Meeting Mr. Steele

by Melanie Marchande

  Here, he's supposed to rest his hand on the small of my back. I stand there waiting, actually anticipating his touch, until I remember. Just like college, it's not really going to happen. Just because I wrote it doesn't make it true.

  "Don't be afraid," he says. "I know what you want. What you're too afraid to ask for."

  This is when his hand is meant to slide down to my ass.

  This is when, instead of protesting or pulling away, I sigh and arch into his touch.

  This is when he slides his fingers between my legs and finds my plain white panties damp with my arousal. This is when he touches me, this is when he asks me if I want him. This is when I tell him yes, and he slides in to the hilt, and he gives me just enough to make me desperate for more. And then he stops. He leaves me wobbly-legged and frustrated, utterly unsatisfied, just to prove a point. To assert his dominance over me.

  That's my punishment.

  Except, of course, none of that actually happens. Instead, we just stand there, with nothing but the sound of our breathing to break the heavy silence. I can't look at him. I stare at the desk, cluttered with pens and old junk mail and notes I no longer recall the meaning of. I've never felt so much like a fraud. I feel stripped-down, small, humiliated in a way that no real-life version of Mr. Steele could ever make me feel.

  This was a mistake. This was all one big, terrible mistake.

  "I don't think this is going to work," I say, softly.

  There's a moment where Josh processes this.

  "What?" he asks, finally.

  "It's a bad idea," I tell him. "All of this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Lead you on is the first thing that pops into my head, but that's not right. "I'll pay you for your time."

  I still can't look at him, but I can feel the anger radiating. He has every right to be mad. I would be, too. But I can't do this. I'm too wrapped up in this mess, and he's uncovering too much that I don't want to confront.

  "Don't worry about it," he says, finally, his voice suddenly flat and emotionless. "Thanks for the opportunity."

  And then, he's gone.

  I realize I must have been standing there, leaning on my desk, for ages. I don't know how long it's been since I heard the front door click.

  I can't understand why I feel like crying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I'm dancing.

  Okay, so it barely qualifies. I'm doing dance aerobics, which only requires as much form as it takes to not twist your ankle. But it feels like dancing, and Enrique Iglesias is pumping through the speakers, and for a few minutes I'm free of all the fears and worries and mundane concerns of everyday life.

  For a few minutes, I'm just dancing.

  It's been almost a week since I last saw Josh, and I know time is slipping away. Precious time, time I don't really have to waste. But I can't deal with it just yet. I have no idea what I'm going to do - so I just dance.

  I know Enrique's not singing about a girl like me. My hips may not lie, but my body doesn't exactly scream "come and take me," either. At least, not to most guys. I've had my fair share of run-of-the-mill hotties, but our encounters usually end with a very obvious note of finality - or the ever popular: "you're gonna be cool about this, right?"

  None of that matters right now, though. When the music finally stops and we move on to our cool-down song - Beyoncé's's "Halo" - I feel a pang of disappointment.

  "See you next week?" one of my classmates asks, pulling out her earplugs.

  "I hope so. Things have been kinda crazy." I towel off, resisting the urge to glance out the windows behind me. With the streets dark and the studio lit up in fluorescents, I'm already well aware that we're on display for all the passers-by. I just try not to think about it, and most of the time, it works.

  But tonight, something catches my eye. A figure loitering, leaning on a lamppost. Watching us.

  Watching me.

  I don't dare look at him too closely. If he's not actually staring at us, then I'm going to make it even weirder. And either way, I don't want to acknowledge it.

  "What's up with that guy?" another classmate asks, staring openly at him. Okay, so much for subtlety. "I think he's watching you, Kim."

  "Nah," I tell her, even as my heartbeat quickens. "I think we all know how unlikely that is. But we should probably stick together in groups while we're leaving, just in case."

  "Don't worry, I got your back," says another. I feel bad for not being able to pull up their names, but there's a constantly-revolving cast of women in this class and my memory works about as well as a half-broken sieve.

