Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  Thankfully, Susan was conveniently out-of-office this morning so I got a GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card from her loving and gold intentioned scrutiny. The silence allowed me to think long and hard about what I wanted to say to Spencer and how I was going to say it so I didn’t come out sounding like a nun or a prude. I was aware that this conversation could be our last, especially if Spencer valued “the Do” more than my company.

  So, even as he kissed me on the cheek at the door of the café where we met that afternoon; even as he steamed me up with those dark chocolate eyes, I steeled myself for his rejection.

  “Hey,” he greeted warmly, no trace of awkwardness in his tone.

  “Hi,” I said, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he inquired, “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s nothing. What were you saying?”

  “I was just complaining about this big gala my work is sending me to. Melody, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I am. I am,” I assured him.

  At that moment, the waiter arrived to take our orders. I didn’t feel like eating much so I ordered a salad.

  “I’ll have the special,” Spencer ordered. The waiter nodded and left to get our food.

  Immediately after his departure, Spencer removed his phone from his pocket, turned it off and set it face down on the table.

  “Something’s up. What’s going on, Melody?”

  I blinked, “How are you so sure?”

  He leaned forward, folding his hands together on the table, “You’re forehead, it has these little lines that show when you’re stressed.”

  I touched my forehead, amazed by his observation.

  “And you ordered a salad. You never order a salad. Come on. You can talk to me about anything.”

  Choking up, I memorized the cut of his thick black hair, recalling how soft it had been under my finger tips, the sweep of his forehead, symmetry of his nose, and the hard thinness of his lips before returning to the soulful tilt of his eyes. Embarrassment swept through me. Surely, this modern day man with model-like looks could find another girl willing to satisfy him by tomorrow, by this evening!

  I groaned, warring with myself. He didn’t have to know. I could put off the sex thing until I left and he would not have to know.

  But then, he held my hand, and softened his eyes and urged, “Spit it out, Melody.”

  And so I did.

  In a blast of my usual verbal spewage, I opened my mouth and let him have it.

  “I had a really good time last night,” I began, “but I’m a virgin and I want to keep it that way until I’m married. And you’re a great guy, you are, but I have these boundaries that I promised myself I would never cross. I know there are a lot of reasons why you should laugh in my face and call me a prude, especially when I know you could ask any heterosexual female right now to sleep with you and they would love to. And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’d be a great lover but yeah…I-”

  Spencer looked confused, “Melody, what are you trying to say?”

  “I don’t want to have sex with you.” I blurted before I lost my nerve.

  I have to admit, Spencer took the news pretty well. At least he didn’t laugh at me or start hurling names. When he spoke he didn’t look angry, just sort of shell-shocked. He was a man after all. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t a monk or a eunuch. Spencer squeezed my hand as he spoke,

  “I had no idea.” He stopped, “Last night, I didn’t mean to pressure you into-”

  “You didn’t. Last night was on me too.”

  Spencer’s thumb grazed my wrist, “No. Last night was my fault. I care about you, Melody and I can’t say that I understand your convictions but I do respect them. And I’ll wait for whenever you’re ready.”

  “Well, thank you, but you’re not getting it. I won’t be ready until my wedding night. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He paled, “So no-”

  “Nope,”

  “At all?” he croaked.

  I showed him my ring finger, “I won’t get naked as long as this baby is.”

  Spencer grasped his water glass and gulped it down.

  “Okay,”

  “Okay?” My mouth sprang open. I had been fully prepared to storm out of this bistro screaming that all men are dogs. Then I would’ve headed back to the apartment and logged on to every feminist, man-hating site to share my story. I had every action rehearsed in my mind; my heart was ready to watch him walk away. I truly hadn’t allowed myself to hope for his agreement or understanding.

  “And while I respect your standards,” Spencer was saying, “I want you to know that I am not a virgin.” He paused, searching my face. I don’t know what he was looking for because I wasn’t surprised. He continued, “And I find you very very attractive.”

  Aww… I think.

