Dear Dwayne, With Love Read online

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  This is a work of fiction. While Dwayne Johnson, a.k.a. The Rock, is a real person, events relating to him in the book are a product of the author’s imagination. Mr. Johnson is not affiliated with this book and has not endorsed it or participated in any manner in connection with this book.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Sommersby Young

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046879

  ISBN-10: 1542046874

  Cover design by Faceout Studio

  To Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, who helps us believe in the power of hard work; and to all my ducklings, for whom I have never worked harder.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  March 28, 1997

  Dear Dwayne Johnson,

  Hi, my name is Danielle Steele. (Yes. Like the romance novelist. Except I have an e on the end of my name and the writer lady doesn’t.) You can call me Dani. I am ten years old and in the fifth grade in Portland, Oregon. We are doing a school project about our favorite celebrity, and we have to write them a letter. I picked you because my dad has been a huge fan since you played college football.

  He loves the University of Miami because he had a wild spring break there one year, even though when he talks about it, my mom gets really mad. I play soccer because they don’t have football for girls, and I picked my jersey number—it’s 94 because that was the number you wore for the Hurricanes when they won the national championship in 1991.

  And even after you were drafted by the Calgary Stampeders way up in Canada, but then they cut you, it doesn’t matter because my dad says Canadian football is weird with its bigger field and three downs instead of four. Did you like Calgary? Was there a lot of snow when you were there? My dad says you are half Canadian so it makes sense that you wanted to play in the CFL.

  My dad also says you were the best defensive lineman the University of Miami had ever seen and that Warren Sapp is overrated.

  I have two annoying older sisters named Georgette and Jacqueline. We are all named after romance writers because my mom loves to read romance novels with tons of kissing and women being rescued all the time. This drives my dad crazy. I love that your wrestling name is Rocky Maivia after your dad and your grandfather. What is it like having a high chief as a grandfather? There is a girl in my homeroom whose mom was born in Hawaii, and she tells everyone that means she’s Hawaiian, even though she’s never been to Hawaii and she’s afraid of the sun so I think she makes a terrible Hawaiian because Hawaii always has sun, right?

  My dad says he’s the chief in our house and that’s why he gets control of the remote.

  It rains a lot in Portland. Do you have alligators in Miami? Do they really come up through the toilets? A kid in my math class went to Tampa once and he says that alligators live in the sewers. He also eats his own boogers, so I don’t believe everything he says.

  So maybe if you can write back to me, you can tell me about what life is like as a wrestler. Good luck at the next big wrestling match. I will try to watch it on TV, but it depends if it’s a school night or if my mom gets mad at my dad because he is exposing me to “trash TV.” I don’t think wrestling is trash, but it does look like it hurts a lot.

  Sincerely yours,

  Danielle Steele with an e

  On September 27, 1998, Dwayne Douglas Johnson, by this time officially known as “The Rock,” was in a Triple Threat Match as part of a huge pay-per-view event called “Breakdown: In Your House.” The Rock pinned another wrestler named Ken Shamrock, won the match, and became the number one contender in the World Wrestling Federation Championship.

  I know this because I watched it.

  At my house, the weather had been in the seventies, the summer refusing to let go despite the fact that “she’d” been excused from duty six days prior with the official equinox. My sisters were out with Mommy buying school shoes, so it was just me and Dad, Gerald Robert Steele, sharing in the reverie of watching our favorite superhero via the magic of cable pay-per-view television.

  When The Rock won his match, Gerald Robert Steele swallowed the last of his Budweiser, clicked off the TV before the entire event concluded, patted me on the head, and got out of the squeaky, plaid knockoff La-Z-Boy my mother had threatened a thousand times to set ablaze.

  He then picked up an old, fat duffel bag sitting next to his chair, its bloated side decorated with a crackled silk screen from some gym he used to go to. I hadn’t noticed the bag until that moment. He held a finger against the mustache-topped lips that always tickled when he kissed me good night and said, “Sssshhhh.”

  He opened the front door, stepped out, and never looked back.

  The child psychologist Mommy dragged us to said that journaling, in whatever form we found most helpful, was an effective way to handle our abandonment issues. I didn’t know I was going to have abandonment issues until they told me I would. I sort of figured Gerald Robert Steele would come home eventually.

  Apparently my sisters felt abandoned, though, and they liked the cookies the therapist fed us (oatmeal-raisin that tasted like feet). In her therapy sessions, Georgette, the middle child, started painting. On everything. She now has a degree in studio art, emphasis on the anti–Industrial Revolution Arts and Crafts Movement, with a minor in early childhood education that she uses to homeschool her three very excitable, very sticky offspring, all of whom are name
d after well-known Arts and Crafts artists.

