Authors: Lauren Rowe
Ball Peen Hammer
Ball Peen Hammer
Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Rowe
Published by SoCoRo Publishing
Layout by
www.formatting4U.com
Photography: Blue Photo NYC.
Cover model: Bryan Benisvy.
Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
Table of Contents
Music Playlist for Ball Peen Hammer
Prologue
He bends over the woman’s back, grabs a fistful of her dark hair, and thrusts into her one last time, his eyes searing holes into my flesh.
And that’s it. I’m gone. Put a fork in me. I’m done.
I’ve got to have him.
I don’t care what I said last night. And I certainly don’t care about his stupid brother. In fact, I don’t care about anything or anyone except
me
and what I want.
And what I want is him.
I want to kiss him. And have sex with him. And then do it again. I want to touch and kiss and lick and suck every inch of that insane body of his, and then do it again. And I want him to touch me, every inch of me, inside and out, all the way inside the deepest, most secret places of my body, and make me come again and again.
No matter what we said to each other last night, or how my heart’s inevitably going to shatter when the pleasure’s all gone and there’s nothing left but pain, in this moment, I want him like I’ve never wanted another man.
And, by God, I’m going to get him
.
Right freakin’ now.
Chapter 1
Maddy
Friday 7:42 p.m.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I peel my eyes off the video I’m editing to see who’s calling. It’s my big sister, Hannah—the one person in the world I’ll always pick up for, no matter what I’m doing.
“Hey, Banana,” I say, answering the call.
“Hey, hon. Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothing much—just, you know, smokin’ crack, having sex with an underwear model—the usual Friday night stuff. And that’s just a warm-up for tomorrow night when I’ll be mainlining black tar heroin and hosting a gangbang.”
“You’re editing another wedding video, I presume?”
“Yeah. The bride from last weekend was hoping to show her grandma the finished video at Granny’s Ninetieth Birthday Bash on Sunday. Apparently, her grandmother was too frail to travel to Seattle for the wedding, so I’ve been working ’round the clock to get it done in time for her.”
“You’re such a sweetheart, Maddy.”
“Not at all. Rush-editing a wedding video on a Friday night is my idea of fun, believe it or not. Maybe not
quite
as thrilling as hosting a gangbang, but it’s a close second.”
“Meh. Gangbangs are totally overrated. After a couple dozen of ’em, the novelty wears off.”
“Good to know.”
“So, hey, procrastinator, I’m calling to find out if you bought your plane ticket yet?”
“Nope, still holding out hope you’ll be able to snag me a parking spot in your building. Wishful thinking, I know.”
“Or maybe
not
wishful thinking...” Hannah says, her tone spiking with excitement. “Get your oil changed and your tires rotated, sissy—you’re gonna be driving your car to L.A., after all.”
I let out an excited howl. “Really? Oh my God!” This news is a godsend. It means I’ll be able to shoot weddings on weekends during the upcoming school year and make some much-needed extra cash. “Thank you so much, Hannah!”
“You’re welcome.”
“How the heck did you do it?”
“Sister magic.”
“But wait, Hannah.” My stomach clenches with sudden wariness. Hannah once told me people were renting out spots in her building for, like, four hundred bucks a month, thanks to the proximity of her building to campus. “If this spot is gonna cost me more than, say, fifty bucks a month, I can’t swing it,” I say. “Tuition for the first trimester wiped me out, and I still gotta buy books when I get to school.”
“No, no, no. This parking spot don’t cost a thing, baby, just like J.Lo and her love.” Hannah belts out the chorus of Jennifer Lopez’s song “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” at the top of her lungs, replacing the word “love” with “parking spot.”
“Yeow,” I say, pulling the phone from my ear. “You almost burst my eardrum there, babe. Warn me next time before you break into spontaneous J.Lo, please.”
“Okay, warning: I’m about to burst into spontaneous J.Lo again.” She promptly bursts into an enthusiastic mash-up of “Jenny on the Block,” “Let’s Get Loud,” and “Waiting for Tonight.”
I can’t help but giggle. There’s no one like my sister.
“Okay, I’m done J.Lo-ing for now,” Hannah says, exhaling. “You were saying?”
“Be serious for a minute, Banana. How much is this spot gonna set me back? We both know, thanks to observing our dear, hapless mother our entire lives, absolutely
nothing
comes for free, not even J.Lo’s love. Actually, come to think of it, Ben Affleck has gone on record to say the ‘Bennifer’ era was the lowest point of his life, so I’m sure he’d say quite emphatically that Jenny’s love does, in fact, cost ‘a thing.’ He might even say it cost him his very soul.”
