Ball Peen Hammer (3 page)

“I’d be thrilled to help you, Dax,” I chirp. “I absolutely love music and musicians.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I just said that. I clear my throat. “I’d be happy to do whatever I can to help you. Like you said, we’re practically family, right?” Oh, God. Someone muzzle me.

“Cool,” Dax says, sounding genuinely thrilled. “So why don’t we plan to chat about the video when you get down here?”

“Sure thing.”

“So when are you coming to town?”

“Um. I’ll probably leave in four or five days—I still need to pack and finish up a few things here. And then it should take me two or three days to do the drive, depending on weather and traffic.” I clear my throat. “But, um, yeah, once I get down there, whatever you need, I’ll be happy to supply it.” Oh my effing God. Did I just say, “I’ll be happy to ‘
supply
it’?” What am I—a customer service rep for a lumberyard? “Uh, I should have about a week before classes start once I get down there, so maybe we can shoot the video then?”

“Great.”

“The editing might take a little while for me to finish, to be honest—I’ll have a full load of classes and weddings to shoot on weekends, thanks to your parking spot.”

“No worries. We’ve got six months ’til the album release.”

“Oh, okay. Great.”

“I’m super excited about this, Maddy. Thanks. Hannah said you’re, like, a genius filmmaker.”

“She did? Well, I dunno about
that
. I just love visual storytelling. I think maybe I see connections and themes where other people don’t?”

“That’s exactly how I think about songwriting: connections, themes, stories. Same-same.”

“Wow. Cool.” I want to say more but my tongue is too tied up. I can feel my cheeks flushing.

“So, okay, Maddy,” Dax says breezily. “I gotta get my ass to the studio.”

“Right on,” I say, but then I cringe at myself. I never say that. “Thank you so much for the parking spot, Dax. It’s a life-saver.”

“Glad to do it. Well, okay. Catch ya later, Madelyn the Badelyn.”

Oh my God. Hannah told him about that? I’m gonna kill her.

“Catch ya later, Dax... the... ,” I reply. Battle Axe? Frickity Fracks? Crap, I can’t think of anything even remotely clever to say.

Oh, he’s already hung up. Thank God.

I put my phone down and slap my forehead with my palm. Why do I always crumble like feta cheese around guys I’m attracted to? How the heck do other girls manage to come off as smooth and flirtatious and snarky in these situations?
I’ll be happy to supply it
, I said to him. Good lord.

Like a turtle crawling into her shell, I return to doing the one thing that always transports me to my happy place: editing video.

Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Oh my God. That’s Dax’s number on the display screen.

“Hello?” I say, my heart racing.

“Hey,” Dax says. “It’s Dax—Dax Morgan.”

I smile to myself. As if I know another Dax? “Hi?” I say.

“So, hey, I just went across the hall and told Hannah about our conversation and, um, it turns out I’ve got one more favor besides the video to ask in exchange for the parking spot. Sorry.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” My skin pricks with anticipation. “What do you need?”

Dax exhales. “Um, so I’ve got this
brother
. Keane.”

“Keane?”

“K-e-a-n-e. He’s been wanting to visit me here in L.A.—I guess he’s been invited by some huge talent agency to audition for them. So, anyway, would you be willing to give Keane a ride? I know it’s a huge favor, but he’d pay for half your gas.”

“Sure,” I say without hesitation, and instantly make a face at myself. What the hell am I doing? I don’t want to drive over a thousand miles with a complete stranger in my cramped hatchback. “Sounds great,” I add brightly, yet again pissing myself off.

Dax lets out a little puff of air, obviously relieved. “Great. I’ll let him know what’s up and text you his number so you two can work out the timing.”

“Great.”

“Okay, well,” Dax says, “I’d better get myself something to eat before I head to the studio.”

“Okay. Thanks again for the parking spot.”

“Sure thing. Catch ya later. Bye.”

The minute I hang up, I flap my lips together, annoyed with myself for saying yes so easily. I have no desire to drive for two solid days with some dude I don’t know. I’m terrible with new people. And, damn it, I was looking forward to having some uninterrupted solitude to mentally prepare for the major life changes ahead of me.

I sigh audibly and put my face in my hands.

Shit
.

Chapter 3

Keane

Friday. 10:07 p.m.

I pull my car in front of a large home in Bellevue and glance at my watch. I’ve somehow managed to make it to this gig with twenty minutes to spare—pretty impressive, considering I was a human pile of rubble a mere ten hours ago.

I check my phone to make sure I’ve got the right address, and I’m assaulted with an onslaught of unread texts and Instagram notifications, all apparently sent to me earlier today while I’ve been sleeping off last night’s rager. Shit. I must have traded contact info with more people than I realized at my booking agent’s birthday party last night.