  Jacqueline, my oldest sister, decided that the therapist’s profession was noble, asked how to become a doctor, and then followed said steps by throwing herself into her studies. Except now she’s a plastic surgeon who specializes in cosmetic enhancement, not a shrink. (Also: It’s beyond apropos that she’s a plastic surgeon—with a name like Jacqueline Collins [Steele]? You remember what the romance novelist Jackie Collins looked like, right? I’m guessing she kept her own plastic surgeon in a.testoni oxfords and winter holidays in Zurich.)

  Georgette painted. Jackie studied bloody things. I doodled and wrote in my diary—mostly entries in the form of letters, every single one addressed to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, none of them ever sent.

  I know what you’re thinking: Why spend so much time and energy talking to someone who doesn’t know I exist?

  Because he listens, without judgment or comment or disapproval. He doesn’t tease, snicker, reprimand, pooh-pooh, or shake his head quietly.

  The Rock is always there, and I’m sure his girls, when he has a duffel bag sitting next to his La-Z-Boy, don’t worry if he’s going to come home at the end of the day.

  Because he always does.

  ONE

  March 15, 2016

  Dear Dwayne Johnson,

  He’s doing it again, DJ. Trevor. I’m not even kidding.

  It’s so far beyond toilet seats and not closing the toothpaste (these tubes don’t even have lids! How hard is it to not blob friggin’ toothpaste all over the top of the tube??). THIS is why we can’t live together. THIS is why I keep my own tiny, overpriced apartment that smells like pot all the time thanks to the neighbor’s glaucoma.

  I know guys fart. That’s what Febreze is for.

  I know guys don’t usually notice the pink and/or black mold growing in the tub. That’s what bleach is for.

  But seriously, seriously, I cannot handle it when he clips his toenails in the living room.

  WHO DOES THIS? You would never do this, right? God, tell me you would never do this.

  He plays Frisbee golf with his stinky friends and asks me to meet him at his apartment so we can go out for a “nice dinner” (read: Red Lobster) and then he comes home, strips off his socks, and clips his toenails in the living room because he says his nails are nice and soft from being sweaty.

  It probably wouldn’t bother me to such an extent if the nail clippings didn’t get lodged in the CARPET and then in my flesh. Soft, my ass! It feels like glass, stepping on those dead toenails. Like, I had to pull one out of the squishy part of my foot and then use Neosporin so I didn’t get a Staph infection from his sweat.

  Why am I even with this guy???

  Mommy keeps reminding me that Timothy (his name is Trevor) doesn’t have a good aura, that something is off with his terrestrial vibrations or some whackadoo thing—“Just like Gerald Robert Steele, your father, Danielle, and look how that worked out. Don’t be impulsive. You’re just like your father that way. Impulsive. I think this Timothy character has nefarious energy, I really do. One of these days you’ll come home and find that he’s packed a bag and left. Mark my words.”

  No, Mommy, Gerald Robert Steele probably did what he did so he didn’t throw a toaster in with you while you soaked in your tub of “magic space leaves.” (Yeah, it was marijuana. A lot of marijuana.)

  I am considering a move to Port-aux-Français, French Southern and Antarctic Lands, which is the farthest point I can get from Portland, Oregon. (I googled it.) It only has an average population of about 80 (45 in winter, up to 120 in summer), and they’re mostly scientists so I’ll need to learn something sciencey to make myself relevant. At least I’d have an excuse when I told Mommy I had bad reception for her unceasing faxes.

  Anyway, I think the fact that I’m not living under a bridge means I’m doing all right. I just need a boyfriend who doesn’t shed his body parts in common living areas.

  Seriously.

  Disgusted in Derpville,

  Dani Borderline-Podophobic Steele

  P.S. I finally binged that HBO show where you play the financial manager guy to all those hot football players, and sir, you certainly know how to wear a suit. But why so many boobies? So many beautiful buns? Are there women who really look like that? I really need to stop eating so much sugar if I ever want pretty boobies and buns. Speaking of buns, I’m going out for a cheeseburger. Can I get you anything? Man, I miss In-N-Out. I wonder if they have cheeseburgers in Antarctica . . .

  *SAVE*

  *CLOSE*

  TWO

  From:Jacqueline Collins Steele, MD, FACS

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: Your lab results, et cetera . . .

  From the Desk of Jacqueline Collins Steele, MD, FACS

  Hi, Dani,

  My secretary called you about your blood work, but she said your voicemail is full and that your message sounds like you’re growling? Maybe look into that?

