Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  She had this crazy obsession with making do on her own…

  “I’ll have one of everything!” I yelled when I entered her store.

  Mia came from behind the counter and embraced me, “You crazy head! What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at home resting.”

  “Please,” I informed her, “a little one week trip to San Pedro’s five star luxury resorts is definitely nothing to rest from.”

  “Point taken, Ms. Big Time,” Mia teased. “Are you here to help out?”

  “Mmhm, put me to work.”

  “I love it when you say that.”

  She directed me to calculate inventory and price the clothing. I did as she bid and then moved to the store front to hang the clothing according to size. Mia came to help,

  “So, when will we see more of Mia’s actual designs?” I nudged her with my shoulder.

  “I’m in the research and design phase.”

  “Mia,” I coaxed, “You can’t keep giving away your designs to friends and family. It’s about time the rest of Belize got a taste of your amazing talent.”

  “I know.” She admitted. “I’m just not there yet. My designs are so personal. If people judge my babies I’d freak out.”

  I decided not to push the topic for now, “Okay, just don’t be afraid to take the leap.”

  “I will, especially when I have such good friends to catch me.”

  I grinned.

  “So,” She enquired, “How did your parents respond when they heard about Spencer?”

  “Isn’t that the question of the day?” I announced, “Archie just asked me that a few minutes ago.”

  “Ooh, Archie huh?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I don’t know… you’re always talking about Archie this and Archie that.”

  “Trust me. Archie’s a brother to me. Daddy has sufficiently neutered him.”

  “Ah, Mr. Reyes is just a big fat teddy bear.”

  “Please try telling that to Archie. Daddy’s already showed him the shot gun.”

  “Oh, good one, Mr. Rey.” Mia enthused.

  “Girl, be serious.”

  “I am. Are you saying you seriously aren’t interested in Archie?”

  “Definitely, I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Spencer. Like God hasn’t removed him from my mind as yet,”

  Mia tsked, “Well, I don’t know about that. Spencer’s in the States, you’re in Belize. Archie’s here. I’d go for him.”

  “I thought you were dedicated to finding the perfect black man. I know Conner is available.”

  I wriggled my eyebrows suggestively, glad that she hadn’t lingered on the Spencer thing. I was still trying to figure that one out.

  “Girl, please. A man that uptight would never look beyond my past to see the real me.”

  “You tried to get with him already, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, and that’s basically what he said,” Mia admitted.

  “If he was such a jerk to you, why were you trying to get us together?” I scolded, unhappy that my girl had taken such a hazing from that judgmental flapper jack.

  “He’s still a good guy. He just needs some tweaking.”

  “You mean twerking,” I started twitching, grinding my hips and shaking my butt.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Mia barked out a laugh, “but that is not twerking. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Connor would find such movements very immodest Melody.”

  We both chuckled together.

  “So back to this, Archie thing…”

  “Mia!”

  “What. I said I want a nice black man and I do. I didn’t say I couldn’t have some fun along the way.”

  I shook my head and laughed because I knew that Mia was joking. After the string of casual sexual relationships in her past, she’d rededicated herself to purity and vowed that the next relationship she entered would have the end game of marriage.

  “Want to come over to the Big House later? My parents are having their monthly therapy session with me.”

  “Oh come on. They’re not that bad,” I returned. Mia’s parents were the vision of religion and spirituality and I did not mean that in a good way. Though I cannot judge, I can say by their fruits that the harvest they bore did not stand in line with the tree that they claimed to be. Mia detested visiting her parents, especially since her Kingdom lifestyle got on her religious parent’s nerves.

  “They want to perform exorcism on me every three months.” She threw her hands up in frustration, “When I was sleeping around and walking home with hangovers, they didn’t put up so much of a fuss. Give me a purpose and a new lifestyle and whoo… it must be the devil.”

  “You can’t change who your parents are but I’m sure they mean well.”

  “Stop trying to look on the bright side, it’s annoying.” Mia teased.

  “Your parents suck. They’ll never see the Light. You should just give up now. Better?” I teased.

  “Much, thank you.”

  Our conversation then turned to discussing the upcoming Sherwin Gardner concert and I spent the rest of the afternoon helping my best friend out at her store. Being surrounded by strong, independent women like Mia and caring forever friends like Archie, made me realize early on in my Missing-Spencer stage that I did not have to be the girl who lost the guy. I did not need to be the woman who lingered in the pain of heartbreak. I could rise to every occasion, even without my heart.

  And who knows? Maybe someday I’d get that heart back. Maybe someday I could love again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I’ve mentioned this sentiment already, but I cannot adequately stress the distaste, the disgust, the plain detestation that I feel toward Valentine’s Day. Basically, the red and white infested day is a huge cash holiday for stores. It’s a day that’s rigged for people who need to show-off. That’s right. I said it. I mean, why you would want to rub the fact that you have a significant other in the faces of other perpetually single people bungles my mind. I was learning. I was. My reaction to Valentine’s Day had tempered with the years.

