by Jo Raven
"I appreciate it. I'm just, I'm not great over the phone." He clears his throat. "Thanks, Kim."
Nobody calls me Kim unless they've known me for a million years. Hearing it come out of his mouth is strangely intoxicating, allowing me to indulge in the fantasy that we've always been friends.
More than friends.
Stop it.
For the next hour, I can hardly focus on anything. I nearly jump out of my skin when the doorbell rings, five minutes early. I don't know why that surprises me. He kind of seems like someone who'd be chronically late.
"Hey," he says, hesitating a moment before he steps inside. "You have a nice place."
It should be a compliment, but I feel like I'm detecting an air of judgment. "Thanks." I'm anxious to move on to another topic. "So, is Landon Steele a little bit of a mystery to you? Guys don't usually get him. I'm not surprised."
He looks a little defensive, and an evil part of me thinks: good. And then I immediately feel terrible. "It's not that, exactly," he says. "I do feel like I need to get to know him better, I'm just not sure I really want to." He glances at me. "No offense."
I snort. Right. "Well, you could always wing it, and fill in the blanks. You've got an idea for who he is, right?"
He lets out a huff of laughter, scratching the back of his head in a thoughtless gesture. It makes the front of his shirt ruck up, exposing tight abs and a little trail of dark hair disappearing down under the waistband of his ratty jeans.
"Improv's not my strong suit," he says. "But at least I've got a lot of source material to work from."
Suddenly, I feel very awkward. Knowing he's actually studied my writing, probably closer than I ever have. It's like that funny feeling I get in my chest when somebody I know wants to read my books - because all of a sudden, there's that fear of being judged. Not that it's Josh's place to judge me, but that's certainly not going to stop him from having his own private thoughts about the quality of my writing.
"Well, I'm glad it was helpful," I say, because the silence is getting weird.
He nods. "I checked out your online profiles, too, and your blog and stuff. I hope I can do this Mr. Steele some justice. He's obviously a classy guy."
I really can't tell if he's being sarcastic at all, and it takes me a couple minutes to remember the last status update I posted. Is he referencing that on purpose?
I clear my throat. "Sit down, please. Did you want something to drink? I can make coffee, or..."
He shakes his head, glancing around the room before he perches on the edge of the sofa. I hate that I have to think this way, but I'm starting to wonder if I made a mistake. Mr. Steele should never hesitate before sitting down on somebody else's furniture like he owns the place. He commands the room.
"Go ahead, tell me what you're thinking," he says, his eyes piercing into mine. Well, that part's right on point. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, no," I say, quickly. "We just have a lot of work to do. It's got nothing to do with you. I'm just starting to feel like I bit off way more than I can chew. Six weeks isn't long enough to make sure we get all the details ironed out."
He shrugs. "Sure it is. We'll have all the questions ahead of time, right? No problem." His eyes narrow a little. "Right?"
I don't know anymore. He's perfect, but he's so not perfect. There are so many little things about him that don't quite fit, and if I'm being quite honest with myself, I hate the idea of changing him. The whole package works - for him. Just not for Landon Steele. Who was, after all, a pathetic echo of the concept of a perfect man, concocted by a lonely, undersexed woman. The real thing is so much better.
But if the "real" Landon Steele shows up acting like a rough-around-the-edges blue collar type, it's not going to fit. He's talked about wearing suits to the corner store, for crying out loud. Sensible people are going to understand that nobody can be exactly how they present themselves on the internet, but when it comes to the kind of sexual frenzy that Landon Steele inspires, there's no such thing as "sensible."
"No," I say, firmly. I sit down across from him, crossing my legs at the knee and folding my hands over them. I want to look professional, and in control, even though Josh makes me feel decidedly unbalanced. "There's no problem. Let's talk about Mr. Steele. What's your impression of him, other than 'classy?'"
His mouth twists a little. "Can I be honest?"
"I hope you always will be," I say, trying not to worry about what he's going to say.
