Ball Peen Hammer (18 page)

Chapter 18

Keane

Wednesday, 4:03 p.m.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Maddy asks.

We’re lying underneath a large tree in a grassy park we located courtesy of Google maps, sprawled on top of a blanket we retrieved from the back of Maddy’s car, gazing up at the late-afternoon clouds in the sky. A cool breeze occasionally rustles the tree above us, making its leaves shimmer lazily against the backdrop of the clouded sky.

I’m on my back and Maddy’s lying alongside me on her belly, her chin propped up by her hands; and without meaning to do it, I keep finding myself absently running my fingertips up and down Maddy’s back as we talk.

“Ask me anything you like,” I say. “Personal questions are my favorite kind.”

Maddy shivers as a cool breeze wafts over us.

“Scoot closer,” I say. “I’ll be your pillow and blanket, baby.”

She snuggles into me and I throw my arm across her back.

“Better?”

She nods.

“What’s your question, boob-waggler?” She swats at my shoulder and I laugh. “Your term, not mine,” I say.

Maddy rolls her eyes.

“What’s your question?” I ask.

“Have you ever slept with a pickle you felt
zero
emotional connection with?” she asks. Her tone is earnest, but the moment she sees the smile unfurling across my lips, she rolls her eyes again.

“What?” I ask, still smiling.

“That,” she says, indicating my mouth. “You just answered my question loud and cuh-lear.” She scoffs. “I can’t believe I just asked
you
of all people that question in all seriousness.”

“Why ‘me of all people’? What kind of ‘people’ am I?”

She pokes my shoulder. “The muscular and highly narcissistic kind.”

“Oh, really?” I put my free arm behind my head, still smirking at her. “You assume because I work out and don’t pretend to be humble about what I see in the mirror, I must be a manwhore?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. You shouldn’t assume it. I know
plenty
of guys at the gym who are way more buff than I am and they don’t sleep around. One guy I know is a twenty-five-year-old virgin, believe it or not. Liam. He’s waiting for marriage.”

“Really?”

I nod. “And Liam’s way more ripped than I am, by far. Dude looks like a god.”

“Huh. Well, good for him. But just to be clear, you’re nothing like Liam, right? Because you, unlike our ripped and virginal Liam, are a total and complete manwhore?”

“Well,
yeah
.” I grin broadly. “And thank God for that, baby.” I move onto my side and so does Maddy, until we’re facing each other, our bodies stretched out on the blanket, goose bumps erupting on our skin in the cool breeze. “I’m just saying you can’t
assume
a guy’s a manwhore based solely on appearance.”

“Okay, well, good to know. But, just so you know, every freakin’ thing about you screams ‘manwhore!’, so if you don’t want people thinking that about you, then maybe you should tone down the ‘I’m a total and complete manwhore!’ vibe you’re giving off. Just sayin’.”

I grin at her. The way the late-afternoon sun is hitting Maddy’s hair, it’s this crazy, shimmering shade of auburn, kinda like dark cinnamon (a hair color I’ve always had a bit of a weakness for ever since I made out with Sophie Broughton in seventh grade). “Well, see,” I say. “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about me, so I’m good.”

“Yeah, well, I guess a guy can’t call himself ‘Ball Peen Hammer’ and then turn around and give a crap if everyone thinks he’s ‘bonin’ the fuck outta women right and left,’ huh?”

We’re practically lying nose to nose—and up close like this, I’m noticing for the first time Maddy’s eyes are the exact color of Tootsie Pops.

“Okay, first off, sweetheart,” I say, “you can’t get away with saying the phrase ‘bonin’ the fuck outta women right and left.’ You sound like Laura Ingalls Wilder trying to say that. Second off, lemme be crystal clear about something: even though I might ‘bone the fuck outta’ women now and again, I ain’t no fuckboy. My momma raised me better than that. And, third off, you got me all wrong. Ball Peen Hammer doesn’t bone the fuck outta women;
Keane Morgan
does. In point of fact, being a stripper has cut into my random acts of bonery, big-time.”

Maddy smirks and a lock of her auburn hair tumbles into her face.

Oh man, I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t resist. I reach out and push her hair off her face, and damned if her hair against my fingertips isn’t softer than I expected it to be. “Don’t flash me that snarky look,” I say. “Your face is gonna freeze that way and then where will you be?”

“It can’t be helped,” Maddy says. “You just said being a male stripper has ‘cut into your random acts of bonery’ with a straight face.”