  I recalled dreading the Valentine’s Day cupcake exchanges in high school. In order to make money, the boy’s academy sent gifts on Valentine’s Day to my school for a fee. For four years, not one boy sent me a single cupcake. I tried consoling myself with the fact that if a boy had sent me a cupcake that would mean problems with my father. So while other girls in the class got sixteen cupcakes, I sat before my bare desk rationalizing my singleness, year after year after year. Unfortunately, the public gift giving did not stop at simple cupcakes. No, as the years went by the Saint Jude’s College boys started investing in Valentine’s Day. I’d see girls in my high school walking around, burdened by the weight of their gifts. The boyfriends sent bouquets of roses and boxes of chocolates and huge teddy bears with beady eyes staring in our faces and shaming us all for our singleness and lack of appeal.

  For the first two years of my freshman and sophomore high school existence, I’d feel really down about my boyfriend-less state. What was funny was that every year I still held out hope that someone would randomly remember the shy girl from primary school and send her a cupcake. That was all I wanted. One acknowledgement. One cupcake. My sophomore year, I thought that day had arrived. I went to the bathroom to escape the joyous Valentine’s boasting that was occurring in my classroom and when I returned a cupcake was on my desk. Almost delirious with joy, I rushed to my desk and picked up the cupcake, trying to read the tag taped to the toothpick which would identify the boy that had sent it.

  “Oops, sorry Melody. I put my cupcake down on your desk for a second, since you had so much space.” A peer explained.

  The girl was not known to be a mean one, but that day she hurt my feelings so much so, that when I got into the car that evening, I broke down and cried right there, not even waiting for my bathroom floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Daddy asked me.

  “Everyone got a cupcake, Daddy. I nev
er get cupcakes. It’s so unfair.”

  “I can send you a cupcake,” Daddy reasoned.

  “No, Dad. You’d just make it worse.”

  Noticing that he wasn’t consoling me, Daddy offered, “We can stop by the store and I’ll buy my baby a whole cake right now.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” and then I started to rail, “But everyone is getting at least five nowadays. And this girl, she got a huge bouquet of roses, Dad. And another girl got a basket of chocolate tied with these… with these adorable red ribbons and it was so embarrassing because I didn’t get anything. I was just there watching it all and I felt so ashamed.”

  Daddy navigated the car through the Belize City evening traffic. “Well Melody, you don’t know what all those young ladies went through in order to get those baskets. Before you beat up on yourself, remember that things aren’t always as they appear. All you see is a cupcake, but you don’t know the story behind every one.”

  I mulled over my father’s words and applied it to Valentine’s Day the next year where things got even more embarrassing. In order to promote order in the school, the teachers began to head the cupcake awarding. And yes, they were awarded to the girls, with all the pomp and circumstance of a plaque or a Nobel Prize. The teacher would call up the girl and she’d receive each and every one of her cupcakes with the entire class looking on and applauding at the appropriate times.

  “Noel Baker, fifteen cupcakes.”

  “Oh, Tricia Nandwini, a bouquet of roses.”

  “Nina Panabaker, a lovely teddy bear.”

  My name was never called and I was never applauded on Valentine’s Day, but my father’s words had instigated a coping mechanism that became a passion. I’d explain away each and every gift depending on my personal affection for the girl receiving the ‘prize’. For those I didn’t like, I invented stories describing the reasons behind the gifts and normally the stories weren’t about love. Who knew that the incredibly stupid Valentine’s Day cup cake exchange would impact the course of my life?

  I was grateful for the life lesson that Valentine’s Day afforded me that one year, but I still hated the day with a passion, even as a twenty year old adult, three years removed from high school. And you would think that things improve as people mature, but they never do. The BTB was decked out this February with all the fancy decorations and the mood music and of course cupids. Those diapered babies with dangerous weapons were everywhere. It was frightening.

  I sat at my work desk and eyed the plastic cupid doll on my table. Wherever I went those beady little eyes watched me, creeping me out with the promises of love and companionship. Ugh. It took everything in me to keep from getting the paper guillotine and performing one last good old fashioned cupid beheading. The office was unusually quiet, lending to my slow slip into Valentine’s Day insanity. Missy was off doing what Missy does best: worming her way out of work. I think she seriously considered February the 14th a public and bank holiday. She was annoying and way too lazy for her own good, but at least with Missy around, her incessant talking made thinking impossible. I would almost say that I missed her.

  Kill me now.

  John Myth’s inestimably romantic hit single “All of Me” played over the speakers.

  All of me, loves all of you.

  Ah, shut up.

  I heard a knock on my door. Sylvia, the receptionist, poked her head into the huge square space,

  “Melody, would you come sign your check voucher please.”

  “Whoa, it’s four already, Sylv,”

  She giggled, “Actually, since it’s Valentine’s Day they’re letting everyone go an hour early so they can get ready for their hot dates.”

  Whupee. At least I was going home early.

  “Thanks. Just let me shut down my computer and I’ll be right out.”

  She nodded twice and strutted down the hall to alert the others in the next office over. I watched her do that quickly and then threw the plastic cupid in the garbage when she passed the hall again, returning to the front desk.

