Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  Crap. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed that debacle, half-hoping that my embarrassing display of temper wasn’t seen and half-hoping a Good Samaritan would step in and return my card to me. Children tugged on their mothers arms, guiding them to the vendors standing on both sides of the gates. A young man sang about love and loss somewhere in the throng. I could hear the thrumming of his guitar intertwining with the ceaseless chatter of the subway station and intermingling with the ta-dum of the incoming trains. I was safe from prying eyes. For now.

  I glanced helplessly at that disgusting blue card resting so peacefully on the ground just a few feet from me. I looked at it again, gauging the distance of the card from the turnstile then I looked to my arm, measuring the limb. I could reach that. I knew I could. Keeping an eye out for any police officers or security guards, I inched closer to the fare gate and twisted my arm through the space closest to the ground. Groaning, I stretched, stooping down to direct my stubby limb.

  Ah, curse my mother’s 5”2’ genes! It was mere centimeters out of reach. I brushed the dirt off my hands and squeezed even closer to the cold metal of the turnstile. Almost there… Almost there…

  “Ma’am,” I hard voice sounded behind me, “I have to ask you to come with me.” In my awkward position, I craned my neck to see a heavyset security guard standing over me, his brows lowered, hands on hips. The shiny gold plate on his label read: OSCAR CERVANTES, SUBWAY GUARD.

  Oh crap.

  “I can explain,” I stammered as I tried to maneuver out of the pretzel yoga position I’d employed to get to the subway card.

  “Ma’am, you are in violation of Code 596. I’d like you to extricate yourself from the fare gate and follow me.”

  I succeeded in doing the former, but as I stood, an evil thought popped into my head.

  You could so totally outrun this guy.

  A quick survey of the fluffy security person convinced me that maybe, just maybe, I could make a run for it. I mean, come on! I was a visitor in the States about to get busted for something that was a complete misunderstanding. Okay, running was a last resort. The least I could do was to explain exactly what I was doing. And who knows, maybe Mr. Police Man would understand.

  “Officer,” I began, “By mistake I threw my bus pass over there,” I pointed to the ground where my card lay then did a double take. I was almost positive my card had been about three feet away from me. Or at least it used to be. No square blue plastic card rested where it had been just moments before.

  Looked like I couldn’t explain my way out of this one.

  “Hey,” I shouted, “What’s that over there?”

  Unfortunately, Mr. Officer didn’t fall for that one. What I thought would have given me a head start, actually tipped Sir. Eats-a-Lot to my plan. Thank God for obesity in America because I ran for all I was worth.

  “Excuse me!” I called as I jumped over a waiting bench and zigg zagged around a group of hippies handing out “Save the Whales” flyers. I grabbed one and used it to shield my face as I raced out of the station and up the stairs, quickly ducking into a store to avoid my tail. Peeking through the glass window to see if my ruse had worked, I looked on with joy as the security guy looked right and left, then flung his hand in a frustrated wave of defeat. I was safe.

  Breathing hard and fast, my heart racing like a cyclist during the New Year’s Cycling Classics, I weaved through a few more stores just to be safe and then caught a cab, deciding to never return to the underground horror of subway trains. I’d remain above ground, thank you very much.

  When I got to the company apartment, Mr. Hunkster and his delicious looks and bitter attitude had been replaced in my mind by Sir Biggy. I was so done with America.

  “Where have you been?” A shrill voice called out as soon as I stepped through the door. Missy Garbutt strode into the room in all her 2014 Queen of the Bay splendor. I don’t get jealous often, but when I do the person is usually worth the envy. Missy was one of those people. With her classically beautiful features, fair skin and long flowing black hair, it was no wonder that Missy won the pageant this September and got Miss February in the Belikin Beer calendar every year. Missy got attention from every red-blooded male in Belize and she’d gotten quite a few looks over here as well. I guess men are the same everywhere.

