Meeting Mr. Steele

by Melanie Marchande

  Meeting Mr. Steele

  By Melanie Marchande

  CHAPTER ONE

  There's that moment. That one space in time, that one breath, when it finally hits you that something has totally and completely spun out of control. That it's got a life of its own now. You're no longer in the driver's seat. Things have officially progressed from "complicated" to "holy shit."

  For me, it was the tenth message asking to see my dick.

  I don't know why numbers one through nine just rolled off my back, but there's something about that last message - from someone called "Crystal Rae" whose profile photo features her two pet dogs - that really, really hits it home for me.

  I have to put a stop to this.

  For one thing, it wouldn't be professional. I'm a writer, for God's sake. Not a porn star. For another, it's just asking for trouble - no matter what you do for a living.

  And most importantly, I don't have a dick.

  You might say that I brought this on myself, by pretending to be a guy on the internet. I never should have opened that Pandora's box. The world wide web is full of predators, and I should have been more careful. Never should have put myself out there.

  I had no idea how bad it was going to be.

  Because I'm more than a little bit of an idiot - that should already be obvious at this point, but for those following along at home, we'll be returning to this theme later - I decide to do something about it.

  I go to my newsfeed, and I post a status update.

  I just want to say that I've gotten a few...very intimate requests lately in my inbox. I can't respond to each one individually, so I'll just make a quick statement: Calm down, ladies. I'm an old-fashioned guy - where I come from, it's just not classy to take pictures of your junk. You'll just have to stick to your imaginations. ;)

  A few minutes later, I look at my inbox, and I realize I've made a terrible mistake.

  ***

  The whole thing started out of frustration. Isn't that always the way? I've heard the potato chip was invented because some picky customer kept asking for thinner and thinner potatoes, and finally, the angry and exasperated chef cut them way too thin on purpose. Now, we all eat our egg salad sandwiches with a side of FUCK YOU, BUDDY.

  So, let's rewind.

  I've always wanted to be a writer. As a kid, I write and illustrate countless notebooks full of the expanded adventures of The Berenstain Bears. I act out elaborate Shakespearean tales of intrigue with my Barbie dolls. Once I'm old enough to string more than a few sentences together, I start to write.

  Even though I love fantasy, I quickly realize that I lack the attention span to develop five new languages and a world map before I even start writing any of the good stuff. I begin to scale it down, gravitating towards simple, character-driven stories. I still hope that someday I'll write the next Lord of the Rings, but for the time being, I'm content to keep it on a small scale.

  After college, I end up in a long string of dead-end jobs, because it turns out that whole "just get a degree and you'll be employable" thing is a big fat lie. I temp for a while, until the glow of fluorescent lights and a never-ending saga of thermostat battles and passive aggressive notes about who should be refilling the coffee pot make me wonder if food service could possibly be worse.

  It's worse.

  One night, as I'm putting up my aching feet and trying to forget about the verbal abuse from customers who can't understand that I didn't make their food, I decide I've had enough.

  Linda, one of my coworkers, always has a book in her hand when she's on break. Stuff like The Oil Baron's Virgin Secretary Bride's Secret Baby. I've always known those books are popular, but something about this particular night sparks that million dollar question.

  Why couldn't I write these?

  ***

  So that's how Landon Steele, real-life Dominant and male romance author, was born.

  All right, so you're wondering why the hell I need to pretend to be a dude in order to write romance. Fair enough. I still wonder the same thing. I'll be getting to that in a second.

  Back to the present day.

  I'm still drowning in dick pic requests. Thank God I have chat turned off. Although, thanks to the ever-eroding sense of privacy on the internet, if I accidentally click on someone's message, they'll know. I'm very, very careful when I open up a new message box to my one confidant in this whole mess.

  Amy is one of the five people who actually read - and loved - my very first books. The ones I wrote as myself, before I realized that the secret to my success was pretending to be someone entirely different. I almost stopped answering her emails when I realized I couldn't possibly keep writing in that vein, because I was scared of disappointing the only fan I had. Luckily, she took it well. And I even told her (after a few glasses of wine) about my future plans. She thought it was hilariously brilliant, and decided to follow me on my twisted path, supporting me however she could, while holding a bucket of popcorn in the other hand, just in case the whole thing imploded.

  I type:

  Lord deliver me from the desperate housewives

  She responds immediately:

  I was about to ask you, what the HELL are you thinking? Now you talked about it, they're never gonna stop asking

  I sigh. She's right. I should never do anything in this business without asking her first. I might've done my research, but Amy's got her finger on the pulse like no one else.

