The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks

by Monroe, Max

  I forced my focus to my wine and the row of televisions hanging above the bar, but I could still see every move Ollie made out of my periphery.

  Each sip of beer.

  Each soft chuckle and witty comment that left his lips.

  Every-fucking-thing.

  It was annoying, and I drank my wine faster to compensate.

  Before I knew it, the damn glass was empty, and I was more than prepared to make a break for my hotel room.

  “Mind bringing her another, mate?” Ollie called toward the bartender, gesturing to my glass.

  I tried to interject my refusal, but he wasn’t having it.

  “Her drinks go on my tab, and that’s not a suggestion,” he added and Tom grinned.

  “You got it.”

  I glared at Ollie. “I don’t need you to buy me drinks.”

  “Maybe I need to buy your drinks?” he said, and my wine-infused mind swam with confusion. I was supposed to be sleeping by now, and that didn’t make any sense. I told him as much.

  “To you, maybe it doesn’t. But to me? It makes complete sense.”

  A few moments later, another glass of wine was in front of me, and Ollie turned in my direction, giving me his full attention.

  Great. More alcohol. More Ollie. It was one bad situation after another.

  And God, his big presence made me feel off-kilter. Why a man who was so damn annoying could still be so unbelievably attractive in my eyes was—and is—one of life’s greatest mysteries.

  In response to it all, I lifted my glass to my lips and took a hearty drink I most certainly didn’t need.

  “Seems you were getting along well with Jordy at the gala,” he said, and I quirked a brow as I set my glass back onto the bar.

  “Jordy?”

  “Fuller.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s very nice,” I answered.

  Jordy Fuller was nice. Probably a little too nice for my usual taste in men, but that was my cross to bear, not his.

  I searched Ollie’s eyes as his question really sank in. “Wait…how’d you even know I talked to Jordy Fuller?”

  He winked, and I hated how damn good his arm looked as he lifted his pint of beer to his lips for a drink.

  A little information about me: I’m a sucker for big, strong, sculpted arms, and even a little bit of alcohol loosens my inhibitions.

  Ollie’s arms might as well be the equivalent of fucking lollipops in my mind. Thick, sculpted biceps, strong forearms, and heavy, healthy veins. Yeah, my vagina was awake and geared up to work against me.

  “I guess you could say I know things.”

  I really needed to get out of there, and swaying toward a loss of my defenses, I cheered on the antagonistic portion of my mind.

  “You know that sounds kind of creepy, right?”

  He just grinned. “I’m just an observant kind of man, little fire.”

  “Little fire,” I sighed and rolled my eyes at the same time. “If I never hear that nickname again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “Still feisty, I see.”

  “Still annoying, I see,” I retorted, and that grin of his grew wider.

  But before he could continue poking at me with his words, a female voice purred for his attention. “Oliver Arsen.”

  Full-on cat in heat, friends.

  “Annabelle,” Ollie greeted the tall, stick-thin, gorgeous blond striding toward him, standing from his seat to embrace the beautiful woman in a friendly hug. “It’s been a while.”

  “More like, it’s been too long.” She pouted. A full-on glossy pink lips pout. “I didn’t even know you were back in the country, you jerk,” she added and playfully slapped his bicep. “Why haven’t you called me?”

  “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. I’m only here for another night, and then I’m off to Bali in the morning.”

  “But you’re here tonight,” she said pointedly, and he nodded.

  “Yes, I’m here tonight.”

  Instantly, at his words, she reached into her purse and pulled out a hotel room key.

  By that point in the conversation, I couldn’t have looked away if I’d wanted to.

  I mean, guys, I have never been that bold in my life. Flirty, yes. A serial dater? Yes.

  But with her pheromones straight up clogging the air and her legs practically spread from the get-go, I just had to know what would happen.

  Would Ollie take her proposition? Would they even make it out of the bar if he did?

  I had no idea.

  And the suspense, you should know, was killing me.

  “I’m staying here for the rest of the week, wining and dining potential clients,” she said, sliding the key in his direction and fluttering her eyelashes a little too much to seem natural. “It would be nice to catch up.”

  Ollie’s response was the absolute last one I saw coming.

  “I’d love to, but like I said, I’m heading to Bali early tomorrow morning.”

  She pouted again but brushed off his rejection with actual impressive ease.

  As I’m sure you know by now, I’m not sure I would have handled it quite as gracefully.

  And before I knew it, with a little wave, Annabelle turned on her heel and sashayed her way back out of the bar.

  When Ollie sat back down, the opening was too easy.

  “You seem to get along well with Annabelle,” I teased, repeating his earlier words to me about Jordy.

  “Something like that.” He grinned and tipped his glass to his lips for a small drink, and I couldn’t help but be fascinated at the way he brushed off the interaction.

  I mean, the woman had all but handed him her room key.

  But I guessed, when it came to willing females, it was easy for a man like Oliver Arsen. Easy come, easy go. Easy to wait for the next opportunity.

  “So, you’re one of those guys,” I blurted out, and his eyebrows rose up in surprise.

  “One of what guys?”

  “The no-commitment, one-night stand, only dates blond models with perky tits kind of guys.”