  Professionally, I had no idea what Missy was doing here, apart from the fact that her uncle was the assistant director of the Board. She’d been given the job description of “Belizean Cultural Representative” and she was doing a bang up job at it if it only included shopping and flirting with the American men. I didn’t say anything, however. I was thankful for my job and didn’t put up a fuss.

  “I was… out.” I replied vaguely, wondering if the FBI and CSI: LA would be alerted about the crazy curly haired brown woman that looked like she was trying to slip into the train station. I wondered if posters of me would flash on the news and if the media would dub me the “Subway Sneak”.

  “You were out?” Missy hissed, interrupting my mental meltdown. “What did you do?”

  Sugar Crap! My face was plastered over the television, I knew it!

  “I can explain. It was a huge misunderstanding,” I rushed to defend, “The card was in the station and I was only trying to get it back-”

  Missy gaped at me as if I’d told her I wanted to move to Antarctica to take up ice pole dancing.

  “Melody Reyes, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  She shook her head, her straight ebony mane moving gracefully as she did so. I glared at the hair in envy, wishing my hair would do that. My riotous curls stuck straight out as though I’d walked through a lightning storm.

  Stupid straight hair.

  Missy was talking. I zoned back in to the conversation,

  “Mr. Clooney called me this morning.”

  My face crinkled in confusion. Mr. Clooney was the Tourism Department Director and my immediate boss.

  “Why did he call?”

  Missy looked nervous. Her uncle couldn’t protect her from Clooney.

  “He said to cancel our flight on Friday because we have a meeting with the CEO of Maladon Resorts.”

  “Mr. Thomas? Oh my gosh. Was Mr. Thomas upset about my speech this morning?”

  My chest tightened with fear. This was it. I wasn’t going to be jailed and deported but I was going to lose my job. This was worse. This information consultation job was one of the only jobs I’d enjoyed in a long string of crappy ones.

  Missy was pacing again.

  “I knew I should have gone with you this morning!”

  Why didn’t you? Oh right you were too busy spending your Daddy’s money. I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I bit my tongue. Missy wasn’t necessarily the sharpest cookie in the Oreos. I butchered that phrase but the point remains. Of course, I am not prejudiced against beauty pageant women. Plenty of intelligent, well spoken females participate in these contests. But Missy wasn’t one of them. I suspected she’d used this business trip as a free, tax-payer paid vacation.

  “If you get us in trouble, Melody…” she threatened. A barb burst to my tongue but once again I held it back. This day was not getting better at all.

  Remain calm, girl, keep quiet.

  “Let me see your notes,” Missy commanded, holding out her long manicured fingers. She probably would have been able to reach the card, I thought sourly, as I reached into my purse and fished the papers from their folder.

  “Why do you need to see them?”

  “In case he asks us questions about the meeting of course,” Missy breezily replied. I thrust the papers into her hands and watched her flip page after page.

  After a few minutes of perusal, Missy raised her hands in exasperation. “This makes no sense!” she cried.

  I withheld a smirk. Of course it didn’t. Missy had no idea what it took to actually do my work. Absently, I withdrew the papers from her and studied them,
calming her down as I delivered a short synopsis of the information discussed in the meeting.

  “Mr. Maladon was giving a presentation on the benefits of off-shore...”

  My words trailed as my eyes registered the information on the paper. These were not my notes!

  “Missy!” I yelled, panic in my voice.

  “What! What!” she shrieked, her glass-shattering tone totally not aiding my frazzled frame of mind.

  “They’re not here.” I shuffled through the papers in my hand with frenzied desperation, “Missy, they’re not here.”

  A few pages from my notes were present but a large number of the pages were replaced with sheets of Bills of Sales, trademark contracts, memorandums, and articles of association containing phrases I didn’t know or understand. I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned.

  Mr. Hunky-pants! We must have mixed our paperwork when we collided earlier. He had most of my notes and commentary on today’s presentation.

