Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  Spencer had his door open as soon as Wesley dropped me off into his rounded driveway. He came out to escort me inside without saying more than a “hey”. The few steps it took to get into the house I figured he was mad and so I stayed silent as well, wondering if he’d found out about our last minute guests and was upset about it. His grip on my elbows tightened as soon as we stepped across the threshold. As he closed the door, my guilt prepared me to explain my choice of inviting random strangers into his house, but before I could speak, Spencer emitted a sound that strangely resembled a growl. With one smooth move, he pressed me against the closed door and kissed me. This was nothing like our first kiss in the library which was soft and gentle. Nor was it like the steamy kiss in the kitchen. This time, Spencer was caressing me just as hungrily but seemed at war with himself. Have you ever driven behind someone that can’t figure out what speed they want to go, so one minute they’re going fast and the next they slow down? Spencer’s kisses reminded me of that. At one point, he was completely branding me, taking, taking, demanding my submission to his strokes. The next, he slowed down, driving me insane with a slow languid caress. His hands caged me so nothing but our lips were touching but somehow, this kiss felt more dangerous than the one that literally started a fire. I broke away first because I was losing air and I needed to breathe.

  Spencer didn’t stop his ministrations however; he found a sweet spot below my ear and placed an amazing gentle kiss there. I caught my breath enough to speak.

  “Normal people,” I stopped for a second as he moved below the other ear, “start with the pleasantries,” Oh my sweet silver pumps that felt good, “when they meet someone.”

  “Ok,” he said confidently. I could see the mischief in his eyes as he bent down to kiss me. Of course, I kissed him back, forgetting everything and anything but him. So when Spencer lifted his head and said in between kisses, “Hi… Melody… how are you doing… today?” I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to think. Something I was finding almost impossible at that moment.

  “Uh, good… You?,” I pulled my fingers through his hair,

  “I’m … fine.”

  “Mmm, you are, but you’re also dangerous.”

  Red light! Red light!

  It took all my strength to step away from him.

  “I need to… uh… get dinner started,” I said breathlessly and moved toward the kitchen. It wasn’t that I didn’t want us to make out like a couple of teenagers; I just preferred to do it when Susan was here and we weren’t so alone in this big house.

  “Yeah,” Spencer raked a hand through his hair causing it to stand on end. How did he mess up his mane and still look so good. If I let my hair down right now, it would probably knock Spencer out. “Boundaries right?”

  “Mm-hm,” I nodded, I grabbed his tie and pulled him slowly toward the kitchen.

  He smirked, “What are you doing?”

  I tripped over the bar stool in the kitchen, laughing all the way, “I don’t know. It always looks so romantic in the movies. No one ever trips.”

  Spencer laughed and tugged at his tie, bringing me along with it, “That’s okay. Movies are overrated anyway. I like the way you do it.”

  He placed a quick kiss to my forehead before letting me go. I headed for the cupboards and started rummaging around looking for all the pots and pans that I’d need.

  “Spencer, where is your frying…”

  My words trailed when I turned to find Spencer rooted in the same spot, watching me with a silly grin on his face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking.”

  I put my hands on my hips, “Thinking what?”

  He shrugged, and put his hands in his pockets, an adorable display of nerves, “I’m thinking, ‘man, this girl is so beautiful’.”

  I walked slowly toward him, leaning in closely I whispered, “I know. Now are you going to help me or not.”

  Laughing hard, Spencer washed his hands in the sink.

  “Put me to work, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The secret to making great Belizean food is instincts. Honestly, you can follow a cookbook and dish in the spices by measurements, but most mothers in Belize simply leave the seasonings on the table and encourage their daughters to figure things out through trial and error. At least that’s how my mother taught me.

  I’m no Chef Ramsey, but I am capable of stuffing a chicken with breadcrumbs and fixing rice and beans. Tooled with the spices I’d purchased from Keisha’s store, I knew the meal would taste just like home.