  “So I’ll let you set the pace as much as I can. I can’t promise I’ll be good at not testing your boundaries, but I don’t want to mess this up so we’ll go as slow as you want.”

  I grinned.

  “I really don’t want to mess this up either. Thanks for getting it.” I self-consciously looked away.

  “Hey,” Spencer called back my attention, “is kissing still allowed because that part’s non-negotiable for me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”

  I was a Kingdom citizen, not a martyr.

  The waiter interrupted our conversation with our orders and the uncomfortable topic was dropped when Spencer told the man, “Excuse, could we have a sandwich with curly fries instead. You can take back the salad.”

  “Spencer,” I scolded when the waiter did as we requested, “Why did you do that?”

  “Come on, Melody, you know you’re not a salad kind of girl.”

  I quirked an eyebrow, “Exactly what is that supposed to me. Are you calling me fat?”

  Spencer blushed, “No, I wasn’t saying that at all. I just meant-”

  “That I eat like a pig and you think that I cannot handle salad because I am so big?”

  “What, Melody, that’s not, no-”

  “You think I’m disgusting!” I threw my hands indignantly in the air.

  “I’m confused,” Spencer pulled at his tie and tugged his collar from his neck. Noticing that he was going to tear his tie in half if I didn’t stop, I laughed,

  “I’m just playing with you.”

  Spencer sighed in relief, “Don’t do that. I thought you were going to kill me just now.”

  I smiled sweetly at him and held his hand, “Oh darling, if I wanted to kill you, I’d make it look like an accident.”

  Spencer chuckled, “And you were afraid that I was the serial killer.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in reply.

  “No, honestly, I could have eaten the salad. I would hate to waste perfectly good food.”

  Spencer smiled over at me while rebooting his phone, “I know you would have eaten the salad, Melody, but you would have been settling.” He held my gaze, “I don’t ever want you to settle when you’re with me.”

  Touched, I looked away. The waiter soon returned with my sandwich and fries but I couldn’t get over the loss of the salad. All I could see was my grandmother, telling me to eat all the food on my plate because the children in Africa probably had nothing to eat tonight.

  Thinking of my grandmother made me smile. Alexi Reyes, my seventy year old paternal grandmother, was a special kind of woman. I learnt to say grace at her table. I kneaded dough for my first tortilla and rolled my first meatball in her kitchen. I studied responsibility, determination, and selflessness at her knee. My granny was my role model and she never failed to pass along some form of worldly wisdom whenever we hung out together. Those proverbs had a tendency of popping into my head at the strangest times. Her latest random alert came when Spencer informed me that he’d had to throw away most of last night’s meal, right after asking the restaurant to throw away a perfectly good salad.

  Love and food are mea
nt for sharing, not for wasting.

  It was as though my granny, (who really didn’t look a day over fifty) had hopped a plane and travelled all the way to L.A. to whisper into my ear. I couldn’t let the opportunity for sharing good food, good company, and good conversation go to waste too, especially after all the things that had been thrown away today.

  “Hey Spencer, what do you think about coming over to my apartment tomorrow night. I could show you how to make a proper Belizean meal. You know… the kind that isn’t burnt.”

  He smiled at my teasing, “That was your fault as much as mine.”

  “What do you say? Are you in?”

  He thought for a second, “Let’s do it at my house. I want a proper do-over.”

  I agreed, “Sure, do you mind if we invite Susan though? She’s been bugging me about tasting cuisine from Belize for a long time.”

  Spencer’s sweet ghost smile appeared then, “Are you sure that’s the only reason she’s coming?”

  I pulled a fry into my mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He flipped his hair, “Maybe she’s coming over because I’m a irresistible.”

  I threw a fry at him. “Irresistible? That’s a little cocky of you to say, Jerk-face.”

  But I knew exactly what I was doing. Cooking alone with Spencer sounded very romantic. And dangerous. Though Spencer promised to behave, I have to admit I had a hidden agenda. There was no way I could be trusted to keep my attraction to Mr. Hunky Pants in check without some kind of a chaperone. All he had to do was remind me of how caught up I could get in his kiss and my strict hold on morality would loosen considerably.