  Good riddance, stupid Cupid.

  Ha, that rhymed.

  Shutting down my computer quickly, I grabbed my purse and locked my office door. As I walked down the hall to the front, I rummaged through my bag for my pen.

  Ooh, found a mint sweet.

  I popped it into my mouth and then continued my search. Sylv had these abominable Valentine’s themed pens on her desks. The chick was a nice girl but she got a little too carried away with the holidays and I would rather die than put my hand on any Valentines’ –

  “Oof,” Engrossed in my pen search, I stepped directly into the path of a coworker. Wow, I didn’t know any of my coworkers worked out like that. That was a pretty tough wall of abs I bumped into. Hurrying to apologize for my lack of attention, I looked up, swallowed the mint, and started choking.

  No, literally. I was dying. I was dying.

  Suddenly realizing that I wasn’t some unionized actress who would fake a death scene upon seeing her ex… whatever, Spencer turned me over and performed the Heimlich. The mint sweet flew out of my throat and landed somewhere in the carpet.

  Gross.

  “You know guys normally buy me dinner first.” I croaked.

  Spencer’s all too potent ghost grin flitted across his face, “Melody, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

  It felt like getting hit by a lightning bolt when our gazes met.

  Okay, I admit it. For the first two months after the States trip, I’d waited for Spencer to come for me. I had it all planned out in my mind. It would play out just like in the Romantic Comedies where the hero rushes to the airport and begs the heroine to stay. But after weeks of absolutely nothing, I’d learned not to get my hopes up. That chapter of my life was closed. It hurt too much to keep hoping and getting slammed with disappointment.

  “I can answer that. I had this whole speech in my head but now that I’m here, now that I see you... I need a minute.” His eyes traced every inch of my face. I didn’t want to, but I was powerless against the desire to do the exact same thing, soaking in his presence like the sand soaks the waves.

  Finally, he cleared his throat,

  “I – uh – I originally planned to quote some Pride and Prejudice. I know how you loved that book. I thought I’d take some notes from Darcy’s marriage proposal.”

  I crossed my arms, “So you planned to tell me how much we don’t belong together?”

  “I was going to, but I can’t. I’m no wordsmith like you, Melody.”

  “Please get to the point, Spencer.”

  “The point is I love you.” Spencer blurted.

  I shook my head, resisting the childish urge to cover my ears and protect what was left of my heart.

  “No, you can’t say that.”

  “I. Love. You.” Spencer repeated more confidently than before.

  I stepped back, “You-you think you can just waltz back into my life and stand there looking sexy and tell me that you love me and expect-”

  “I don’t expect anything, Melody. I just needed to let you know that.”

  He turned to walk away. He was leaving!

  “The same way you loved on Tiffany?” I accused. He froze and whirled back around.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  Did he think he could take me for cunnu munnu, for a fool?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I saw Tiffany, after the party that night when I left. I came back the next morning and I saw her.”

  The the scene flashed in my mind. A bed tousled Tiffany. A blue Oxford shirt. My hollow chest steeled over as the walls tumbled firmly back into place.

  “Melody,” Spencer returned to stand before me, “I give you my word. Nothing happened. I got drunk after you left that night. Tiffany and Peyton took me home. They were both in my house that morning while I was passed out on my bed. Alone. Nothing happened. I w
asn’t that drunk.”

  I looked away. His urgent voice called me back to him, “You have to believe me. I don’t know what you saw, but I can call Peyton right now to verify-”

  “Stop talking!”

  I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not when everything in my life was just settling into place.

  “I didn’t come here to upset you.” He raked a hand through his hair causing it to stand on end. Even the new crazy Mohawk look was doing things to me. He made to walk away again and I held his hand, halting his progress. I let it go quickly.

  “What,” I licked my lips, “What do you love. About me?”

  I didn’t care if the question made me sound pathetic. I needed to know what it was that would cause this good-looking, successful man to catch a plane and come to Belize to profess his love to me.

  He smiled and recaptured my hand. “That’s the easiest question I’ll ever have to answer.” A block of the wall in my heart crumbled with each declaration, “I love that you have the most know-it-all attitude of the century.”

  “Hey!” I protested, but he quieted me with a look. “It’s not my fault if I’m usually always right,” I muttered before quieting and allowing him to continue.

  “I love that you’re clumsy and awkward and when you’re nervous you blurt everything that you’re thinking.”

  I looked away embarrassed. Spencer gently turned my jaw, urging my eyes back to him.

  “I love your intelligence, your innocence, your dedication to your values.”

  He stepped closer, caging me against the wall with his arms. I tried unenthusiastically to wriggle free but the earnestness in his brown eyes stayed me.

  “I love your hair,” he wound a finger through a curl, “When it’s out and crazy looking.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him but I could already feel a grin growing.

  “I love your body. Especially your booty. It’s the perfect little rounded shape-”

  “Spencer!”

  He laughed, “I do,” And then more seriously, he continued, “I love your smile. Your accent. And your eyes. When you look at me with those beautiful eyes, I think to myself, “I’ve got to be a better man so I’ll be worthy of her.”