  Also known as, exactly like all of my ex-boyfriends kind of guy.

  He had the audacity to laugh. “Nah. I’m more of a when I like what I see, I have to at least get a taste kind of guy.”

  I snorted. “You’re a bit of a pig, you know that?”

  “No, sweet Lucky, I’m honest.” He leaned closer and whispered into my ear, “I think we both know you quite enjoy my honesty.”

  I hated how I could feel the warmth of his breath brush across my neck.

  I hated how the soft lilt of his accent rolled off his tongue and across my skin like a silky-smooth caress.

  And I hated how I could make out each fleck of gold within the alluring brown of his eyes.

  People often speak about the color of eyes as if it’s important, but Ollie’s eyes would be beautiful in any shade. From them comes this intensity, a power to induce a trance, and the mischievousness that lies within them urges fantasies and curiosities of what very bad and extremely arousing things those eyes of his could encourage.

  I was certain he’d taste like sex and sin, and the instant his flavor reached my tongue, I’d be hooked.

  His eyes flicked down to my mouth, and I watched as his tongue slipped past his teeth and tasted the residual beer on his lips.

  I needed to back away from the bad man before I did something stupid.

  I willed myself to sit back in my seat and put some much-needed distance between us. I reminded myself of Tiago and Mac and Ronnie and Josh. And I used those awful memories to get my head right.

  “You know what I think?” I asked, finally taking charge of the evening.

  “What do you think, little fire?”

  “I think I’m going to call it a night,” I responded and pulled my purse off the back of my chair and slung it over my shoulder.

  I hopped off the high-top bar seat, fought past the uncomfortable sensation of numb legs, tossed a tip to Tom, and offered a wave in Ollie’s friends’ dir
ection.

  First stop, elevator. Next stop, my room.

  Final destination? A clear fucking head.

  I hated that a simple, maybe even slightly flirtatious, conversation with Ollie had turned me topsy-turvy. I hated that his big, gorgeous eyes and full, soft lips turned me stupid. I hated that he had the power to get a reaction out of me with just his words, and I hated that the more I saw him, the harder it became to remember how to hate.

  [deep sigh]

  Just like with all the jerks before, the things I hated the most just so happened to be the things I couldn’t resist.

  Talk about complicated.

  Without sugarcoating it for you now, I’ll admit to the truth.

  It was a regular fucking Betty Crocker recipe for disaster.

  * * *

  Episode 5: “Bali Hai. Bali Low. Jerk cravings, please please go.”

  Have you ever seen the movie South Pacific?

  Unless you have a father like Rick Wright, who is pretty much cuckoo crazy for old movies, I’m going to go ahead and guess that you haven’t.

  The movie itself was based off a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical and made in 1958, otherwise known as a long-ass time ago.

  [laughs softly]

  But, see, I do have a father named Rick Wright, and ever since I was a little girl, I was raised watching old movies, including South Pacific.

  Inside that movie, there is a song called “Bali Ha’i.” It’s a bit of a haunting tune in certain ways, but boy oh boy, is it catchy. And once you hear the chorus, you can’t forget it.

  The name itself refers to a mystical island, just visible on the horizon but unreachable. And to the American troops in the movie, the island is this exotic, but otherwise off-limits, place.

  Why am I telling you about this song?

  For one, when I’d stepped foot in Bali, that song had been stuck inside my head nonstop.

  And two? Well, it’s a pretty damn good metaphor.

  Exotic, but off-limits.

  Enticing, but forbidden.

  You see what I’m getting at here?

  If you’re not quite there yet, don’t worry, you’ll see …

  [takes audible sip of water and clears throat]

  So, I’d been in Bali for forty-eight hours, and I’d yet to really understand how one place could be so damn beautiful.

  The outstretched, blue-as-the-sky water.

  The gorgeous tropical landscape of palm trees and thick, hearty nature.

  And a luscious display of white sand that went on for what felt like miles.

  The exotic destination made all of my Florida beach vacations with my family look pathetic in comparison.

  As the second day of the competition had officially come to a close, I watched from the sand as the last competitor of the day carried his board out of the water, and once he reached dry land, he shook the remnants of water out of his hair.

  The crowd’s energy waned as they began to pack up their belongings, and the judges worked hard to tally the final scores.

  With a few more things on my to-do list for the day, I made my way back toward the large tent that had been placed for the competitors of the event.

  Walking up the beach sounds like a fairly easy task, right?

  Wrong. The heels of my stilettos slipped irritatingly deep into the sand with each step, and every four or five steps, I had to pause and stabilize my balance.

  I was all about making fashion statements and dressing in clothes that made me feel good, but holy cannoli, heels at the beach was one of the dumbest things I’d ever attempted.

  [laughs softly]

  I know, I know, you’re probably rolling your eyes right now. It’s completely warranted. Only a moron would wear heels to the beach.

  And, unfortunately for me, I’d been completely moronic that day.

  My calves burned and sand made its way between my toes, and it only took another few feet of irritating friction for me to throw up the white fashion flag and slip off the damn things.

  I loved those shoes, but they were not worth blisters, or worse, falling face first into the sand.