  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

  Missy glanced at me, reading the panic in my eyes.

  Together we chanted out loud,

  “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.”

  I was so losing my job.

  “What are we going to do?” Missy turned to me, her eyes going so wide, I feared they’d overtake her face.

  “I don’t know. Let me think, uh,” an idea came to me, “The folder, I brought home the folder with me. It should have information about today’s meeting.”

  “Right, the folder,” Missy visibly calmed down. “Well, go get it!”

  I excused Missy’s attitude and rushed to do just that. The glossy black folder with the Maladon Resorts logo embossed in gold looked as delectable to me as water in the desert. Scratch that, it looked as delectable as chocolate in the desert. I pulled the folder from my purse and opened it, Missy right beside me.

  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

  “Where’s the information?” Missy asked quizzically. I removed the brochures and complimentary note pad and pen from the folder. Missy snatched the brochure from me and read aloud,

  “Coupons for a free night at the Maladon Resort L.A… Wait, this isn’t helpful at all!”

  I sank onto the bed and covered my head with my hands.

  “I really have no idea how I messed things up this badly.”

  Missy stormed out of my room and headed to her own, shouting,

  “Well you better fix it before I call my uncle and tell him exactly who is responsible for making us lose the Maladon Resorts support for BTB!”

  I groaned, burrowing my face with my pillow. Have I mentioned how much I do not like that girl?

  “Fix it!” I heard her yell again.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I responded quietly.

  How in the Sam heck was I supposed to do that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I was younger, my favorite Disney princess was Princess Jasmine. I thought she was brave and fearless. She taught me that if ever a random man dressed in loose slacks and a turban asked me to take a ride on a flying carpet, I should say yes.

  And that I should tame a tiger. Tigers were cool.

  My principled Christian parents, however, had a problem with all the magic in the movie. They felt that the evil snake/genie that Jafar turned into when he was outwitted by Aladdin was subtly demonic. They felt that Cinderella was a much safer movie. To convince me to obsess about the tamer, more subservient princess, they bought me all the Cinderella DVDs, a Cinderella costume, and even planned me a Cinderella themed birthday party when I turned six. Their efforts to persuade me didn’t take root.

  I never could stomach Cinderella. My five year old mind saw very simple solutions to her problems. Problem number one: the evil step-mother and step-sisters. The solution was obviously to run away from her step-mother and spit in her step-sister’s foods. And why oh why did the prince not remember Cinderella’s face? It wasn’t like she wore a mask or wore tons of face-changing make-up. Instead of going to the trouble of trying the shoe on every female foot in the realm, the prince could have just drawn a sketch of his mystery girl and posted it around the kingdom. I mean I would have preferred that if I was Cinderella. If some prince had taken my shoe and let a bunch of random girls put their stinky feet in it, I wouldn’t have wanted to wear it again.

  Ironically, the next morning fifteen years later, I woke up in a Prince Charming frame of mind. I needed to search the Kingdom for the jerk of my dreams. I’d literally dreamed about Hunky Guy last night. In my dream, I wasn’t tongue-tied and I told Mr. Hunky that the elevator could hit him where the good Lord split him. Unfortunately, that little piece of gold would need to wait until after he gave me back my commentary from yesterday’s conference.

  The meeting with the Maladon CEO was set for two in the afternoon. At 7:30 am, I was dressed and at the Cellulite Tower, hoping beyond hope that Hunky Jerk Face worked somewhere in that huge building. Last night, I’d tried to Google him but without a name it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Or a foot that matched a magic shoe. Well, actually it was nothing like that Cinderella reference, I was just trying to force that in.

  I’d tried everything I could think of. I even typed “Top Ten Sexy Asian Businessmen” in the search box to no avail. If plan A didn’t work, I was seriously considering going to every female in the building and asking if they knew the name of Hunky-Face. I’m sure a man that looked like that left a distinct impression, even without bumping into anyone. In the meantime, Plan A was basic and much less time consuming.

