Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  “He’s over by Tiffany. Come on.”

  As Peyton led me through the throng, I noticed all the female gazes that automatically pulled to him. He did look rather dashing tonight, with his auburn hair smoothed back and his tall, imposing figure fitted into a soft black tux. Peyton and Spencer were both handsome men, but Peyton had an open air that drew people in, while Spencer’s brooding features made him appear closed off.

  If only I had let that dissuade me from my attraction.

  Under Peyton’s guidance, I soon spotted Spencer. He was deep in conversation with his stunning secretary, who was striking in a silver gown with a scandalous slip up her dress. The thing was, Spencer looked distracted. Every so often, he’d nod his head and surreptitiously survey the crowd. Like he was looking for something. Like he was looking for me.

  I knew the exact moment his eyes connected with mine. Our gazes met in an impact that literally slammed into me. Tiffany, aware that she had lost the interest of her boss, followed the line of Spencer’s gaze to mine. Her eyes narrowed into slits. I seemed to exclusively produce that reaction in her.

  By this time, Peyton had drawn me close to the pair.

  “Hey,” Spencer, said, his eyes devouring me.

  “Hey,” I responded shyly.

  “Tiffany, I’d like to speak with you.” Was Peyton’s sloppy attempt at giving us privacy.

  “But I was talking to Spencer.” Tiffany obstinately remained rooted.

  “Well, he’s otherwise occupied now.” Peyton insisted.

  Tiffany begrudgingly trekked after her other boss but not before searing me with a hateful stare. I shivered.

  That girl needed to chill out.

  “You came.” Spencer sounded surprised but pleased.

  “The dress demanded it.” I joked, fighting through the awkwardness.

  “You look beautiful in it.”

  “Thank you.”

  I looked away. Okay, Melody, just spit it out.

  “Spencer-”

  “Dance with me.” He interrupted.

  I looked around. The party goers were a pretty conservative crowd. We were the only interracial couple. I knew people would stare.

  “No, Spencer, I-”

  He stepped closer, “Melody,” I looked up, pierced by the tenderness in his eyes, “Dance with me.

  And so I did. I wound my arms around his neck, laid my head on his shoulder. I felt his warm breath tickling my hair, smelt the musky scent that was Spencer’s settle around me as securely as his embrace. We moved and we swayed. It was just me and him, despite the hundreds in this room tonight. There, in his arms, I finally allowed myself to admit it.

  I loved him.

  Not like a brother in Christ, not like a friend. I loved Spencer.

  The realization made me want to cry. Why now? Not when I knew I had to let him go.

  I squeezed myself closer to him, savoring every touch, every step. It would be my last.

  I love you. I love you. I love you. I screamed on the inside. I opened my mouth but only a strangled gasp escaped. Spencer took note.

  “Melody, are you okay?” He pulled back and gently touched my face. His gentle caress undid me and I began to cry silently, tears slipping down my cheeks in earnest. Spencer moved with purpose and escorted me to a quiet corner on the penthouse balcony. He sat me down on a beautiful iron bench then sat beside me, pulling me close.

  “Shh, don’t cry. Don’t cry, sweetie,” He gently soothed, smoothing my hair away from my face. His ministrations made me cry even more.

  God, why? This was so painful.

  I gently extricated myself from him. Spencer’s eyes peered deep into my soul. I feared he could read the love burning up in there. He sweetly kissed the renegade tears still coursing down my cheeks. His tenderness undid me. I stood abruptly,

  “I can’t do this anymore.” He stood as well, confused.

  “Do what?”

  “This,” I gestured to him, “You. Me. We’re too different.”

  He looked perplexed.

  “I can’t change the fact that I’m Asian, Melody.”

  “I don’t mean our ethnicities. It’s everything. Our faith, our opinions on love-”

  “Melody, if this is about what happened this afternoon, I’m sorry. I was way out of line. It won’t happen again.”