“Hey, I’m speaking the God’s truth. I got laid way more
before
I became Ball Peen Hammer.”

Maddy rolls her eyes. “Well, first off, sweetheart,” she says, adopting my exact tone from a moment ago. “I think you should leave God out of any conversation about how much you get
laid
. Second off, I don’t believe you for a New York minute. And, third off, I can’t think of a third off.”

“Oh my God.” I prop myself onto my elbow in sudden indignation. “You think I’m nothing but a paid cock, don’t you?”

Maddy props herself up, too, matching my body’s position, her facial expression quite clearly communicating, “If the shoe fits...”

“You know what, Maddy Milliken? I’m deeply offended. I’ll have you know I’m good at my job—a true
professional
. Probs the top male exotic dancer in Seattle. Most guys make half of what I do on a good night.”

Maddy snickers. “Yeah, based on everything you’ve told me, I’m sure you’re
extremely
good at your job.”

“Oh my fucking God. You’ve got it all wrong. Contrary to what you’re obviously thinking, I don’t fuck clients.
Ever
.” My heart is racing. Has Maddy been assuming I fuck for a living this whole time?

“Really?” she asks, her eyes wide.

“Absolutely. I peddle the
fantasy
of getting to sleep with me, baby, not my actual
cock
.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—wait, oh.” She grins. “You’re totally pulling my leg, aren’t you?” She snorts. “Oh, you’re good.”

“Maddy, stop it. I’m serious. I don’t sleep with clients. It’s a firm rule and I never break it.”

Maddy sits all the way up, color rising in her cheeks. “Oh. Wow. I’m sorry. I truly thought...
Oh
.”

I sit up, too. “Well, you thought wrong. I don’t fuck clients. And, like I said, stripping has cut into my sex life, big-time. Really, it’s a wonder I get any no-strings sex at all these days, given my schedule.”

Maddy looks at me quizzically.

I exhale with frustration. “Think about it. I’m always working on weekend nights, which is when ninety-nine percent of all casual hook-ups in the universe take place. That’s my first major hurdle right there, since, like I say, I don’t fuck clients. And then, on top of that, whenever I’m not working, where am I? At the gym with Z. And since I don’t sleep with women at the gym, either, I’m pretty much screwed when it comes to getting screwed. The fact that I still get laid at all is a testament to just how irresistible to women I really am.”

“Why don’t you sleep with women at the gym? I’d think the gym would be the perfect place to find women to ‘bone the fuck outta.’”

“Dude, you gotta stop saying that. You seriously cannot pull that off.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Bone the fuck outta,” Maddy says, a twinkle in her brown eyes.

“Still no.”

“Hmmph. Well, okay. Regardless, I’m just saying it seems like the gym would be an extremely fertile ground for finding yourself some willing fuck-buddies. Everyone’s in great shape and wearing skimpy little workout clothes and—”

“Dude. ‘Fuck-buddies’ doesn’t trip off your tongue any more convincingly than ‘bone the fuck outta.’ Sorry, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Try again.”

“No? Jeez. Okay, well, hmm. How about this: I’d think the gym would be the ideal place for you to find willing and highly attractive
playmates
.”

“Much better. And, yes, to your point, one would think the gym would be an ideal playground for a guy like me. But, trust me, when you’re not looking for a girlfriend and you start hunting in the same place where you hang out every day of your life, it becomes really messy, really fast. Just trust me on that. Yeesh.”

Maddy makes a face. “It creeps me out when you refer to picking up women as ‘hunting.’ It makes you seem like a serial killer.”

“It’s slang, baby doll—I slanghai’d it from this hilarious dude at the gym. Don’t get yourself all riled up about it. It’s how boys talk when girls aren’t around.”

“I’ve never heard a boy say that before.”

“I just said it’s how boys talk
when girls aren’t around
, Steve Sanders. If you’re around, then boys aren’t sayin’ it.”

“But
you
just said it and I’m sitting right here—and last time I checked, I’m still a girl.”

“Maddy, doy-burgers. When you’re with me, you’re not a
girl
. You’re
Maddy
.”

Maddy makes a face like she’s not sure she understands the distinction.

“That was a compliment, bee tee dubs,” I say.

“Oh. Well, thanks?” She lowers herself onto her back on the blanket, her arms behind her head. “So has Ball Peen Hammer
ever
slept with a client, or have you always followed your no-sex rule from day one?”