  Oh yes. Susan was being used in exchange for food.

  That’s just good ole’ economics.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Friday night, I settled in to my apartment in my cotton shorts and huge white vest and commiserated with my two new best friends: Ben and Jerry. I could totally get why Americans had an issue with obesity. Every junk food known to mankind was available at obscenely low costs.

  In Belize, most of our junk food is imported so the middle-class population prefers to snack on the local products such as craboo, bananas, papaya and watermelon. LA had opened up my world to a ton of candy and it took all my self-control not to go wild. I still suffered from occasional bouts of acne, especially during my menstruation cycle but Ben and Jerry’s ice cream was a luxury that I couldn’t pass up.

  Even sitting alone in my living room streaming Netflix was a luxury. Working from eight in the morning to five sometimes six in the evening, staying up late talking to Spencer and doing it all over again the next day was taxing. It felt good to just stay home in my ratty T-shirt and un-brushed teeth, pigging out on ice cream and binge-watching Supernatural. I refreshed my laptop page to begin loading a new episode and checked my email as it loaded. With delight, I found a new message from Mia. The subject headline read: GET A FACEBOOK. I smiled, even as I rolled my eyes at our age long dispute. As a young girl suffering from perpetual acne- and not the cute blemishes every now and then, I had the huge mountainous zits in constellations on my face- I did not see the point of a social outlet that got hits based on how photogenic one was. Plus, I didn’t need any more reminders that other girls had smooth faces while I was a “graterface” for ten years. This reasoning kept me from opening Twitter, Instagram, and Tinder accounts. And even without the social media, I had survived. But Mia got a coronary every time she thought of my lack of social media status.

  I opened her email.

  HEY GIRL,

  JUST CHECKING IN ON YOU. HOW IS EVERYTHING IN LA? YOUR FAM MISSES YOU OVER HERE. ME INCLUDED. MEET ANY CUTE MEN OVER THERE? SEND PICS OR DEETS.

  LOVE, MIA

  Though the mail was short, I was laughing so hard that I almost rolled to the floor. Only Mia would think to ask me about men in her correspondence. It was strange how opposite we were, but in truth I needed that woman in my life. Mia was the ying to my yang. Where I normally held back and weighed my options before doing anything (barring my relationship with Spencer of course), Mia was a rush-in-first-ask-questions-later type. I’d taken my first and last cigarette smoke under her expert tutelage. I’d even practiced tying hundreds of cherry stems into knots because Mia swore it would make me a better kisser whenever that day came. I tried my first lie-to-the-parents trick to attend a Chronixx concert at Mia’s behest. These shenanigans occurred before Mia ran into Jesus in the bathroom. Literally. Now that was a story all on its own.

  Today, Mia gets me into totally legal and non-boy associated trouble.

  I replied to her message.

  HEY PRINCESS MIA,

  I MISS YOU GUYS SO MUCH. I CANT WAIT TO COME BACK HOME AND SEE EVERYONE. YES I DID ACTUALLY MEET A GUY HERE. HIS NAME IS SPENCER AND HE’S REALLY NICE. I’M NOT SURE EXACTLY WHERE OUR RELATIONSHIP IS HEADED BUT I’M TAKING YOUR ADVICE AND LIVING IN THE MOMENT.

  LOVE, MELODY

  After pressing send, I returned to Netflix and to the comforting arms of my men: Ben, Jerry, Sam and Max until one in the morning before falling asleep in a rocky road high.

  The next morning I woke up with a crazy headache and scummy teeth. Gross. I literally had an ice cream hangover. Groggily, I sat up and rubbed the grime from my eyes. I felt like a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon… and realizing it was still a crappy caterpillar. I couldn’t figure out how the girls in the movies woke up with makeup flawlessly applied to their faces. I looked even worse when I fell asleep without washing my face. My mascara and eyeliner made me look like a distant cousin to the raccoon.