"Well, he seems like an asshole." Josh shrugs a little, sort of apologetically, but not really. "I know that's what people want. I mean, that's what they always say. Guys complain that women only want assholes, and I always thought they were full of shit, but now I've seen it with my own eyes. Don't really know what to make of it."
I've actually put a lot of thought into this. "You say asshole, I say confident." I shrug. "Real life is one thing, but there's a reason why women don't tend to fantasize about a guy who spends all day going 'oh, but what do you want to do, honey?' My readers want to dream about a guy who knows what he wants, and knows how to get it. They want him to be assertive and confident - and more than all that, they don't want him to care about what other people think. And it's not completely a fantasy, either. You ever have a girlfriend get angry at you for being too diplomatic when she was fighting with somebody else you know?"
"Oh, yeah," Josh says, nodding. It's starting to sink in. "I was just trying to stay out of the crossfire. I guess that comes across kind of limp-dicked, huh?" He grins.
"Well, that's a way to put it," I admit. "Everybody wants to be with someone who will have their back, who'll help defend them, or help them fight against a common enemy. It's basically a biological imperative. I'm not saying it's simple, or that it makes a lot of sense on the surface, because of course women don't want to be with a guy who's always combative and causing trouble. It's exhausting. On the other hand, when you're fighting the saber-toothed tiger outside your cave, you want the guy who's picking up a spear with you, not the guy who's gonna try and reason with it."
"Okay," Josh laughs. "I think I get it. Sort of. I need to do some more research. There's so many of these books out there, I don't really know where to start."
I pick up a little pad of paper. "I can give you some recommendations." Smiling a little, I glance up from the paper as I scribble. "You're really committing to this role. I'm impressed."
"It's actually pretty interesting," he says, shifting in his seat. "I gotta admit I never thought I'd be doing something like this. Don't think I can really put it on my resume, but hey, it's good experience."
Ripping off the piece of paper, I stand up and hand it to him. "That's the spirit."
CHAPTER THREE
Josh is five minutes early for our next meeting. I've learned to expect that of him, and it's so charmingly dutiful that I have to smile.
The smile fades a little when I open the front door.
He's all scrubbed up, as much as he can be, with his forearms eternally marked in ink. His hair's combed back, or maybe he got it cut, and he's wearing a button-down shirt but the sleeves are rolled up, of course. His dark jeans look like they're fresh out of the wash. Landon Steele might actually wear something like this, in his off-time. I have to appreciate the effort, even if it is more than a little distracting.
And unnerving, for some reason. I don't like the fact that he feels it's necessary. Which I know is ridiculous - he knows I want him to play a role, so he's trying to look the part. I've got to stop taking everything so personally when it comes to this man.
"Come in." I'm forcibly dragging the smile back onto my face. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He shakes his head. "Thanks, I'm good."
"So." I sit down, crossing my legs at the knee. "Did you pick a scene to monologue for me?"
"Actually, I was thinking we could do something a little different," he says, tilting his head a little, as if he's trying to gauge a reaction. Which is impossible, since I have
no idea what he's talking about.
"Oh?"
"Roleplay," he says. His mouth twitches a little. "I mean, you know - like a rehearsal, kind of. Using one of the scenes from your book."
The sense of dread kicks in first. Going back and re-reading my own work is next to impossible, for me - I'm too much of a perfectionist, and I'll want to trash the whole thing and start over. But at the same time, I realize I'm excited.
Shit. How pathetic is this? The idea of this guy pretending to be attracted to me is thrilling.
I can't do this. But he has a good point. It's really the best way for him to truly audition for the part, to prove himself - and if I can't envision him as Landon, then nobody else will be able to, either.
On some intellectual level, I understand that it doesn't really matter if he's perfect. People's first thought will be "well, he wasn't what I expected." Not - "FAKE! He must actually be a chubby singleton whose most meaningful relationship is with her robotic vacuum cleaner!"