  I wanted to let you know that your iron is a little low, so it would be good if you could cut out the sweets and Diet Cokes (diet soda is poison!). Mild anemia would explain the dark circles under your eyes too—weren’t you talking to Mommy about how your hair feels like it’s thinning? Take naps when you can—so good for you!

  Technically your BMI is just above normal limits, but at 5’5”, every pound counts. Your LDL cholesterol is a little concerning—less meat, more greens! You know heart disease runs in our family. Our father’s father had several serious cardiac events (yes, he smoked two packs a day and ate cow liver regularly), but you remember him—he was a beanpole when he died. And I think it would help your acting endeavors if you took better care of yourself. Healthy body, healthy mind, and all that, right?

  Even though you tend to be a bit sturdier than Georgette and me, you still must be mindful of developing osteoporosis. Have you considered buying a juicer? I juice cruciferous vegetables every day and drink it with a protein mix to keep me going between patients. At the very least, eat a Tums (calcium carbonate) every night before bed. Some calcium is better than what you’re getting from the daily lattes, although calcium citrate is better absorbed by the body. Ask the pharmacist to help you find this.

  I know your job is quite sedentary, but your body will change in your thirties, so it’s time to start thinking about your future self. Speaking of, did you call my guy about setting up savings and retirement accounts? He said he’d give you a family referral discount because I’ve been such a loyal customer since medical school.

  Mommy needs us to talk about her 60th birthday dinner/party. Maybe bring that guy you’ve been seeing?

  Your loving sister,

  Jacqueline Steele, MD, FACS

  Board Certified, American Board of Cosmetic Surgeons

  THREE

  Thomas the Singing Barista holds the song, adds extra whip (thanks to Jerky Jackie, a.k.a my sister the doctor, I want all the whipped cream in the world), but gives me a longer glance than usual.

  “So either you’ve changed professions since I saw you last week,” he says, eyeing my ripped fishnet tights under an almost-too-tight plaid miniskirt, the chunky late-nineties-era black platforms, and my boobs flashing what is most definitely forced cleavage thanks to a push-up bra and those silicone enhancers, “or you have an audition.”

  “If these auditions would actually work, I could definitively say, ‘Yes, Thomas, I have changed professions.’”

  “You should go back to LA, Dani.”

  Mm-hmm, ’cause that experiment worked out so well. “Can I borrow a magic carpet?”

  “That’s super racist, you know,” he says, sprinkling cinnamon on my latte’s poufy whipped-cream hat. “You’re saying that because I look like Aladdin.”

  “Dream on. You’re so Polish. And you want to marry Aladdin.”

  “Who wouldn’t? Look at that bone structure.”

  “And I say it because your grandfather sells Persi
an rugs.”

  “You know too much about my life, Danielle Steele.”

  “Doesn’t everyone know what their favorite singing barista-slash-acting-class-snark-buddy’s grandfather does?”

  “If you want to be svelte when Hollywood calls, maybe cut back on the whip.”

  Hmmph. “I’ll take one of those scones too.”

  He lifts an eyebrow so blond it’s almost invisible but slides the glazed maple scone into a small paper bag for me anyway.

  “Is this one for you, or is it your contribution to the Cluckers?”

  “All mine, baby. For a job well done.”

  “What job? You haven’t even gone to the audition yet.”

  “I’m out of bed, aren’t I?”

  “And playing hooky, I might add. Today’s excuse?”

  I hand him my money. “My tire was flat?”

  “I thought you used that one last month.”

  “I have old tires?”

  “Joan the Crone’s gonna have your head on a pike if you’re not careful.”

  “You should get a job there, Thomas. You and Joan could compare plans for world domination.”

  “Tempting. But sitting in a room where estrogen is pumped through the ventilation ducts, listening to people whine on the phone about their genital herpes? I’ll pass.”

  “It’s not all herpes. We get warts and crabs too. Plus, health and a 401(k),” I say, tearing a piece off the scone. “I can put in a word with the Crone.” The maple glaze melts on my tongue.

  “I’d rather sell Grandpa’s rugs.”

  Imagine the witch who gives Snow White the apple. Make her more than six feet tall. Braid the hairs growing from the mole. Give her the personality of Miss Gulch, the mean lady on the bike who yells at Dorothy’s aunt and uncle about little Toto.

  Boom. My boss. Joan the Crone.

  Thomas moves to hand me my change, but I nod toward the tip jar. “You could always start writing romance novels—you’ve got the perfect name for it,” he says, mouth poised as if he’s about to segue into yet another song.

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure my whole existence is copyright infringement at this point.” I wave and shuffle toward the door, praying I won’t sprain anything before I get where I need to be.