I scroll through the barrage of unread texts and notifications, not particularly interested in any of them, until my eyes land on a text from my younger brother, Dax: “Yo, Peen Star. Call me ASAP. I need a favor from you, dude. It’s important. Thx.”

I tap out a quick reply: “Yo, Rock Star. I’m heading into a job right now, about to make some lucky ladies’ fantasies come true (as usual). Tonight BPH is Johnny Law with a Big Ol’ Dong and the bachelorette is America’s Most Wanted.” I attach a police officer emoji, a bride, and a crying-happy-tears emoji. “I’ll call u tomorrow. Maybe Sunday. Monday at latest, brah. (Because, ya kna, it’s hard work being EVERY WOMAN’S FUCKING FANTASY). Peace out.”

Actually, despite what I just wrote, I’m not in any rush to call my little brother back, though I love the guy to pieces. Here’s a tip: If you want Keane Morgan to hit you back any time soon, don’t send him a text that says, “I need a favor from you, dude.” Just sayin’.

I look at my watch. Eighteen minutes to showtime.

I continue scrolling through my texts and discover two from my older brother Ryan, both from yesterday: “Hey, Peen. I’ve got 2 tix to the Mariners game on Thurs night if you and the Mrs. want em? I’m thinking maybe you and your lovely wife could use a romantic night out at the ballpark? Turns out I’ll be seeing Muse Thurs night with Kum Shot and the entire Faraday crew. Lambo scored us backstage passes (because he’s the wise and powerful Joshua Fucking Faraday, baby!). Confession? I love my brother-in-law more than I love any of my actual blood brothers, including you. Sorry, Peenie, but it can’t be helped. P.S. Don’t shake your ass too hard, Magic Mike. Wouldn’t want something to shake loose and detach.”

Now, that’s how you do it, brah. You want another tip about getting Keane Morgan to hit you back? Offer him free baseball tix. (Daxy really should take notes.) But before tapping out my “Hell yeah, I want the tix!” reply to my older brother, I quickly read his second text, which is time-stamped thirty minutes after his first:

“Hey, PEENelope Cruz!” Ryan writes. “Mom says to call her. She left you a vm 2 days ago, telling you she has extras for you (lasagna, you fuckwit!) and you never called her back. Bwahahahaaaa! Looks like your loss is my gain, sucka! Nom nom nom. Best lasagna ever!”

And just like that, all the goodwill inspired by Ryan’s first text about the baseball tix vanishes. I tap out a reply with angry fingers, gritting my teeth as I do:

“FUCK U, you extras-stealing, Viking-ass, pillaging motherfucker! Z and I are growing boys! We needed that lasagna, man! U shoulda had my back and texted me about Mom making me some grub, not swooped in to steal my extras, u twat head! Oh well, haha, joke’s on u, Pretty Boy! I’ll just sweet-talk Mom into making me an ENTIRE PAN of lasagna and probs a pot of chili, too. Ka-BAM, son! It shouldn’t be too hard to do, since Mom loves me the most.” I attach a middle-finger emoji to the end of my text and press send.

Goddammit! I live for Mom’s extras and Ryan knows it. For fuck’s sake, I’m the only one of the five of us who can’t boil water. I need Mom’s home cookin’ to survive and thrive, man.
Fucker
.

I quickly tap out a second message to Ryan: “It’s now abundantly clear ur the enemy, brah, so I suggest u watch your back-stabbing back.” I attach a dagger-emoji and a pair of eyes. “BTW, would u PLEASE tell Mom to quit calling me all the time and TEXT me, for fuck’s sake? I’ve told her a thousand times I never check my VMs since nobody ever calls me except Mom and my fucking landlord. And, hey, tell Jizz I’m deeply offended she didn’t invite me to see Muse with all u cool kids. What’s the point of having a sister who’s married to a kazillionaire with famous friends if she doesn’t use her newfound wealth and connections to finagle her FAVORITE brother backstage tix to Muse? Tell Kat I am NOT pleased with her. In fact, tell her she’s officially on my shit list and she’s gonna have to work REALLY hard to make me love her again. Peace out.” I attach a microphone-emoji—the Morgan siblings’ universal method for declaring “I just dropped the mic on your punk ass, you little bitch.”

“Oh, shit,” I say out loud, suddenly remembering the baseball tickets.