  I rolled over and grabbed my phone from the floor where I’d left it charging last night, checked the time, and groaned. It was after twelve in the afternoon. I dragged myself off the sofa. Rummaging through my comfy clothes, I pulled out a pair of shorts and a white short sleeve blouse before heading to the bathroom to take a shower. The warm water revived me and I felt a little less like a caterpillar and more like a butterfly. I quickly dressed and then surveyed my hair in the bathroom mirror. For those of you who have been blessed with non-curly and frizz free hair, you will never understand the struggle. Combs squirmed in horror whenever they saw my hair in the distance. Bobby pins got lost in the mass. And don’t even get me started on hairbrushes. I broke five of them before I realized that my hair and brushes don’t get along.

  It was too late in the day to wash and twist my hair to make a cute twist out style and the mane was too frizzy to leave out. Oh well, I guess it would be buns again. Pulling the rebellious coils into a semblance of a messy bun, I then pulled on my gray tennis, grabbed my purse and headed downstairs to hail a cab.

  Thank God for the Internet. This morning, I researched authentic Caribbean grocery stores in my area and hit the jackpot. God bless America. And Google.

  It would have been easier to take the subway but I wasn’t going to risk going down there again so it was the Metro bus for me. I studied the routes detailed in frames on the wall, and got on a bus praying that it was going in the right direction. Thankfully, a kindly Spanish man told me when to get off and I stepped out of the bus and directly in front of The Jamaican Caribbean Market.

  The Caribbean Market was a long building that, honestly, looked pretty much like any other grocery store. But as I stepped inside, it was like stepping through a portal and walking back home. The spices danced in my nose reminding me of the strong curry stewed chicken, with yellow gravy over white rice and plantain. The layout of the store was like any other except some of the aisles weren’t organized by products but rather the spices and vegetables were sorted from the Caribbean country it originated from.

  “Hi,” an average sized older woman stepped up to me in greeting, “can I help you with anything?” She was the color of a blackberry with high cheekbones and sharp almond shaped eyes. Her hair was in long Siamese twists, cascading down her back. The only reason I knew she wasn’t my age was the telling wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. In a word, the lady w
as stunning, and obviously Caribbean. The lilt in her voice betrayed her.

  “Yeah, I’m looking for the ingredients to make a complete Belizean Sunday dinner.”

  “You’re a Belizean?” the proprietor asked, genuine warmth coloring her voice.

  “Yes. I can hear the accent in your words but I can’t place it. Where are you from?”

  “Gyal, cyant yuh tell I is Jamaican.” She switched to potwai.

  I laughed, “I know my Jamaican accents and yours is like nothing I’ve heard.” She nodded as we walked deeper into the store, “my parents are actually from London. I moved to Jamaica when I was ten.”

  “Oh,” We chatted as though we had known each other for years. And why not? We were Caribbean sisters.

  “I’m Keisha,” she introduced.

  “Melody,” I returned.

  “So Melody, are you having a party?” Keisha asked guilelessly.

  “Somewhat. It’s a little get together me and my …um…”

  I halted, what exactly was Spencer and I? Were we officially exclusively dating? Did it even count as dating if I knew I’d be returning to Belize soon and would never see him again?

  Keisha slanted me a knowing look.

  “Oh, its one of those huh?”

  “Gyal, you noh even know.”

  We laughed again and no more was said of the subject. Keisha was a big help and we had more fun browsing and talking than actually shopping. I spent a ton at her store but before leaving I invited her and her husband to Spencer’s tonight. Ignorant on the etiquette of inviting strangers to some else’s house, I was sure I was committing a grave faux pas. Still, I couldn’t not invite her. I simply followed my heart and prayed Keisha wasn’t a closet burglar. My intuition was confirmed when I thought of how well trusting Spencer had turned out. I figured if I asked Spencer’s permission at the last minute, he couldn’t say no.

  The two hours inside the Market flew by so I barely had time to return to the apartment, throw on a flirty but modest red dress and my low heeled bow boots before heading out again to begin preparing the meal at Spencer’s house. My hair was a mess and my eyeliner and mascara had smudged but I was still excited. I figured I could work the exotic rock star look tonight if I had to.