Free Ball Peen Hammer by Lauren Rowe Page B

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.
    “I’m sure you are,” Maddy says, scrunching up her nose like she’s smelling the underside of Zander’s balls. “But I prefer to drive.”
    “No,” I say, chuckling. “That’s my Rainman impression, sweet cheeks. ‘I’m an excellent driver.’ You know, Dustin Hoffman in a gray suit?”
    Maddy presses her lips together, clearly mustering all her energy to simply tolerate me. “I haven’t seen that one,” she says, her voice tight. “And please don’t call me ‘sweet cheeks.’”
    “You haven’t seen Rainman ?” I bellow. “Dude. I thought you were going to film school.”
    “I am.”
    “Well, Rainman won Best Picture. Aren’t film students supposed to be obsessed with watching all the Best Picture winners? You better get on that. It’s a good one, babesicles.”
    Maddy lets out a long sigh and touches her forehead like I’ve just given her a migraine. “Thanks for the tip, babesicles ,” she says, her mouth tight. “But although some film students might be obsessed with watching Oscar-winning dramas, I’m not one of them, sweet cheeks , because my personal dream is to make award-winning documentaries, baby doll .” She glances away from the road to glower at me. “To each her own, right, sugar lips ?”
    Wow. That was more verbiage all at once from Maddy than she’s unleashed during the entire past hour—not to mention the most sass she’s displayed, too. Yee-boy! This is gonna