I tap out a third text to Ryan:

“Oh, yeah! Almost forgot. Hell yes, I want ur baseball tix, brah! Thx, Captain! U da best!!! (Except for the fact that ur an extras-stealing, backstabbing fuckface.) Leave the tix on ur kitchen counter and I’ll swing by and grab ’em some time this week. Oh, yeah, um... Confession? I still have ur house key. I totally lied when I said I put it back in the drawer last time. Aw, come on, Pretty Boy—don’t be mad at ur favorite bro. We both know when I see ya next time I’m just gonna flash my dimples and make u forget u were ever pissed at me, so why bother being mad at me in the first place? Thx again! I love u da most, Rum Cake!” Heart emoji.

After I send my final text to Ryan, I shoot a quick text to my sister, Kat: “Hey, Kum Shot. Thanks so much for inviting me to see Muse on Thurs nite with ur crew! Gonna be a blast! Oh, wait, no... that’s right: U DIDN’T FUCKING INVITE ME! Because u SUCK!” I attach a middle-finger emoji. “Say hi to Lambo and give Little G a big hug from her favorite uncle. Love u guys so much (even though u suck ass like a Dyson).” Heart emoji.

I glance at my watch. Still about ten minutes before Ball Peen Hammer reports for duty. Damn it. Why’d I get here so fucking early? I hate waiting.

I continue scrolling through the endless messages and notifications on my phone. Oh, there’s a text from my oldest brother, Colby: “Hey, fuckwad. Call me. I left you a vm three days ago and you never called me back.”

I ignore this one. Colby knows better than to leave me a goddamned voicemail—which means it’s his own damned fault if I didn’t call him back. That’s shame on him, not me.
Delete
.

Oh, hey, there’s a text from my booking agent, Melissa, someone I’ll always hit back, no matter what:

“Hey, Keane!” Melissa’s text says. “Thanks for coming to my birthday party last night! I LOOOOOOVED the show you and the boys put on for me!” She attaches a blushing-face emoji. “So, hey, hot stuff, a new client has specifically requested BPH for a private show tomorrow night. She saw you perform at Hot Spot last month and it seems you made quite the impression. Apparently, it’s a ‘divorce finalization celebration,’ so it’s probs gonna get pretty wild. I told her you’re booked at HS this Sat night, but she said she’d pay 2x what you make at the club. I told her, no, she’s gotta pay 3x + $100 as your guaranteed tip (my 20% to be taken off the top) and she said ok. (Damn, I’m good.) If u want the gig, I’ll send Brent or Felipe to take your place at HS—but you gotta lemme know ASAP. If I don’t hear from you before midnight tonight, I’m gonna have to confirm Brent for the horny divorcée. LMK.”

I scoff loudly, even as I’m sitting alone in my car, and tap out a rapid-fire reply: “Oh, sure, Mel, you’re gonna send BRENT to the horny divorcée. Riiiiiight. The woman asks for BPH specifically and ur gonna send her the Cowboy Kid? For fuck’s sake, the poor woman’s lady-boner would go completely soft! Just do me a favor and make sure this one knows she’s getting the legendary BALL PEEN HAMMER and not my actual balls, peen, and hammer. Mmmmmkay? BTW, I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell clients I’m not slangin’ dang, Mel. It’s awkward, to say the least, for me to do it in the moment. So do your job for once and tell the clients I’m not a paid cock when you book the gig. Don’t be a greedy little bitch, M. If a potential client doesn’t want me cuz I’m a pro, then five more clients WILL for that exact same reason. So, yeah, if this client wants someone with actual talent and a body like a god who’s gonna give her a happy memory to fall back on every time she’s fucking some old bald guy with a beer belly, back hair, and tragically low testosterone levels, then hellz yeah, book the fuck out of it. BPH will be there with donkey balls on, baby. But if this divorcée is looking to sow her newfound wild oats with a cabana boy who’s got a plug-and-play pecker, then by all means send Brent. Peace out.” I attach a heart emoji, making sure Melissa knows I love her, even when I’m busting her balls.

I look at my watch. Five minutes until showtime. Jesus God. Is time standing still? I continue scrolling through my texts, looking for anything to pass the time, and a text from a number I don’t recognize catches my eye:

“Hey, Keane! This is Jade from Melissa’s party? I got your number from Samantha. Was thinking we could hang out some time. Call me!” She attaches a winking emoji and a pair of lips.

Well, first of all, I don’t remember a chick named Jade from last night’s party. And, second of all, I don’t even like Samantha. She’s always a total bitch to Z. Bros before hoes, babe.
Delete
.

I keep scrolling through several more texts until another message catches my eye: “Hi there! This is Madelyn Milliken, Hannah’s sister? Please call or text me whenever it’s convenient, so we can make arrangements for next week. I’m pretty flexible regarding timing! Looking forward to taking this trip with you!”