  Spencer paired his phone with his surround sound speakers and light jazz began streaming through the kitchen, causing every movement to feel like an intimate dance. Who knew a man dicing onions and fighting back the tears would be so attractive?

  “I’m done,” Spencer sniffed, his watery eyes falling victim to the potency of the onion. “You know in America, we actually have onions that have already been cut.”

  “Aw,” I teased from behind the whole chicken I was stuffing with breadcrumbs, “That would take the fun out of seeing you cry.”

  Spencer wiped at his eyes with his bicep, “You need anything else diced, maybe an artery, a lung?”

  “No, you can go cry in your room if you want now.”

  “Ha ha,” Spencer moved to stand behind me, hugging me from behind, “Is it weird that I’m totally jealous of this chicken?”

  I finished the stuffing and poured the last of the chicken gravy and seasonings over the bird, massaging it as I went.

  “I don’t know why,” I joked, “its dead.”

  Spencer kissed my cheek, “I don’t like the way it’s watching you. And the way you’re touching him… you’re totally leading him on.”

  We both turned as one to observe the once naked bird in all its raw glory now adorned with onions and green peppers, and stuffed with breadcrumbs.

  “Getting jealous of a bird is kind of pathetic,” I quipped, moving my hands to touch the strong arms that were around me.

  Spencer swayed with me for a minute, and I got lost in the sweetness of the moment.

  “Melody?”

  “Yeah,”

  “Are you touching me with your raw chicken hands?”

  “Yeah,”

  Spencer let me go, grossed out. “You dare to hug me with the unwashed hands that only moments ago touched the other man?”

  “Yes!” I cried, getting into the dramatics, “I did. And he is a better man than you’ll ever be.”

  “He is a chicken!” Spencer played along.

  “Name calling does not suit you,” I teased.

  Unable to hold the ruse any longer, Spencer started laughing and broke the improv session we’d had going on.

  “You are unbelievable.”

  I smiled as I washed my hands, “Thank you, I think.”

  Forty minutes later, the rice and beans were done. The baked chicken was browning in the oven and the potato salad was cooling in the fridge. I’d tasked Spencer with frying the plantain, a job which, going by the ultra serious expression he wore, he took very seriously. The guests were due to arrive any minute but I still hadn’t asked Spencer if we could host another couple. It was his house after all. And Mama had raised a lady. I knew that I needed to bring it up, but I had to soften him up first just in case.

  “Spencer…” I started hesitantly. He pierced me with those brown orbs and I knew he smelled a rat. Obviously, I wasn’t good at this.

  “Melody,” he mimicked, wariness on his face.

  “Do you mind if I invite a couple more people?”

  An eyebrow arched.

  “How much more people are we talking about?”

  “Just two,”

  “And you know them?”

  I bit my lip. “’Know’ is such a relative term. In fact the Hebrew form of knowing is divided into three…”

  Unfortunately, Spencer wasn’t interested in my language lesson.

  “Melody,” he groaned, “te
ll me you’re not thinking of inviting strangers over.”

  “They’re not strangers. I met this woman at the store-”

  Spencer threw up his hands, “Right, because it is perfectly acceptable to befriend random people at the grocery store.”

  I shushed him, “Wait, let me finish. She’s from Jamaica and she owns this awesome Caribbean Market and I couldn’t not invite her.” I explained.

  “Did you tell her who I am?”

  Whoa, strange question.

  “No, I just said I was cooking dinner at a friend’s,”

  He squinted his eyes at me. Too bad, we hadn’t labeled our relationship so I hadn’t assumed anything.

  “I didn’t mention your name.”

  He still looked unmoved. Obviously, more convincing was necessary. Recalling his reaction to my flirting when we were at the “Lliani’s” restaurant, I rose on my tiptoes and put my arms just above his waist.

  “Please, Spencer, You know how much I could use a little piece of home right now.”

  His face softened when he looked at me and I knew I had won before any words of acquiesce came out of his mouth.

  “Fine,” he conceded, pretending to still be angry.