  I know that these messages are coming from a loud minority in my group of readers. Most of them have some sense of boundaries, and the vast majority show me nothing but love and support without asking for anything in return. Except for my next book, of course. I just didn't count on this particular level of celebrity. It happened quickly, but I didn't notice at first - like a frog in cold water when you turn up the heat.

  At first, every single post I made was getting tons of attention. Then, I started browsing groups and noticing that my name and my book titles were dropped frequently whenever someone asked for recommendations. It got to the point where I hardly saw a "what should I read next?" post where I wasn't featured four or five times.

  Now, things are really out of control. And it's about to get worse.

  The ding of an incoming email catches my attention. I'm giggling back and forth with Amy about various schemes for stealing dick pics from random pervs on Craigslist and passing them off as my own, so I miss the little notification banner that tells me who it's from. Could be stupid and boring, could be amazing. Could be someone complaining about typos and suggesting that I have my books edited, as if that's an entirely new concept to me. I have to grit my teeth to resist the urge to send them a copy of my editor's last invoice, which at this point costs more than all my utility bills combined. I really need to find a way to be less wordy.

  Mr. Steele,

  My name is Steve, and I'm a production assistant from the show Morning Brew. We're wondering if you would be interested in a short interview segment. We're going to be talking about the ongoing phenomenon of "mommy porn" books and we think you have an interesting twist on the whole "housewife becomes a steamy romance author" narrative. Obviously, this will be a soft human-interest type story. You'd have the opportunity to meet and greet with audience members after the show, maybe sign some books.

  If you'd like to talk about scheduling, please send me the best phone number to reach you at.

  Thanks,

  Steve Kirkland

  Holy shit. One of the biggest network TV morning shows in the country just shot me a casual email, like it was nothing. Assuming, of course, that this isn't all some elaborate prank. I immediately forward it to Amy, and send her a quick message.

  holy shit, check your email

  It
has to be fake, right? Right? Landon Steele's email address is publicly available all over the damn place, partially because of this very reason. But now that it might actually be happening, I'm finding it impossible to believe.

  Amy finally answers:

  holy shit

  I'm about to chew a hole in my lip.

  I know, right? Is there any way this could be real?

  She hesitates before answering.

  hang on, I'll have skylar check the headers and all that garbage

  Her teenage son, once again, comes in handy. That kid's either going to end up running the FBI, or running from them.

  After what feels like a thousand years, she comes back.

  says it looks legit. so what are you gonna do, come out?

  Hell no. Hell no. I can't. But what other options do I have? This isn't exactly the kind of opportunity that comes along every day. I'm not an idiot, I know that my fifteen minutes will be up before I can blink. I need to jump on this now.

  But I can't.

  My mind starts racing. If I can at least figure out how to respond to him, that will be buy me some time to figure it out.

  Of course. I'm Mr. Steele's personal assistant. That way, I can even talk on the phone with this Steve character, and he'll never suspect a thing.

  Amy sends me another message.

  or I guess you could always hire somebody to play him.

  Of course. It seems so simple, now that the idea's in front of me.

  amy, you're a genius.

  She replies quickly.

  I know :)

  I start drafting my email.

  Hi Steve,

  Thanks so much for writing. I'm Kimberly, Mr. Steele's PA. I handle all of his scheduling so that he can stay on the important task of writing. Mr. Steele has indicated his interest to me, so I'd love to hash out the details with you. Please feel free to give me a call, at your earliest convenience.

  I sign off with my phone number and let out a heavy sigh. So, that's one problem solved. I can at least talk to them, get a feel for whether this is going to be worth all the hassle I anticipate.

  where do you even hire an actor to play a part in real life? I'm too scared to post an ad, what if somebody finds it and blows the whole thing wide open?

  I'm not really expecting an answer, but Amy starts typing right away.

  you're in nyc, just hang out outside one of the big casting calls, and snipe somebody coming out. that way you get a good feel for their look and how they carry themselves.

  I'm frowning.

  that sounds incredibly creepy.

  On the other end, Amy's probably shrugging.

  well, you're a sweet girl next door type, I doubt they're gonna worry about ending up as a lampshade. just be honest with them.

  She might have a point. I would never accept that kind of offer, because I'm a woman and I've had the idea of personal safety drilled into my head since birth. Guys usually aren't so cautious.

  I can't believe I'm actually considering this. But what choice do I have? I'm doing well, but I'm nowhere near a household name. Scratch that - Landon Steele is nowhere near a household name. This is a huge opportunity. If I don't take it, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what if.

  Suddenly, my phone's ringing. I don't even recognize the area code, but I pick it up with a frown.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, is this Kimberly?"

  "Speaking."

  "This is Steve Kirkland from Morning Brew, how are you?"

  For a moment, my heart stops beating.

  "Hi, Steve!" I hear myself say, cheerily. "I'm doing great, how are you?"