“Oh, hell yes, Ball Peen Hammer’s slept with clients—by the truckloads in the beginning.” I shake my head, remembering myself practically overdosing on pussy for the first thirty days of my new career. “For, like, the first month I was a kid in a candy shop. But it didn’t take long for me to figure out banging clients, or their friends, or
anyone
I met within fifty yards of a gig, was a very, very,
veeeeeeeeeeeery
bad idea if I wanted to earn an actual living in the game.”

“What happened?” Maddy asks.

A cool breeze wafts over us and we both shiver.

“Are you cold?” I ask.

“A little,” she replies.

“You want me to get your sweatshirt from the car?”

“No, just put your arm around me again and I’ll be fine.”

“Sure thing.” I lie on my back and she scoots extra close, pressing her body into my side and placing her cheek on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her and hold her close, and, instantly, my body warms against hers.

“So tell me what happened when you had sex with all those truckloads of clients,” she says, draping her arm over my torso. “Tell me the whole salacious story.”

“Oh, you want the whole
salacious
story, huh? Good word. That’s like X-rated, right?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t judge.”

“No judgment.”

“Promise?”

“I thought you don’t care what anyone thinks of you.”

“Yeah, but you’re not
anyone
. You’re
Maddy
.”

She pushes her body into mine in reply and I squeeze her shoulders.

“Okay. Where to begin?” I take a deep breath. “When I started out, I couldn’t believe how women threw themselves at me. It was like I was some kind of sultan or sheik. All I had to do was
point
at a woman and she was grabbing my hand and unzipping my fly before we were even in a back room. Now, don’t get me wrong, before then, women had always hit on me. I’m talking about friends’ moms, women at grocery stores or gas stations, women standing in line at the ATM, but nothing like that. I guess when you’re a stripper, women feel like you’re not an actual person anymore, you’re just this service animal. A pork chop they’re ordering at the butcher shop.”

Maddy laughs.

“It’s no exaggeration. You’d be shocked how aggressive women can be when they feel like you’re for sale. So, anyway, I partook in the spoils of strippery all the time with no regard for consequences for about a month. But then, all of a sudden, things went to shit so fast, my head was spinning. A woman I’d fucked after a bachelorette party called my agency, asking for my cell number—not to hire me again, but to
fuck
me again. Another one wanted to invite me for a weekend in Cabo—like I was gonna be her boy toy for the weekend. Then another and another, none of them actually wanting to hire me for my actual job. So my agent was like, ‘What the fuck are you doing to these women, dude? We’ve never seen anything like this before. We’re not your pimp, man.’ It sucked. No one wanted to hire me for my actual job again, or if they did, it was for a one-on-one lap dance in a hotel room, if you catch my drift. You see what I mean? They all thought I was nothing but a whore, literally. But these women didn’t realize two things. First off, I didn’t need stripping as a way to find women to fuck—I could do that on my own, thank you very much. What I needed was a
job
. My prior job had just ended and I had rent to pay. And second off, even when I fucked a client, I wasn’t doing it for cash, despite appearances. I was there to do the job and if, while there, someone
happened
to catch my eye at a gig—someone I woulda fucked regardless, then I’d go right ahead and partake. Why not, I figured? You know how lawyers or accountants get cocktails after work? It was like that for me. I was just winding down after my shift, having fun, you know? But I never viewed fucking as
part
of the job or as part of my payday. So, then, all of a sudden, I started getting a reputation, just that fast. Women told their friends and word spread like lightning—because, of course, when I fuck a woman, I do it well. And now I’m being called to show up for a gig at a hotel room, thinking I’m doing a legit party, and it turns out there’s only one woman in the room and she’s holding up a C-note and pulling off my pants as I walk through the door. And the second that was the sitch—the minute I realized I’d become nothing but a paid cock, that these women thought I’d fuck
anyone
holding a C-note, literally, no matter who she was or what she looked like, I was totally skeeved out. But there’s no way to say ‘no thanks’ to a woman in the heat of the moment without her getting her ego bruised like yesterday’s banana. So now I’ve got women saying they’re gonna rat me out to the agency and post all kinds of shit about me on Yelp unless I refund their booking fees, which I did. So now I’m wasting Saturday nights on this shit, my highest paid night of the week, when I coulda been at a legit gig, making good money.” I sigh. “So that’s how it all went to Shit Town, USA on a bullet train. In less than a month, I’d had more sex than I’d ever had in my entire life, but I was outta cash, my rep in the biz was shit, and I’d made an army of horny women very, very angry with me. Not good.”