Free Ball Peen Hammer by Lauren Rowe Page A

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,