  Honestly, how I’d managed eight hours in the suckers was beyond a miracle.

  The instant I stepped beneath the large white tent, I switched my focus toward the fact that my first article would be due to Vanessa by the end of the week.

  Thankfully, my eyes locked with the gaze of the exact person I was hoping to sit down with for a few interview questions.

  Jordy Fuller.

  Now barefoot, I headed his way with a smile.

  “Unlucky Lucky,” he greeted with a grin as he unzipped the top part of his wet suit. His muscles rippled and curled as he slid his arms out of the long sleeves and adjusted the black material until it sat at a comfortable spot on his waist.

  The man had quite the body. A surfer’s body.

  And, after spending nearly forty-eight hours watching these competitors tackle some of the fiercest waves I’d ever seen, I’d found that this version of the professional athlete body was a cross between a tall, lean swimmer and a stacked football god.

  [laughs softly]

  Yeah, these men were real easy on the eyes, if you know what I’m sayin’.

  Their physiques were built for speed and strength, and more than a few times over the past few days, my mind had drifted into daydreams about what that would equate to inside the bedroom.

  I’m not normally that pervy of a thinker, but did I mention the surfer bodies?

  Yeah, those would inspire a dirty diatribe of thoughts in just about anyone. Especially someone who didn’t have the kind of surf knowledge that would distract them with technical mumbo jumbo.

  “Looks like you had a successful day,” I acknowledged, and he just shrugged.

  “I guess I did all right.”

  He was so full of shit. He’d done fan-fucking-tastic.

  After the scores he’d received for that day’s round of wave riding, he’d kept his number one spot and even gained some headway on Noah Wallace, his biggest competitor and the man who currently sat behind him in the overall scores.

  “I’m pretty sure we both know you did more than just all right,” I retorted, and a confident little smirk settled on his lips as he changed the subject.

  “How is your day going?” he asked. “Learn anything new?”

  “Besides never to wear stilettos to the beach?” I responded, and he glanced down at the shoes hanging from my right hand. “I guess I learned a few new things.”

  A soft chuckle left his lips, and he squinted into the sun as he met my gaze again. “Such as?”

  “Bali has gnarly waves.”

  He grinned at my choice in surfer lingo. “That it does. It’s one of my favorite spots in the world.”

  “Is that right?”

  “There’s nothing like Bali in June. Hell, I was damn near frothing over the waves I’d get to ride today.”

  “Frothing?” I questioned and scrunched up my nose. “Is that surfer slang for something?”

  “It’s another way to say excited.”

  “Oh, gotcha.” I dug my toes into the sand as he took a towel to his head and removed the residual drops of ocean water from his wet hair.

  He tossed the damp towel onto the table beside him and turned his full attention back to me. “So what are Ms. Journalist’s plans for the day?”

  “I was kind of hoping for a quick interview…”

  “With who?”

  I would have corrected his “who” to “whom,” but—and I’m speaking from experience here—it turns out strangers find it mildly distasteful if you correct their grammar in a public forum.

  “Well…” I paused, and a soft laugh left my throat before I added, “You, actually.”

  His blue eyes lit up with surprise. “Really?”

  “Of course,” I responded on an incredulous laugh. “You’re the current number one surfer in this competition. I mean, I might not know much about surfing, but I’m pret
ty sure I can figure out who the important players in this game are just by looking at the scores…”

  He laughed at that. “I guess you have a point there, huh?”

  “So…do you have a few minutes?”

  “I’m all yours.” He winked and sat down in one of the chairs beneath the big tent and then gestured for me to take the empty spot beside him. Just as my ass hit the chair, he added, “But first, you need to pinkie promise you’re not going to make me look bad.”

  A tiny giggle escaped my throat. “You know, that’s not really how interviews work.”

  “Humor me,” he said and held out the pinkie finger of his right hand. “Plus, I think you kind of owe me one, ya know? I kept your secret, so…”

  “What does this mean exactly?” I asked and made a show of scrutinizing his face. “If you give me answers that make you look like a total asshole, I’m just supposed to change it up so you look like some kind of Casanova?”

  “That sounds like a good plan to me.”

  “Fine.” I laughed and locked my pinkie finger with his. When our fingers separated, I added, “But that wasn’t a hard pinkie promise to make. You seem like a good guy, Jordy. I’ve yet to get any asshole vibes from you.”

  “Do you mind repeating that?” he asked and held up one index finger in my direction. “But first, let me get my mom on the line so she can hear it,” he teased, and I giggled in response.

  “Your mom doesn’t think you’re a good guy?” I questioned in disbelief as I pulled my phone out of my purse and opened up a fresh Google doc for my interview notes.

  He shrugged, stretched out his legs, and casually crossed both arms behind his head. “Once I finally settle down with a nice girl, get married, and pop out a few kids, I think she’ll stop worrying so much.”

  “You’re only twenty-three,” I said with a raise of my brow. “Pretty sure you have plenty of time for that.”

  “I know, right?” His eyes were wide and agreeing. “That’s exactly what I keep telling her. Maybe you should add a section in your next article that specifically states, Advice for Jordy Fuller’s mom.”