  I squealed and kissed his cheek as the doorbell rang. I froze. Guilt stampeded across my face when I heard Keisha’s voice call out, “Hello?”

  Spencer sighed. “You invited them already, didn’t you?” It was a statement. I shrugged as I walked backward toward the door and let them in.

  “I knew you would say yes.”

  Fortunately, Spencer only looked amused.

  I opened the door and beheld Keisha. Dressed in an authentic African print tribal garb, her locks looking fabulous, my Jamaican friend was stunning!

  “Wow, you look fantastic!” I cried, bending over and giving her a hug. “Come in, come in.”

  I felt Spencer right behind me and a rush of warmth filled my chest at his silent support. I so needed to make this up to him.

  Keisha and her husband flowed into the room, commenting on how lovely the house was.

  “Thank you,” Spencer humbly absorbed the compliment.

  “And this is my husband, Garrett.” Keisha’s husband was obviously older than her as attested by his graying hair and beard. He was a lighter brown than Keisha, his eyes a beautiful hazel with more cocoa than green, and he was only slightly taller than his wife. I made these observations in the split second that I greeted him. I also like him immediately. He was like a Jamaican Santa Claus with his girth and twinkling eyes.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I felt comfortable enough to hug him.

  Spencer offered his hand to Garrett and they shook, “Glad you could make it.”

  I bit my lip to restrain my guilty smile.

  The door bell rang again. Spencer looked down at me with a questioning, slightly frightened expression.

  “It’s just Susan,” I assured him.

  He sent me a wan smile as I excused myself from the group standing in the foyer to welcome my friend.

  “Hey!” Susan greeted me enthusiastically, “Nice pad.”

  “It’s not mine.” I reminded her.

  “The owner is, though,”

  I rolled my eyes at her theatrics and accepted the wine that she’d brought along.

  “Come right in everyone’s here.”

  As expected, Susan and Keisha got along fabulously. The two were energetic, optimistic, and open people, despite the age difference. Spencer seemed a bit uncomfortable at first. He didn’t relate to any of the cultural references like carnival, soca, or festival. I kept glancing his way and squeezing his hand, as he sat in an uncomfortably straight-backed position beside me.

  Fortunately, the men struck a conversation about basketball, to which Spencer soon became quite engrossed. His animated responses made me smile. This engaging man was a far cry from the stoic, uppity businessman I’d imagined him to be on our first encounter. Don’t be fooled. Spencer had his big bad broody man moments, but he could laugh and even crack a genuinely funny joke or two. In fact, I discovered (when the conversation turned to video games by some guy named Darcy) that he was a bit of a nerd, which totally obliterated my mystery man fantasy. The real Spencer, however, was a riot and I loved that Susan and Keisha got to see that side of him.

  Speaking of couples, Keisha and her husband Garrett were the oldest people there, but were undoubtedly the life of the party. Her husband barely got a word in when Keisha held the floor but whenever he did manage to put in his two cents it was usually hilarious. I could tell that he genuinely loved her. It shone in his eyes whenever he looked her way. I found myself envious of that bond.

  After dinner, which everyone complemented me on and I humbly pointed out that Spencer fried the plantains (the resulting adoration made him blush), the men retreated to the foyer to watch a basketball game, while Susan, Keisha, and I went to the kitchen for the box dessert and tea.

  As soon as we got the coffee pot going and the kettle heating, Susan whistled low.

  “Spencer is so fine, girl. I’m so jealous.”

  I rolled my eyes, but felt a surge of pride that, at least for this period in time, Spencer was mine.

  Keisha piped in, “He is quite a looker and he’s quite familiar to me. I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, but nobody dwelled on that.

  “I would have remembered seeing him! Have I mentioned that your man is fine?”

  I laughed, “I don’t know,” I admitted, as I grabbed mugs from the fancy suspending rack on the wall, “he’s not my man. Exactly.”

  “Well, he’s definitely not a woman.” Susan clarified.

