,” I reply. “Yep. All systems go. I’ll deliver the package safe and sound in a couple days. I got this, Baby Bro.”

I keep scrolling and stop at a text from the L.A. talent agency I’ve been in contact with. The message is from a guy named Adam: “Hey, Keane. We’re thrilled you’re coming to audition for us. Your timing is perfect. This Friday, we’ve got a showcase for our male talent at Giselle’s on Hollywood Boulevard. We’ve invited a handful of casting directors and talent scouts to watch the show for their various projects. One of the casting directors is casting a reality TV show. Another one is casting talent for a feature film that takes place in a male strip club so they need lots of extras and maybe some speaking talent, as well. Could be a great opportunity for you. We’ll reserve one of the slots for you in the showcase. The show is open to the public, but the industry folks will be seated in a VIP section by the stage. We’ll use the slot as your audition for our agency, plus for the industry folks. Sound good? Lemme know. Your slot is 10:30. In the meantime, send me all your social media links, videos, etc. for me to check out and pass along to the VIPs attending.”

I tap out a reply: “Hi, Adam. Yeah. Sounds great. Thanks for the opportunity. I’ll plan to be at Giselle’s by 9:30 on Friday to check out the stage, give the sound guy my music, etc. I didn’t pack any of my costumes (didn’t know I’d be performing while in L.A.), so I’ll do something in my street clothes. I don’t need a costume to stand out right now, anyway—I’ve got blue hair. (Long story that involves helping my best friend get laid). LOL. See you Friday.” I attach the Ball Peen Hammer social media links Maddy made for me earlier today and press send.

I keep scrolling past a bunch of God knows what until I get to a text from Ryan: “Yo, Peeno Noir! Did you catch your ride to L.A. this morning like a good boy?”

“Yes, Captain My Captain. On the road with Maddy now. All systems go.”

Ryan replies right away: “You being handsome and happy all the livelong day, son?”

“Yes, and so fucking normal it hurts,” I reply. “Literally. My balls physically HURT from the forced normalcy.”

“Your balls? WTF?”

“They’re the most sensitive spot on my body, brah. They feel everything. They’re like delicate little butterfly wings.”

“LOL. Well, tell your butterfly-balls just a couple more days and then they can Peen out as much as they like.”

“Roger,” I write.

“Rabbit,” he replies. “And remember: Do not fuck her!”

I grunt and tap out a hasty reply. “MOTHERFUCKER! U DON’T HAVE TO KEEP REMINDING ME NOT TO FUCK MADDY!” I attach a middle finger emoji.

“HEY!” Ryan replies, attaching his own middle finger. “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ALL-CAPS SCREAMING AT ME??!!! UNWARRANTED!”

“Because I heard u the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd times, mofo. Stop nagging me! I won’t fuck Maddy. I’ll be normal and charming. I won’t call her weird nicknames. And, btw, I already asked her about her H, H, & Ds. I’m on it, baby doll! Ain’t no thang, actually, because Maddy’s super cool. Already feels like she’s my little sister. I might even like her more than Jizz.”

“Oh, speaking of which, did u see Jizz’s video of Little G? So kayoot!”

“The one from a couple days ago?”

“No, group text about an hour ago. Check your goddamned phone once in a while, loser.”

I scroll through my texts and, sure enough, there’s a group text from my sister, sent to our whole family, attaching a video of my eight-month-old niece as she holds court in my sister’s Jacuzzi bathtub like the little mermaid princess she is. I press play on the clip and my heart bursts at the sight of my favorite female splashing happily with her bath toys. I can see my sister’s calves in the frame, straddling Gracie, her feet hidden under the tub water, her hand protectively grasping Gracie’s wet shoulder.

“Hey, my little Scorpio,” my brother-in-law Josh’s voice says from behind the camera. “Say hi to everyone, baby.”

“Heeeyahahiii!” Gracie shrieks happily.

“Watcha doin’, Gracie-cakes?” Josh asks his baby girl.

“Babuh bada!” she replies, just before splashing the water with splayed fingers.

Josh and Kat laugh together and the camera pans slightly to the right to include Kat’s full body in the frame, her blonde hair tied in a knot, her face aglow.

“Hey, fam,” Kat says, waving. “Don’t mind us; we’re just livin’ the dream.” She breaks into a huge smile. “Actually, we are.” She leans over and kisses the top of Gracie’s fuzzy blonde head. “Say, ‘Hi Gramma Lou and Grampa Tom Tom!’ Wave hello to all your sweet uncles!”