Hannah scoffs. “Screw Ben. He can’t blame his tortured soul on Jenny from the Block. If the mighty Jennifer Garner couldn’t fix that broken-ass man, then he’s obviously not fixable.”
“Hannah,
please
be serious. If you’re planning to pay for the spot, I can’t let you do that—you’re already gonna let me live with you rent-free.”
“I’m not paying for the spot.”
“Well, then, did Henn finagle some kind of favor from Reed? Because I don’t feel comfortable letting Henn—”
“
Listen to me, Linda
,” Hannah says, cutting me off. It’s a reference to a viral video Hannah’s become obsessed with recently in which a precocious little boy repeatedly calls his mother by her first name (Linda) and commands her to “listen to him.” “This parking spot is a gift from the universe, simple as that—completely free. Well, it won’t cost you any
money
, that is—nothing’s ever
completely
free.”
“Ha! I knew it. You sold your little sister into sexual slavery, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course. How else could I get you a parking spot mere blocks from campus for nothing out of pocket? Besides, you won’t mind your sexual servitude when you see the guy who’s giving you his spot—in fact, I’m pretty sure you’ll thank me.”
“Ooooooh. You’ve got my attention, Linda. Is he hot?”
“As
hell
.”
“But is he
my
idea of hot or yours? Because your idea of hot is some dork in a black cape, playing Magic, The Gathering.”
“Not Magic, The Gathering. I’m all about World of Warcraft these days.”
“Oh my God, Hannah. You’re hopeless.”
My sister giggles. “Trust me, Mr. Parking Spot is
everyone’s
idea of hot. Mine, yours, J.Lo’s, Mom’s—well, okay, not Mom’s. He’s not a total
loser
.”
We both snicker.
“Tell me more about Mr. Parking Spot,” I say. “I must admit, I’m skeptical of his hotness.”
My skepticism is well grounded, by the way. My sister’s idea of hotness rarely overlaps with mine. While Hannah’s always had a thing for quirky hipster-nerdy-gamer types like her adorable boyfriend, Henn, I’ve always had a near-fatal weakness for artsy-musician James Dean types (guys who, unfortunately, always seem to hand me a one-way ticket to the friend-zone before I’ve managed to string two coherent words together in their presence).
“Well, gosh, lemme think,” Hannah says in a teasing voice. “Well, first off, Mr. Parking Spot is in a
band
.”
“Bah-
wooh
?” I blurt, doing my best Scooby-Doo-smelling-a-Scooby-snack impression.
Hannah chuckles. “Yeah, I thought that’d get a Scooby-Doo-
bawooh
out of you.”
“What instrument does he play?”
“Guitar. Oh, and he’s the lead singer, too.”
“Santa Maria!”
“And he writes all his band’s lyrics.”
“Oh my.”
“And the lyrics he writes are
deep
and
profound
.”
I gasp. “Santa Madonna!”
“But, wait, there’s more. Guess why he doesn’t need his parking spot?”
“Oh, dear God, no,” I whisper.
“
’Cause he rides a motorcycle
,” Hannah says, confirming my hunch.
“Sweet Sassy Molassey!”
Hannah laughs.
“Okay, it’s official,” I say. “Fire up the engines of unrequited love to full-throttle, Johnny. I’m goin’ in.”
“And, to top it all off, he lives right across the hall from me, so you two will practically be roomies.”
I clutch my heart, anxiety gripping me. “Shit just got real—and very precarious.”
Hannah laughs again.
“Hannah, all joking aside, this is gonna end
really
badly for me,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m so sad for what’s about to happen to me.”
Hannah scoffs. “Why do you
always
think that way? You have to think
positively
—envision what you want and then make it a reality.”
“Banana, I’m an extremely positive person and you know it. I just don’t happen to be
delusional
.”
“Come on, Linda, listen to me,” Hannah says. “How many times have I told you? New city, new school, new Maddy. That’s your mantra now. You’re not shy and introverted anymore; you’re a man-eater, baby.”
I let out a loud exhale. My sister can give me as many pep talks about manifesting my reality and transforming myself into some kind of
femme fatale
as she wants, but we both know what’s gonna happen here: I’m gonna fall for this rock-star guy and he’s going to pat me on the head, feed me some kibble, and say, “Hey there, little buddy. Let’s be friends!” It’s just the way it always goes with me when it comes to me and the guys I find sexually attractive.
Now don’t get me wrong: hot guys have liked me—the same way they like kittens and Homer Simpson and waffle cones. “You’re awesome, Maddy!” they’ve said, if we happen to be in a class together and they’ve had the chance to get to know me over time. But for some reason, no matter how much the hotties come to like me once they’ve gotten to know me, they’re never inspired to jump my bones.