  "Just fine, thanks." He shuffles some papers. "I was hoping to try and hash out some of the details of Landon Steele's appearance on the show, if you have a minute."

  "Sure, sure." My brain is no longer aware of what my mouth is saying, but thankfully, it seems to be working out okay. "Sorry, just let me switch gears for a second."

  "Absolutely."

  I take a long, deep breath.

  "So," I say, after deciding that running away and screaming into my pillow will take too long. "What kind of timeline are we looking at here?"

  "As soon as possible," he says. "We really want to capture Mr. Steele's popularity at its peak. I'm guessing he has a lot of interesting stories to tell about his experiences as a male author in a female-dominated field." Steve clears his throat. "Sorry, I have to ask - he is a male author, right? I know sometimes these pen names aren't exactly accurate."

  No shit?

  "Yes, yes, of course." That's it - I'm going to hell. I'm definitely going to hell. "Sure, I understand. You have to double-check."

  "Have you seen the show?"

  Every time I'm in a waiting room. "Absolutely. Mr. Steele's very excited about the opportunity."

  "So, you know what kind of operation we're running. There's no gotcha questions, nothing controversial. And we'll be keeping it family-friendly, of course. Don't want to get into all the bondage stuff. Honestly, he's right in our demographic and we have a feeling he'll bring in a lot of viewers, even if they haven't necessarily heard of him. We can promo it as very exciting, very sexy - something unique. They'll tune in. Will this be Mr. Steele's first live television appearance?"

  I clear my throat, delicately. "As of right now, yes." I don't want to make him sound like some kind of high-maintenance idiot who's going to drop f-bombs all over the place, but I also really don't want to fake my way through this - at least, any more than I already am.

  Steve starts rattling off all the vital information. "So basically, you'll send us a list of potential topics, think about the kind of stuff that would interesting to our demo - cute, funny stories, stuff about pets is good, stuff about Mr. Steele being clumsy, anything that humanizes him. It might seem undignified, but trust me, it'll only add to his sex appeal. We'll come back with our list of questions, and Mr. Steele can get some answers ready for the segment. Remember to keep it short, each answer should ideally be around thirty to forty-five seconds. Rehearsing is good.

  "As far as scheduling goes, we like to keep things moving at a pretty quick pace here at Morning Brew. But I recognize your boss is a busy man, so we can be flexible. How about filming in six weeks?"

  Six weeks?

  Six fucking weeks?

  I clear my throat again. "Uh, he might be able to fit it in, between book releases. Is there any chance of extending that date?"

  Steve makes an uncomfortable noise. "I could talk to them about it, but that's pretty much the furthest they're generally willing to go."

  Message received. I'm Landon Steele, not Angelina Jolie. I work around their schedule.

  "Okay," I tell him. "Six weeks. I'm sure we can make it work."

  "Great," he enthuses. "I'll let the producers know. And the booking people will be in touch with you about travel arrangements. Will it just be you and Mr. Steele?"

  I'm still having a hard time swallowing any of this.

  "Yes," I say, when my brain kicks back into gear. "Thank you."

  Does that mean they're going to pay for our hotel and airline tickets, just like that? Is this how the other half lives?

  It's not until we've hung up that I realize my brain has already adjusted to the idea of me and Mr. Steele as a duo. Our hotel. Us.

  I'm losing my mind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I'm messaging Amy on my phone while I lurk outside of a big studio casting call. I've officially reached a new low.

  People are coming out in droves, most of them looking disappointed or pissed-off. A few look hopeful. Most are clearly coming down from a wicked adrenaline high. There are some attractive men, but none of them look how I pictured Landon Steele. I'm starting to think this was a gigantic waste of time.

  And that's when I see him.

  He's perfect.

  That's my initial impression, informed only by my first glance. He's certainly not dressed for the part, in ratty jeans and a shirt that probably came
in a six-pack from Walmart. But that's easy to fix.

  Everything else is spot-on. Dark hair, piercing eyes, just a hint of stubble on his strong jaw. It would hurt, rasping against sensitive skin, but I suppose that's part of the appeal. And he's got a rich tapestry of tattoos running up his arms, hinting at more.

  He doesn't carry himself like a Dom. But hopefully, that's where the acting comes in.

  After putting a lot of thought into it, I've decided Amy was right. The best approach is to just be honest. He's standing there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, like he's trying to figure out if he can afford cab fare home. If I can't talk this guy into working for me, I'm completely hopeless.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk up to him.

  "Hey."

  He looks up, and god damn his eyes are way too blue. "Hey," he says, a little uncertainly. I can't imagine it's unusual for women to approach him on the street - maybe just not women who look like me.

  "Just get out of the audition?" I nod my head towards the building he just walked out of.