  I breathed deeply, choking out the words.

  “I know it won’t. Because we are over.”

  Spencer cornered me, “Melody, you don’t mean that.”

  Tears slipped down my cheeks, betraying my pain, but I held firm.

  “I do.”

  A broken, hurt look invaded Spencer’s expression. If a knife had torn into my chest at that moment it would have hurt less. He tried one more time.

  “Melody, please, we can make it work. I can fly over to Belize. I can pay for any trips you make here. Don’t give up on us.”

  The despondency in his handsome face prompted me to tiptoe, grasp the sides of his face and kiss him thoroughly. His eyes were still closed when I broke away.

  “I love you,” he whispered, over my lips. I had no idea if he had meant to say them or not, and I didn’t wait around to find out. I cleared out of that place so quickly, I was flying. I hopped into the first taxi cab I came across and sped back to the apartment. Tears blurred my vision. I knew I had done the right thing, but still I was not rewarded with peace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When I was little, my favorite place to cry was in the bathroom. Whether the floor was swept or not, I’d lie down and bawl my little heart out right next to the sink and the toilet. No one quite understood the appeal of my chosen sanctuary, but sharing a bedroom with my little sister taught me that the bathroom was the only space affording a modicum of privacy.

  A few years later, my family moved to a new house and I got my own room, but the familiarity of a water closet haven was too alluring. I continued to trek into the bathroom each time I hosted a pity party for one. In fact, as I grew into adolescence and acne became my world, the bathroom saw a lot more of my tears.

  It might be hard for people to understand why my blemishes made me so insecure. Compared to the real problems young people endure like rape, cancer and amputated limbs, a bit of acne was nothing. And for the most part, I lived my life with the happiness and carefree abandon that all young people should enjoy. But every so often, a stray comment would jar me back to reality. A sharp remark, a hateful joke, or even a good-intentioned piece of advice about applying vinegar, apple cider, lemon juice reminded me that I was not normal. My imperfections were very visible and distasteful enough that some people couldn’t stand talking to me during lunchtime. Though I understood that my pimples were only present for a season, it was hard to push through the imperfections so that people could see the girl behind the bumpy face.

  One day in high school, a classmate innocently asked me if I washed my face. She then went on to lecture me about going on a diet so that I could clear up my acne. Lavishly and publicly, she bestowed her advice, even going so far as to the draw my other classmates into the conversation. It embarrassed me because my acne was something that I was deeply sensitive about. I held in the tears like a champ, but when I got home later that day, I headed straight for the bathroom and those suckers shot out of the gate like horses at a derby.

  It was another lonely cry in the bosom of my bathroom, until someone knocked on the door. I stopped crying. I tried not to let on to anyone on just how affected I was by the words of others.

  “Who is it?” I called to the intruder.

  “Let me in, Melody,” I heard Daddy’s voice.

  I obeyed, wiping my eyes to try and reduce the puffiness.

  Daddy joined me on the bathroom floor, sitting with his back against the bathtub.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No.” I sniffed.

  He nodded, resting his head on the bathtub’s edge. We sat silently for a time, until my butt started to fall asleep.
Finally, Daddy spoke,

  “I don’t know what you’re going through right now, baby,” Daddy said, “but whenever you have bad times, remember God can take the worst things that happen to us and make something great.”

  “What if I’m not great, Daddy,” I admitted, “What if I’m too ugly for God to do something with me.”

  “That may be true,” he teased, I gasped, “No, you know that’s not true,” he hurried to rectify. I laughed at his antics. Secure in my father’s love, I recognized when he was joking. “My babies are all gorgeous,” he stated, like nothing could defy the fact, “And I see greatness in each of you.”

  I hugged him then, “Do you think a boy will ever love me, Daddy?” I asked.

  He held me close, “Tons will. They just better keep their distance. My shot gun’s been getting antsy lately”.