Gracie waves and smiles and splashes again.

“Gaga bubbadoo!” Gracie shrieks, making Josh and Kat laugh hysterically.

“We love you all,” Kat says. “Bye, bye!”

The video ends.

“Oh my
God
,” I say out loud. “Ka-
yoo
t!” I turn my phone on myself and shoot a video. “Hi, Little G!” I bellow. “It’s your favorite uncle! Don’t believe the hype about your other uncles, baby doll, because they’re all wannabe Uncle Keaneys!” I point at my hair and make a funny face. “Would any of your other uncles do
this
to themselves just to amuse you? I think not! That’s ’cause Uncle Keaney loves you the most!”

I post the video into the group and within a minute my oldest brother, Colby, replies.

“Hey, Gracie, look! It’s an Oompa Loompa! Call me, Keane. I’ve called you twice.” Middle finger emoji.

“I’ll try to call u tonight,” I type, although I’ve got no intention of calling my eldest brother tonight. First off, Colby more than anyone else in my family thinks I’m an idiot; second off, I’m pretty sure I still owe Colby some duckets from when we all chipped in to buy Josh some pricey bottle of tequila for his birthday a while ago. I tap out an additional reply to Colby: “Oh, and bee tee dubs, Oompa Loompas have GREEN hair, Cheese Head.” Middle finger emoji.

“Oh my gosh, Keaney! Look at your hair!” my mom writes on the heels of my reply to Colby. “Good lord!” She attaches a microphone emoji and I laugh out loud.

“Mom,” I write in reply, “I’m sorry to inform u, that’s not an appropriate use of the microphone. U gotta write something a whole lot more badass than ‘good lord’ if ur gonna drop the mic on my punk-ass. Someone, please for the love of God, show our dearest mother how it’s done, since Colby’s obviously horrible at it. Love u, Momma.” I attach a heart. “P.S. U clearly know how to text, woman, so how about u put ur mad texting skillz to use with me on occasion instead of calling so much? Explore the full functionality of your smartphone, Mom.”

Barely thirty seconds after I’ve pressed send on my text to my mom, the group chat blows up with a slew of rapid-fire messages:

“Hey, look! It’s Thing One! Where’s Thing Two?” my sister writes, followed by a microphone emoji. “That’s how it’s done, Mother Dearest.”

From my brother-in-law, Josh: “Oh no! The entire cast of My Little Pony took a giant crap on Peen’s head!” Microphone emoji.

And then from Dax: “Yeah, right after Thing Two barfed on him.” Microphone emoji.

“C is for cookie. That’s good enough for me. Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C,” Ryan writes. Microphone emoji. “P.S. Good one, Lambo.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Josh writes. “Back at ya, bro. Hey, you still coming over for drinks tomorrow before Muse?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there at 6.”

“Cool. I got the good stuff for ya.” Winking emoji.

“U understand how to use the microphone now, Momma Lou?” I write. “Let the masters of cruelty be ur guides.”

“Oh, crap, that shoulda been my band name,” Dax pipes in. “Masters of Cruelty. That would have been so kewl.”

“Oh snap! Woulda been supes kewl,” I write. “And, hey, all u cool older kids, stop talking about Muse right in front of me! Ur hurting my sensitive feelings, u fuckers!”

“Language!” Mom writes. “Good lord. You’re all a bunch of sailors. Where did I go wrong? Okay, I think I understand the cruelty angle now, honey. How’s this? Keaney, please call your mother, you big flake! I miss hearing your sweet voice!” Microphone emoji.

I laugh out loud again. “Yeah, that was pretty cruel, Mom. Good job.”

“Come on, Louise,” my dad pipes in. “You know guilt doesn’t work on Keaney. He can only be lured by food. Hey, Colby, are you up for going fishing on Sunday? I got a new rod I want to try out. Love to all.” Heart emoji. “P.S. Keaney, you look like a human blueberry.” Microphone emoji.

Mom quickly replies: “I tried to lure Keaney with food all last week, but he didn’t answer any of my calls! Oh, Kitty and Josh, I forgot to tell you I’ve got bunco tomorrow night, so Grampa Tom Tom is gonna babysit Gracie all by himself.” Microphone emoji.

“OMG! Someone delete the microphone emoji off Mom’s phone!” Kat writes. “Mom, you’re officially in microphone-emoji lockdown. Dad, you sure you can handle Little G by yourself? I can get a sitter if you’d rather. Gracie’s been doing this horrible cranky thing at bedtime lately. I think she’s teething.”