  We move out onto the sidewalk in a throng, and one of them is saying, "he looks pretty hot, actually. Nice tattoos." And that makes me wonder.

  I have to know.

  Right, like he's the only guy in the city with tattoos. Ignoring my mocking inner monologue, I turn and I look.

  It's him.

  A couple of the women notice I've stopped, and they slow down. One says: "You okay?"

  "Yeah," I tell her. "Go on without me. It's cool."

  "Oh, so you know the tattooed hunk," another giggles. "Told you he was looking at you."

  Glancing down the street to make sure my way is clear, I walk briskly across the pavement and come to a stop, a few feet from him.

  My mind's swimming with possible explanations for what and why and how, and I can't stop thinking about how this seems like a scene in a book I'd write. There's a kind of poetic justice in that.

  Maybe Josh is some kind of crazy stalker that I just happened to stumble across. I'm clutching the tiny bottle of pepper spray in my workout bag. It's been so many years since I took that self defense class, I'd probably end up spraying myself with it by accident.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask him, finally, because it's obvious he's just going to stand there with a Mona Lisa smile if I don't.

  A moment later, I realize he's holding a cigarette between two fingers, casually. Going for a James Dean look, minus the jacket, because of course that would cover up the canvas of his arms.

  "Frankly, Kimberly, I'm here because you pissed me off." He takes a thoughtful drag from his cigarette, and then collapses into a coughing fit for a moment.

  "I didn't know you smoked," I say, mouth twisting into a humorless smile.

  "Obviously, I don't," he says, eyes watering a little as he tosses the cigarette away. "I just thought it would look cool."

  "None of the book boyfriends smoke," I point out.

  He just shrugs. "I took some artistic license."

  "Yeah, well." I shift my weight from one foot to other. Something's not letting me leave, and it's certainly not him. He's still standing about ten feet away, not blocking my path, not giving me any indication that he's going to. Yet, I feel frozen in place. "I'm sorry I pissed you off."

  Shaking his head, he takes one step closer. Just a single step, and despite the lingering wheeze in his breath, I melt a little. Maybe I was wrong about him.

  I should be more creeped out than I am, but now I have an inkling of why he did this. Folding my arms across my chest, I fix him with an assessing look. "So, how'd you find me?"

  He grins, scratching the back of his head in a sudden flash of sheepishness. "You mentioned dance aerobics that one time. Your keys were right on the coffee table, I saw the membership tag for this place. It wasn't hard to put the two together."

  "So you figured being a creepy, controlling dickhead would get my attention." I smirk, and he does a little half-bow flourish thing. "Well, you got it."

  "Give me another chance," he says. He clears his throat. "Please."

  The power balance has shifted back to me, ever so slightly. He seized it at first, by tracking me down like this, but now he's giving me a taste of control again. Just enough to keep me hooked. Oh, yeah, he's much better at this than he was last time we met.

  I smile at him, holding eye contact for longer than I usually can. There's something about him. Something magnetic. Usually, if I look into somebody's ey
es for more than a second, it physically hurts me, like sticking my hand in hot water. There's that instant reaction, your body jerks away, basically without your permission. I think it's one of the reasons why none of the companies I temped at would ever hire me; they thought I was nervous, or untrustworthy, or something. Eye contact means so much. We like to convince ourselves that we can see people's secrets.

  I don't know what I see in Josh's eyes, exactly. But for some reason, it's not quite like other people's. It's still like hot water, but only slightly too hot - the kind where you dip your toe in, and you think maybe, just maybe, if you give yourself some time to adjust...

  It might feel really good.

  "Are you in a bad spot, Josh?" I ask him, softly, with a knowing smile.

  He shrugs. "Rent's due," he says. "Overdue. Technically. By a couple months. My landlord's too lazy to serve an eviction notice, but let's be real, he knows where I sleep. I might come home and find my shit on the lawn. It's only a matter of time." He's being very candid with me, and I've got no reason not believe him. He's a struggling actor, after all. It fits the narrative. "I'm sure you've been there."

