Step F*#K (A Stepbrother Series Book 1) (2 page)

“Well, whatever. It makes you sound appealing without being overly slutty, which is not going to attract the kind of guy we want.”

“I don’t even know what kind of guy I want!”
 

“But you’re not totally against the idea.”

I sigh. “No,” I admit. “I guess I have been thinking that it wouldn’t be bad to try going on a date or two. But not just with anyone . . . I wanted to wait and meet the right guy.”

“Oooh look.” Megan clicks the mousepad. “Someone wants to chat.
SexyStranger258
.”

“Seriously? I’m not chatting with someone who refers to himself as
SexyStranger
. Doesn’t that mean he’s probably totally unsexy?”

“Let’s find out.”

She clicks a few more times and then there’s a guy’s profile picture. He’s actually rather handsome, with thick, close cut brown hair and bluish green eyes. His profile says he’s twenty-five.
 

“Not bad,” Megan says. “Here, you should reply. I’m getting more wine.”

She plops the laptop onto my lap. I stare at the screen.
 

Hey, I see ur new here. Cute pic. Love a girl with freckles! Most girls around here just try to disguise them.
 

I click back to my profile picture and scrutinize it. What, was he looking at the picture with a magnifying glass?
 

Thanks
, I type back.
My friend actually just signed me up for this site.
 

Ah, nice friend you have.
 

I actually don’t know that much about online dating, never done it before.
 

It can be a decent experience, if you’re with the right person. I think I could be the right person for your first time.
 

“Uh, I think this guy thinks I’m a virgin,” I say to Megan.
 

You wouldn’t be my first time,
I type.
I’ve had sex before.

It’s only after I hit send that I realize he was referring to it being my first time doing online dating.
 

Lol. Wasn’t implying that. But good2know.
 

I groan. “That’s it,” I say as Megan walks back over, jelly jar practically overflowing with wine. “I’m done with this.”

She reads our conversation so far and bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is good. You’re doing fine! Keep writing.”

I’m over at the Chateau Marmont. Not going to be here for long, I hope. Would love to meet up, if you’re game.
 

“You’re game,” Megan says immediately. “You are so totally down. He’s hot.”

“Are you kidding me? You think I’m going to just go over to some stranger’s hotel room?”

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll wear a disguise and wait in the lobby, if you want. Come on, Emma, it’s time to step outside the comfort zone and do something that is going to get you over your breakup, once and for all. And there’s nothing that can get you over a breakup like hot sex with a hot stranger, trust me.” She snatches the laptop from me and begins typing.
 

“There,” she says. “He’s in room 513. He sent his phone number so you can text him if you need to. Give me your phone and I’ll put it in. I told him you’d be over there at seven. That’s less than an hour. So let’s get you cleaned up and on your way.”

The room suddenly seems to be spinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the wine I chugged or because somehow, my anticipated evening went from a quiet night with my vibrator and my kindle to me getting ready to go meet some stranger, allegedly a sexy one. The rational part of my brain is chiding me, telling me that this is an incredibly stupid idea and will almost certainly
not end well
. But another part of me — perhaps spurred on by the wine, or the desire to get back at Tom even though he’s clearly moved on, or maybe just to do something reckless right before my own mother marries a former movie star — that part of me is louder, more insistent, and it wins the argument.
 

I finish the rest of my wine and go out to the kitchen. I don’t even bother pouring more into the glass; I drink it straight from the bottle.
 

“Not too much,” Megan says. “You don’t want to show up sloppy. Let’s go find you something to wear.”

Our bedrooms are connected by a large walk-in closet, which makes sharing clothes a snap. Of course, I’m nearly half a foot taller than Megan, but we can share tops, so long as I don’t mind them being a little short and she doesn’t mind them being a bit on the long side.
 

“You’re not going to show up in jeans and a t-shirt,” Megan says, nodding to my current attire.
 

“But I’m not going to show up looking like a prostitute, either.”

“No, of course not. Here, try this.” She wrangles one of my maxi dresses from its hanger. “This is the one with the slit up the side. That’s a good choice. Show off your assets without giving too much away. And you won’t look like a slut.”

I take my jeans and t-shirt off. Megan grins. “Now you look like a slut, though.”

It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to my underwear. I do like to wear sexy lingerie, underneath the tomboy clothes. It makes me feel pretty, but also like I’ve got a secret that no one else knows about.
 

“But keep those on.”

I slip the dress over my head, the fabric cool and soft against my skin. And then Megan’s right there, putting some blush on my cheeks, twisting my hair up in a messy bun, pulling little tendrils out.
 

“So this is what we’re going to do,” she says, hurrying me toward the door. She grabs a silk scarf off the arm of the couch and her pair of Jackie O sunglasses that make her look like some sort of sexy alien. “You’re going to take one cab, I’m going to take another.”