  I’d drawn a crude sketch of my Mystery Man with my rudimentary artistic skill. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of potentially losing my job and being hyper aware of any breaking news stories about “Subway Sneaks”, I felt an uncanny connection to Prince Charming’s dilemma and his urgent need to find his girl. Except I didn’t plan to touch anyone’s feet. That was gross. I only wanted my notes back, and hopefully it would all be a quick, easy, and uncomplicated process.

  After getting dressed, I stomped into Missy’s room. The girl lay sprawled on her bed, drool flowing like a river from her mouth to her pillow.

  Gross.

  “Gyal, get up,” I hissed.

  Missy moaned and rolled over, carrying a string of spit with her. How could someone that physically beautiful be such a disgusting sleeper? I eyed the fluffy pillow underneath the baba’d one. Grabbing it, I raised the pillow above my head and swung down with all my might.

  “Mama!” Missy shot out of that bed as if a hundred rabid raccoons were on her tail. I couldn’t hold back my guffaws.

  “Not funny, Reyes,” She yelled when she realized that I was the one who had given her such physical wake up call. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving in the next fifteen minutes. Feel free to get dressed and come help me find this guy.”

  “No way,” she rejected, climbing back into bed. With one swift movement, she grabbed the pillow from my grip and moved it far away from reach, “You got us into this mess; you clean it up by yourself.”

  “Are you always this charming in the morning?” I asked sarcastically.

  Missy grinned sardonically, “You bring out the best in me.”

  With a roll of my eyes, I turned and left the room. There was nothing more to say.

  I steamed all the way to the bus stop. How could someone be that self-centered and not get shot? And why on earth was I the one shackled to her? I must have committed a really major sin.

  My mama’s voice whispered in my ear, “Missy is here to teach you patience.”

  Pff, patience?

  I shook my head to dislodge my mother’s wisdom. But the words had merit. I did recall praying for patience a few weeks ago, and Mom always warned that when someone prays for patience, God sends trials that will make them need it. Obviously, Missy was my pain in the butt of a lesson. That girl had such a grand talent for working my nerves, it had to be divine.

  Annoyed out of my mind, I got of
f the bus and crossed the walkway to the Cellulite Towers. I was so not in the mood for anyone else to test me this morning. And that attitude inadvertently came out in my salutation as I walked up to the slim American girl with the big smile behind the big receptionist desk.

  “Morning,” I said, with a tip of my head and a downward turn of my lips.

  “Good morning,” she chimed back in that high-pitched voice so common to Americans. Was everyone in this country so cheery? Weird.

  “Hi, I’m wondering if you could help me locate someone.”

  I forked the crudely drawn picture of Mr. Hunky Man out of my purse and handed it to Madam Sunshine. As soon as she accepted the sketch from me, her smile dimmed and her eyes got wide. I’d sufficiently de-bubblified her. I didn’t know why and I didn’t how, but I felt a tide of satisfaction wash over me at the accomplishment.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, we’re an information desk not a detective agency. We simply don’t give away names like that in this building.”

  Her words perplexed me. “Miss, I ran into this man yesterday and there was a mix up and-” I tried to explain but the secretary interrupted me, all perkiness gone now.

  “If you don’t know who you’re looking for then I really can’t help you, ma’am. Maybe try to get a name or something.”

  She returned the sketch to me, but I persisted, pushing the paper under her nose.

  “But he has my papers!” My voice had turned shrill. The woman took in the caricature, her eyes wide in recognition. I knew she could help me. Why was the white girl being so stubborn?

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, the gentleman is a very private man. You need to leave if you don’t have an appointment.”

  “But-”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I cannot help you. If you have no official business in the Cellulite Towers, please leave.”

  “Lady, you have no idea who you are dealing with here.” I growled, unappreciative of her tone and attitude toward me.