  It's a strangely penetrating statement. "What makes you so sure?"

  "You've got a nice place," he says. "Nice stuff. But you don't act like somebody who's always had enough."

  This can only be a compliment, but my skin still crawls a little. I hug myself tighter. "Well, I've been lucky. But you're right. I wasn't always."

  "Lucky, hell," he says. "You worked hard for what you have. Maybe not digging ditches, but it's not like somebody just dropped a pot of gold in your lap."

  Sometimes it feels that way, but realistically, I know he's a little bit right. Even if this change of heart feels a little disingenuous. "Okay. As much as I don't want to reward you for acting like a fucking stalker, I've got to tip my hat to your ingenuity. If you want to pick up where we left off, I'll pay you for the first appearance in advance."

  He lets out a sigh, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thank you," he says. "Seriously. I want to give you a hug, but that might be overreaching." His forehead creases a little. "And, uh, maybe not so much in character."

  The last thing I want from him is some kind of brotherly hug, but I can't deny it would feel good to have his body pressed up against mine. "Bring it in," I say, unfolding my arms and gesturing him close. He closes the distance between us with a grin and wraps me up in a big bear hug; for a moment, I breathe in his scent and everything is perfect.

  He lets me go.

  A second later, I remember I'm still covered in sweat. But Josh doesn't seem to mind.

  "I want to work on this," he says. "I know I can do it. You just have to be patient with me."

  He's so earnest, so not-Landon, but how can I say no to him now?

  "Okay. But I'm going home to take a shower before we talk about this any more." I hug myself tightly, as if it can make up for the absence of his arms around me. "Call me tomorrow?"

  He nods, and I turn to go. I'm already halfway down the block when we calls out to me.

  "Hey, Kimberly."

  I pause, and look over my shoulder.

  Josh grins. "Nice moves."

  "Yeah, right." I keep walking, but I can't shake the feeling that he might have meant it. "If you like that, you should see my inner goddess. She really nails those merengue moves."

  Josh guffaws. "Hey, I get that now."

  ***

  I'm trying to relax in front of the computer with a glass of wine - okay, a tumbler of wine - when my screen flashes with a new message from Amy.

  Holy shit did you see this? D.B. is losing his damn mind

  I grin a little as I click on the link. We always had a good laugh at D.B. Blackwood's antics, but I can't imagine what he's done this time to get such a strong reaction out of her. I feel like we've both seen it all, at this point.

  See, when I started this whole Landon Steele thing, I didn't foresee it becoming a trend. But it did. Now there's a bunch of romance authors out there identifying as male Doms, and God only knows how many of them are filthy liars like me. I don't really care. It's the sincerest form of flattery, after all, and no one successful in this business goes long without being copied. But some of them are just like bad parodies of pickup artists, and D.B. is the worst of them all. He always wants to draw people into some kind of pissing contest, and he fancies himself an expert on women. Well, all these guys do. That's kind of part and parcel of the act. But if I see him post one more thing that starts with "the female brain..." I'm going to scream.

  And not the way he claims he can make women scream. That's for damn sure.

  At first, I can't figure out what Amy is referring to. D.B.'s latest blog post seems to be about the usual. I have to laugh a little as I dig in:

  Folks, let me tell you - you think I've never been friendzoned, 'cause I'm some big stud with a massive cock? (Hey, you guys said it. Not me. I refuse to confirm or deny any speculation about the size of my johnson, because I don't want to get into that stuff.) The Friendzone. It's happened. It's happened to me, it's happened to every man in America. So how do we DEFEAT the friendzone? How can you BREAK THROUGH the barriers that make a female think she can't possibly get wet for you?

  Men out there, I'm not stupid. I know you read my books to try and figure out the female mind. (And maybe sometimes cause you just want to rub one out - no judgments here! You can jerk off to another man's words. It ain't gay if the balls don't touch.) But you're completely baffled by what you find here. You just know if you talked to your wife the way I talk to women in my books, she'd slap you silly.