But still. I need him to be perfect. Anything less, and it feels like some kind of betrayal. Of me, of my readers, I don't know - I just know that it matters.
"Uh, okay," I say, slowly. I'm realizing that he never actually specified what kind of role I'd be playing, or whether I'd be involved at all. But it's obvious, isn't it? Especially from the way he's smiling at me, smug as hell. Probably thinks this is my dream come true. And it is, of course. That's why I wrote it. But in my version, it's real.
"You look nervous," he says, smoothly. Is he slipping into character already? I can't tell. My heart is racing and my mouth is starting to go dry.
"I'm fine," I say. "It's just weird. Hearing somebody read what I wrote. Kind of embarrassing, you know?"
He shrugs. "I guess. Don't see why you should be embarrassed. People love this shit, don't they?" Realizing what he just said, he makes a little face. "Not...you know, not shit like it's shit. Shit like stuff. Sorry."
"I know what you meant," I say, absently, folding my arms across my body and rubbing my elbow lightly. It's a nervous habit I've been doing for ages, but I never noticed until somebody pointed it out. Now I'm painfully aware of it, but that doesn't mean I can stop.
He sighs a little, smiling ruefully. "I'm guessing Landon Steele doesn't accidentally insult women, does he?"
"Nope." I manage a small smile in return. "If he insults them, it's on purpose."
Josh is laughing. "You know, before this, I actually thought I understood women." He gives a helpless shrug. "If you can believe that."
"We're just people." I'm feeling a little defensive, a little raw, and I swear it's not just because I'm nervous. But the nervousness doesn't help. "Treat us like human beings, you won't have a problem."
He looks a little irritated, his forehead knotting slightly between the eyebrows. "I know that," he says. "But this guy doesn't exactly do that, does he?" For emphasis, he waves the copy of my book that he's holding. Seduced by Mr. Steele.
"He absolutely treats them like people," I insist. "He just understands that their experiences aren't going to be exactly the same as his."
Josh cocks his head slightly. "Okay, okay," he says, lifting his hands, palms outwards. "So, do you want to do this, or what?"
I don't. I don't at all, but I can't think of one single good reason with him standing in front of me, watching expectantly.
"Let me just get another copy," I mumble, pushing past him to go to my office. "I don't exactly have my own writing memorized."
I stop by the bathroom on my way, shutting myself inside and splashing some cold water on my face. Keep it together, Tuggey. You're a mess.
My reflection looks exactly how I feel. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide and a little too bright, even my hair's starting to come out of its bun, frizzing out at the sides, as if my over-active brain waves are actually making it stand on end.
I smooth it down, letting out a long sigh. After a few deep breaths, I head into my office and grab another proof copy of Seduced. For a moment, I glance longingly at the full-size window in there. I could easily climb out and escape this skin-crawling situation.
You're losing your mind. This is your place. Just tell him to leave, tell him some kind of emergency came up.
Yeah, right. He'll know. He'll know you chickened out, because he makes you all flustered. Is that the kind of impression you want to leave this guy with?
It doesn't matter. I could tell him to leave, and he'd go, and I'd probably never even see him again. But that still doesn't solve my problem.
I need a Landon Steele, and this guy is the best candidate I'm going to find. Guys like Landon just don't walk around in real life. And even if they did, I wouldn't want one of those types playing the part. Landon's a loose canon. He's too arrogant. He'd never take direction like Josh will.
Then again, right now, Josh is calling the shots. Isn't he? That's not really something I'm used to, even though it's apparently my secret fantasy. That's the conflict - I guess part of me secretly wants to be under someone's authority, but only someone who knows me inside and out. Someone like Landon - because I created him, so he knows exactly what I want. He can give it to me, without me bearing the burden of feeling selfish or greedy.
Being in charge of my own writing, my own business, calling the shots every moment of every day...it's exhausting. Completely and utterly draining. Okay, I'll admit it: I'd love to submit to someone. But I'd have to trust them. And that's the rub, isn't it?