“We can’t just take the same one? It’ll save on fare.”

“While that’s totally fiscally responsible of you, no. It’d be better if we showed up in two different ones. Just in case.” She puts the sunglasses on and wraps the scarf around her head. We’re outside now, the heat of the day not waning at all even though the sun is sliding lower and lower in the sky. I’m sweating almost immediately.
 

“I forgot to put deodorant on,” I say.
 

“I’ll go get you some. I left my purse up there too. Maybe call a taxi; there never seems to be one when you need it. I’ll be right back.”
 

She dashes away, leaving me standing there, feeling as though the last hour just happened without my having any say in it at all. What am I getting myself into? I should just turn around and go back inside. Completely ignore
SexyStranger
, I’m sure he’ll get over it. I’m thinking that’s exactly what I’ll do and I don’t care what Megan is going to say about it, but then I see not one taxi, but two, driving down the street, both with their roof lights on. And before any more thoughts can enter my mind, I’m stepping toward the curb, arm up, hailing not just the first taxi, but the second one, too.

Chateau Marmont is on Sunset Blvd., designed to evoke feelings of being at some sort of grand retreat in France. I learned this in a lecture I took freshmen year,
Architecture and Modernity
. Despite knowing a bit about the place, however, I’ve never actually been here and my heartbeat quickens as I step out of the taxi in front of the towering white building, something of a cross between a mansion and castle.
 

I linger, waiting for Megan to arrive. I can feel my nerve starting to slip, and if she doesn’t show up in the next few minutes, I’m probably just going to hail a taxi straight back home. What am I doing? I’m not the sort of person who does this, and I sure as hell don’t want to end up a cautionary tale spread across the six o’clock news:
Very naïve and very horny college student loses life after foolishly attempting tryst with Internet stranger.
 

But here’s Megan, climbing out of the taxi with the pink leopard print scarf wrapped around her head, giant sunglasses, and a trench coat. She, of course, could make wearing a housecoat look sexy, so she looks great, but totally ridiculous at the same time. She fiddles with the scarf, adjusts the sunglasses, and gives me a grin.
 

“I bet we’ll see some celebrities,” she says. “And if I’m lucky, I’ll fuck at least one of them.” She slides her arm through mine. “But really, tonight is about you. And if this guy turns out to be a total douchebag, text me, and I’ll stop whatever I’m doing—”

“Or whoever you’re fucking.”

“
Or
whoever I’m fucking—I don’t care if it’s Ryan Gosling—if you need me, I will be there, that’s how much I love you.”

I smile. “More like, that’s how much you owe me, seeing as you’re the one who signed me up for this site, and if anything happens it will basically be all your fault.”

She pats my arm. “Nothing is going to happen. Nothing
bad
, I mean.”

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I’ve always had good luck on this site. Just wait and see. You’ll be thanking me later.”

Living in Los Angeles means celebrity sightings are just part of life, but even still, I can’t help but feel a little starstruck as we step inside the lobby. Right away I see that actress who starred in that surprise action hit last summer. I can’t remember her name but she’s sitting there on one of the brocade couches, a hot guy next to her, and she’s speaking to a few people who are clearly important. The interior of this place feels less like a swanky hotel and more like some sort of vintage, funky hangout, just the sort of place you might be able to get into all sorts of trouble.
 

“So what’s his room number?” Megan asks.
 

“Uh . . . Five-thirteen.”

“I wonder if it’s one of the bungalows,” she muses as we walk to the elevator. She raises a hand. “Hold that please.”

The guy standing in the elevator jumps forward and thrusts his arm out just in time to stop the door from closing. He’s cute, probably in his mid-twenties, and has a wide-eyed look on his face that blatantly screams
TOURIST
.
 

“Hey,” he says, looking at Megan. “Are you an actress?”

She still has her sunglasses on, but she swivels her head around and gazes in his direction. Several seconds pass. The elevator door shuts. The guy is starting to blush.
 

“I mean . . . I’m sorry. Clearly, you don’t want to be bothered . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have said anything. This is my first time in L.A. If you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Megan says. I lean against the wall as the elevator starts to ascend.
 

“I’m from the Midwest. So it’s pretty wild just to be out here at all. I’m having a really great time. Um . . . what floor are you going to?” the guy asks.
 

“Fifth.” Megan looks over at me. “Just so you know, darling, Benicio del Toro and Scarlett Johansson fucked in this very elevator after the Oscars.”

Tourist Guy’s eyes widen, in disbelief or appreciation, I can’t tell. I step away from the wall and wipe my hands on my dress, making a mental note not to touch anything.
 

“Thanks for sharing that vital piece of information,” I say.
 

“Wow, you know them?” Tourist Guy asks. “I saw that movie she did . . . the one where she kissed the other girl . . . what’s her name?”