  Well, you might be right. Your wife's got an advantage in dealing with me, and I'm very sorry, but that's just the way it is. If she gets annoyed, she can just shut the book, turn off the e-reader, shut the computer, and walk away. She doesn't need to cook me dinner, or ask me where I put the checkbook, or tell me the kid's schedules. Not fair, is it?

  "But wait, Sir," you're saying. "I thought we were talking about the FRIENDZONE. That dreaded place where teenage boys end up, 'cause they play chess instead of football. I've outgrown that, haven't I? My own wife can't possibly friendzone me."

  Well, guys, that's where you're wrong. How many times have you heard one half of a couple describe the decline of their relationship like this:

  "It's just like we were roommates"

  "We were still good friends, but the passion was gone"

  "He's my best friend, but the sex is so boring"

  Uh huh. That's right. Let it sink in. Good and deep. Because trust me, nothing else is gonna be sinking in good and deep until we work this shit out.

  I pop back into the chat window.

  lol, is he going to start telling guys they need to wear an interesting hat to bed so they can 'peacock' their own wives?

  Amy types back:

  No no no, not THAT post, the other one. On the main page.

  I go back and hunt down what she's talking about, and my jaw drops slightly.

  All right folks, here's the situation. You know I've been struggling to protect my interests, and yours, in this crowded landscape of Doms clamoring for attention. We must sound like a bunch of clucking hens. Well, I'm not saying we need to thin the herd. Hell, I always say, the more the merrier! But I won't abide by liars, fakes, and cheats. When I get wind of them in my house, I think it's my job, no, my duty, to do something to expose them.

  I'm starting a new blog. THE TRUTHSEEKERS. In it, I'm going to devote some time and a lot of blood, sweat and tears to uncovering the fakers. I know I'm putting myself on the line, and I might get a bunch of nasty reviews or a bunch of hate in my inbox. I don't care. I have to do it, because who else is going to? We've been lied to, people. It's appalling. We all deserve the truth.

  Fake identities, fake reviews, fake names, fake everything. What are these so-called authors trying to hide? We'll find out.

  Stay tuned.

  My throat tightens. I know, in some way I've alway
s known, that I'm flirting with disaster by having such a loud and brash personality online that's not my own. People start to notice. They start to wonder. I've always ignored or deflected questions about who I really am, trying to make it sound incredibly uninteresting, but that doesn't mean I won't end up on D.B.'s radar. Especially if he's noticed that I was the first. D.B. Blackwood is a jealous man.

  I've never written or solicited a "fake review" in my life, and I never would. Even though I know reviews are valuable currency when it comes to getting noticed, and it's becoming commonplace now for books to debut with hundreds of reviews and a five-star rating. Sometimes it feels hopeless, like I'll never be able to keep up, and hell, maybe buying reviews is the anabolic steroids of the book world. But my integrity's not going to mean anything to readers, if they find out I'm lying.

  All it takes is one lie, and you're a liar forever.

  I type to Amy:

  Shit.

  There's nothing more to say, really. She responds almost instantly.

  I'm sure this is gonna blow over in a week or so. Don't sweat it <3

  Well, I'm going to sweat it.

  And I'm going to do so with another tumbler of wine.

  ***

  By the time I meet with Josh again, I'm starting to think Amy was right. No new posts have appeared on the TRUTH SEEKERS blog, and D.B. seems completely absorbed with preparations for an upcoming book signing downtown. The fact that he's shortly going to be within fifteen miles of my apartment is unsettling, but that's what I get for living in one of the biggest cities in the world. He keeps saying he's super excited to meet some author called Natalie McBride, who writes about alpha males so well she could practically be one herself! Wink wink. I'm not sure if he's actually trying to imply something or not, but if he's turned his focus off of my world for a minute, that's fine with me.