  My mind traced back to that moment so many years ago, as I lay on the uncomfortably lumpy futon in Susan’s little studio apartment that night. I’d decided to bunk with my friend until morning. Thankfully, my bags had already been packed so I had stopped only long enough to grab them and run. I wasn’t brave enough to stick around my apartment on the off chance that Spencer dropped by and tried to convince me to come back to him. I didn’t think I was strong enough to turn him away.

  When I’d knocked on Susan’s door a few hours later, she’d let me in immediately.

  “Hey, you sounded terrible over the phone. What’s wrong?” Susan asked, as she let me in.

  “Spencer and I broke up.” I admitted, feeling the tremor in my chest as the words solidified in the air.

  Susan looked noticeably surprised.

  “Thanks for this,” I said, genuinely grateful for her hospitality and friendship.

  “Oh, it’s no problem. Trust me; you won’t be thanking me after you sleep on that thing.” Susan pointed to the neon green futon in the tiny space of her living room. I surveyed the span of her apartment in like five seconds. Susan’s crib was very very cluttered. She had an ecletic collection of sofa furniture, ranging from the neon green couch to a red shag rug. Though my eyes burned from all the crying, her sensory overloaded living room wasn’t helping matters.

  “You want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I confessed.

  Nodding sympathetically, Susan left me alone to sulk on her futon. I had half a mind to lock myself in her bathroom and relive the comfort of my childhood hideout, but I knew hogging the john wasn’t the way to repay Susan for her kindness. Whining about the fact that she didn’t have any ice cream in her fridge wouldn’t exactly do that either. So I turned in early and hoped that sleep would come to claim me.

  But it didn’t. I kept thinking about the words my Daddy said to me in that bathroom. Words about greatness. Words about love. I wondered if God could make something out of the mess that I’d created. I wondered if there was still hope to make something beautiful out of me.

  The next morning, my eyes were so swollen, they’d shrunken to slits. Susan was still sleeping and I didn’t have the heart to wake her, so I left a note. As I was sneaking out, I saw her standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She wore a T-shirt with the words “IRONY, not wrinkly” printed on the front and pink pajama bottoms.

  “You’re leaving so early?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  “Why are you whispering,” she whispered back.

  “I don’t kn-” I coughed self-consciously, and then spoke in my regular voice, “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she waved away my apology, “I wouldn’t have wanted to miss you.” Susan trudged to the kitchen in five steps and turned the kettle on to make tea. Her eyes finally took in the lack of light,

  “Crap jacks, what unholy hour of the morning is it?”

  I smiled at her euphemism, “It’s five thirty.”

  “Why are you leaving so early?”

  “I don’t want to miss my flight.”

  “When is it?”

  “It’s at eight, but we have to present our tickets an hour early.”

  Susan groaned, “That sucks.”

  Her kettle screamed and she shuffled lackadaisically toward it.

  “So does that mean you don’t have time for a cup of tea?”

  “Are you sure you’re not British?” I teased her, rounding the table and accepting the cup.

  “Not according to my birth certificate, but I wouldn’t mind living there someday.”

  I sipped my tea quietly.

  “So, are you ready to talk about Spencer yet?”

  I burned my tongue on the scalding hot liquid and shot her a dark look, “We were together, now we’re not. I’m going back to Belize and I’m never seeing him again. That’s the end of that.”

  Susan surveyed me with half-hooded eyes, “Puh-lease, that man is freaking in love with you. That is definitely not the end of that.”

  “Hmm,” I replied non-commitally, “Speaking of Spencer, do you mind mailing all his stuff to him? I already put it back in the box. It just needs to be posted.”

  “What all are you returning?” She questioned, peering into the flat Je T’adore box.

  “The dress and jewelry from last night and the clothes that he bought for me when we visited Hollywood.”

  “Whoa, Spencer picked out that dress? He has great taste!”

  “Mmhm,” I brushed off her exuberance, “So will you post it for me?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “What?”