In my head, I've created the perfect Dom. One who can never exist. And it's going to be humiliating to hear someone reading those words, acting out those actions that reflect everything I want. Everything I can never have.
I've got to do this. And I've got to stop being such a drama queen.
I step out into the hallway, only to find Josh peeking around the corner.
Peeking isn't exactly the right word. He's leaning casually against the edge of the wall, looking at me. "Stage fright? Don't worry, it happens to the best of us." There's that smug smile again. "But it's just you and me. No need to be nervous."
"Well, I just don't want to mess you up." I'm just babbling, with hardly any idea of what words are coming out of my mouth. "If I don't give you something good to bounce off of, well, that's not a very fair judgment, is it?"
"Don't worry about that." He beckons me into the living room. "Come on, let's do this. Don't want to lose the magic."
I give him a look. "You sound like a douchebag," I tell him, because he does.
"Great!" he enthuses, cracking the book open. I wince as he puts a crease through the spine; I was going to ask for that back. "That's what I'm going for."
I'm fighting an increasingly heavy sense of trepidation. He doesn't get Landon at all. The subtleties are completely lost on him, and I don't know how to break through that initial impression.
"Actually, I think this would be easier in your office," he says, frowning a little. "I'm supposed to be sitting at a desk."
Oh, shit.
I know exactly what scene he wants to do. And there's no way. There's just no way.
"Um, I don't think that's the best scene to practice on," I blurt out, clutching my copy of Seduced to my chest. "We should really...go with something a little bit lighter, right? Landon's not really acting himself in that scene. We really need to get a good sense for the character and..."
I stare at him, helplessly. He has to know what he's doing to me. He has to notice how much I'm blushing and stammering, like a damn schoolgirl.
"Look, Kimberly." He smiles warmly, taking a step towards me. "Relax. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."
Fine. Fine.
"My office is over here," I say, pushing past him once again to hurry down the hallway. I can feel his eyes burning into my back. "It's kind of a mess, though."
"That's fine. I'll use my imagination." He walks right over to my desk like he owns the place, and plops down in my chair. I'm fuming, but I don't know why. I never considered myself to be particu
larly territorial. I'm trying to remember if another human being has ever been in here.
I guess not. No wonder I feel so off-balance.
"Step into my office, Ms. Denecour."
Oh, shit. Shit. He's starting. He's doing it right now, and I'm Ms. Denecour. It's been a few years since I wrote this scene, but it's not like I can exactly forget what happens to the trembling, virginal Ms. Denecour. My readers wouldn't let me, anyway. I get at least one email a week talking about how hot it is.
He's still smirking, and it's not right. That's not what Landon would do. He's serious, smoldering. He doesn't think it's funny when a woman blushes and quivers under his stare.
I can give him notes later. I step into the room, acting just like the timid ingénue I'm supposed to be, without any effort at all.
I glance down at the book spread open in my hands.
"I'm sorry about the mess, Mr. Steele. I promise it won't happen again."
He tuts, shaking his head. "How can you possibly promise that, Ms. Denecour? That you'll never make another mistake?"
My own words tell me that Lily Denecour goes as white as her name, all the blood draining from her face. I don't know how to make that happen, but I suddenly feel cold all over, so maybe it's happening anyway.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "It's just something people say. I mean...I'll try very hard to make sure it never happens again."
He crooks an eyebrow. That smile just won't go away, and when he talks, he's trying too hard to sound country-club-posh. I've never been that specific about the details of Mr. Steele's fortune, just that he's very comfortable. Independently wealthy, you might say. But I've always believed him to be a self-made man. Not some whiny pissant kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
"I understand that, Ms. Denecour," he says. "Lily. May I call you Lily?"
I look down at the book again, even though I don't really need to. "I suppose you can call me whatever you want to, sir. You're my boss."
He chuckles darkly. "I may hold you to that, Lily. Be careful what you wish for."