  Keisha voiced her wisdom, “Maybe they just haven’t defined the relationship, Susan. Leave them to discuss it on their own time.”

  “So what have they been talking about this whole while?” Susan insisted.

  “Stuff,” I said vaguely.

  Both women surveyed me suspiciously.

  “They’ve been making out.” Susan guessed.

  “Have not!”

  “Oh, you have. Don’t play shy with me.” Susan laughed.

  “We just hang out with each other. I’m leaving for Belize next week, you goof, and that will be the end of that. I don’t expect to see Spencer ever again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Susan cried, “There are tons of ways you two can keep in touch with all the webcams in the world.”

  I pointed out, “Susan, we haven’t even decided if we’re officially dating yet. I mean, yeah I like Spencer and yeah, he makes me feel…”

  “What does he make you feel, Melody?” Keisha urged when I trailed off.

  I looked down at the mosaic impression tiles, “He makes me feel valued and protected. I think about him all the time, but,” I took a breath, “But we’re too different to make a go of this long term. So there’s no need for labels or commitments.”

  Susan looked put out, but Keisha placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and spoke with gravity,

  “I hear what you are saying and I get the feeling that this might be a casual experience for you. And I understand. But just looking at the way Spencer gazes at you, I can tell that this is a lot more than a holiday romance for him.”

  I shook my head in denial. “I’ve only known him for a short time. Plus, he knows I’m returning to Belize next week. I’ve been honest about all of that.” I defended, unsure if I was trying to convince myself or Keisha.

  “I’m not telling you what to do, Melody. But remember that Spencer isn’t some experiment to gain dating experience. He is a person. And he cares about you. Somehow, I suspect that you have a lot of power to hurt him.”

  Keisha’s warning rang in my ears as the group sipped coffee and tea and ate an amazingly kick-butt lemon-meringue pie. It serenaded my conscience as I bid Susan then Keisha and Garrett goodnight. It reflected in the glare of the television when Spencer and I decided not to end the night and chose a movie we
both could stomach to watch together. As I snuggled into his side, my feet propped up on the couch and a warm brown fleece blanket over my feet, I whirled her words over and over in my mind till it drowned the action sounds of the movie.

  Surely a man that looked like Spencer couldn’t get serious about a woman like me. I was short. My face was not symmetrical, my hair was unruly. I was black. Spencer had a big time job at his work; I was a pay scale fifteen in my country and paid less than a teacher. Plus, I had absolutely no connections, which was why I hadn’t been awarded a scholarship. He couldn’t care about me. It just didn’t make sense.

  “Melody, stop,” Spencer’s chest rumbled beneath my head as he spoke.

  “What?” I asked, from in front of him.

  “Whatever you’re worrying about right now, just stop.”

  I froze, “How do you know I’m worrying about something. You can’t even see me.”

  The room was dim and I was spooned in at an angle where Spencer could not see my face.

  “You think I have to see you to know what you’re thinking.”

  My heart sank and swam at the same time. No, Spencer could not care about me. I would successfully return to Belize next week with my heartstrings intact. I had to believe that. I needed to believe that. Unfortunately, it was getting harder and harder to lie to myself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I was floating on a bacon rainbow while fluffy chickens stripped –like literally swung on iron poles while ripping their clothes off in grass that looked suspiciously like apple fritters. Gradually, the chickens disappeared and I zoomed to the end of the bacon strip and onto a bed made of soft wheat bread. The bacon rainbow was still there, and it smelt so good. All I had to do was roll over a little more and stretch my neck to take a bite of it. Almost there… almost there…

  Whup! Suddenly, the bacon strip disappeared and the fibers of a soft brown carpet invaded my mouth as I landed on the floor in the real world. My arms and legs were entangled in a brown fleece. My eyes burst open as I glanced around the brightly lit unfamiliar living room and darted to an fro, noting the absence of chicken strips to confirm my exit from la-la-land. Chicken strips? I would hate to be trapped in the craziness of my own mind.