  “NO,” Susan repeated.

  “Why won’t you do it?”

  “The man went to all that trouble for you. The least you can do is return these things yourself.”

  I stewed silently, as the rationality of her words burned into my brain.

  “And I’m rooting for you two to make up,” Susan mumbled into her cup.

  I cut her an annoyed look, but I couldn’t hide the fact that she had a point. About returning the clothes, not about the other thing.

  “Okay, but you’re coming with me.”

  Susan’s gaze darted to the early sunrise displayed outside her window to me and back.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Come on, missy,”

  She groaned, “Being awake this early should be illegal, much less traipsing around L.A.”

  “Didn’t you have any Saturday classes where you had to wake up early to get there on time?”

  “Obviously, I never got there on time.”

  “Hm, I’d have never guessed that you felt this way. You’re always so early to work every day,”

  “Which is exactly why I crave my Saturday morning sleep-ins,”

  I smiled, but it fell flat. Susan came around the table and hugged me from behind.

  “You know you’re going to be okay, right?”

  “I know,” I whispered, supporting my head with my hands, “My brain knows that, but my heart feels like it’s been through a paper shredder.”

  Susan let me go, “That was strangely visual,”

  I snickered genuinely. Susan beamed, “See, that’s the Melody I know. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

  She joined me, sitting in the seat to my right. “You’ll probably want to forget all that’s happened over here, huh?”

  “No,” I said honestly, “I’m glad that I met Spencer. I’m proud of the lessons that I’ve learnt from being with him.”

  “And…” Susan prompted.

  “Hey, I was saving the best for last,” I protested.

  “That’s what I thought,” she quipped snottily.

  “Seriously, I’m so glad that I met you, Sus. I’m really going to miss you.”

  “I know. I’m going to miss you too. And who knows, maybe you’ll eventually migrate over here someday.”

  I arched an eyebrow in a ‘you can’t be serious’ look, “I don’t think so.”

  She put up her hands as a show of surrender, “Or I may move to Belize. Either way the future is wide open.”
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  “Thank you, Susan, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, kiddo,” She replied. “Now let’s go return Spencer’s stuff even though I really should be in my bed right now.”

  I grinned, “Maybe when this is all over, you’ll realize it was just a dream.”

  “No offense, Melody, but if this were a dream, Channing Tatum would be in it.”

  We both laughed as Susan grabbed her keys and purse and helped me carry my suitcases out the door.

  The L.A. air was crisp and cool. The sun was just awakening from its slumber, but the city already buzzed with life. I glanced over at Susan. I could never understand how Americans strolled around in their pajamas. Susan had not changed into walking clothes. She still wore her rumpled top and pajama bottoms. I shook my head at her quirkiness.

  The metro bus dropped us off in Spencer’s neighborhood, but we had to catch a taxi to get to his house.

  During the cab ride, Susan complained about the sun and how it had it out for her because no matter where she hid it was always shining in her face. I allowed Susan’s grumbling to distract me for in less than two hours, I’d stand face to face with Spencer Braden. And there would be nothing to distract me then. Unfortunately, Susan found a shelter from the sun’s glare and fell asleep. With nothing but my thoughts acting as a barrier against insanity, I scooted closer to the front seat of the taxi.

  The driver was an Indian man dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. I noticed a picture of an adorable little girl with long flowing hair on his dashboard.

  “Is that your daughter?” I asked him.

  He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, “It is.” I delighted in the slightly Arabic accent in his tone.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “She is my heart. Just like her mother.”

  “She takes after your wife?”

  He chortled, “Thank Allah. Her mother is a beautiful woman. I’m still amazed that she chose me.”

  I smiled. How romantic, “I know what that’s like.”

  He glanced at me in the mirror again, “A beautiful woman like you? Bah, it is the man that should be amazed.”

  “Hmm,” I replied.

  He peered at me again, “You do not believe me.”