Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  “There’s a cafeteria in the building,” Susan suggested, “Wanna check it out with me?”

  I agreed, for when my mind disengaged from my work, my stomach took the opportunity to plead for sustenance.

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  The cafeteria was teeming with suits, pencil skirts, and power pants. It smelt like untapped potential in here. Susan and I weaved through the occupied tables to select an empty bench on the balcony outside.

  “So, since I’m your L.A. best friend now-”

  “Wait, what?”

  Susan tilted her head and innocently blinked, “I’m appointing myself your L.A. best friend so that I can ask you personal questions I probably shouldn’t ask my boss.”

  I laughed. That girl was just too much.

  I picked up my hotdog and saluted her with it before taking a deep bite, “Ask away.”

  “Okay,” she mulled over her first question, dipping a chip into her nacho supreme lunch, “Why’d you go the route of public relations/copy-writer person?”

  I gave her a quizzical look.

  She shrugged, “I read your file from HR. People in there do anything for red velvet cheesecakes.”

  Shaking my head in amusement, I answered her nosey question, “The BTB job was an open door that I walked through.”

  Susan scoffed, “That was nice and vague.”

  Changing the topic I questioned, “What about you? Why choose law?”

  She spoke honestly, “I like the fairness of law. Justice isn’t a privilege. It’s a right.” I smiled, but she could read something in my face for she quickly acquiesced, “I know people think that all lawyers lie and cheat and get in the way of justice. But that’s why the world needs more lawyers like me.”

  “Well said,” We toasted with my half-eaten hotdog and her nacho chip.

  After work, I headed to the bus stop. Riding the Metro bus was an experience. Not only due to my lack of experience for I rarely rode the bus in Belize, but because of all the characters that I met on my fifteen minute commute. I could classify the American bus passengers that I’d encountered so far into four groups of people: The Cell-phone Junkie, The Homeless Sweet-Talker, The Napper, and The Costume Ballers.

  The Cell phone Junkie is the dude that discusses his entire life story right there on the bus. No intimate detail is left in the basket. Every skeleton is hung on the clothesline to dry. I’ve heard it all and I’ve only ridden the bus in L.A. for a few days. One man’s cheating on his wife. One woman got a nose job with the money meant to buy a new car. A young hoodie wearing twenty-something guy dropped out of college three months ago and didn’t tell his parents. The Cell phone Junkies are unisex, as I’ve found that both men and women enjoy having an audience for the personal drama of their lives although they pretend that they don’t. In fact, a Junkie or two has been known to glare at people when the bus quiets and they realize that they are the Gossip magazine of the evening.

  The Homeless Sweet-talker is a personal bias of mine as, more often than not, the homeless people riding the bus don’t mess with me at all. On the singular chance that they do, they’re usually well-mannered and respectful. As a Belizean, I had to note this. Our homeless people are a lot feistier especially in today’s day. Some of them get upset if you hand them a shilling when they asked for a dollar. I must admit, I’m basing this category on only one homeless person that sat beside me on the bus. Her name was Quinta and she’d simply had a tough break. Her soft-spoken personality and guilelessness bid me to help her out a little. I gave her a fifty and my business card, assuring her that she could call me anytime. Hopefully, Quinta was telling the truth and I didn’t get suckered out of fifty bucks.

  A bus rider that definitely gets robbed at least once is The Napper. This is the kind of person that finds the unending chatter of the other passengers and the careful rocking of the bus to be the best kind of sleeping serum. There are two kinds of Nappers: the one that holds his bag close to him and sleeps with one eye open and the one that stretches out on the bench, completely dead to the world. You can guess which one gets robbed. This practice continues until the unassuming Napper eventually becomes the careful one. It’s circle of life, L.A. style.

  Last but certainly not least are the Costume Ballers. These types of bus riders are my favorite because every time they get on the bus I feel like I’m at a Milan fashion show. The Ballers rock it all, ranging from hobo chic to beachwear; night on the town to night before Christmas. These people don’t give a crap about what they’re wearing or if it meets the general approval of society. There are a few Ballers who take it too far, whose dress has the potential to make other passengers really uncomfortable (this especially goes for the minimalist Costume Ballers who think that less covered up skin is more). But all in all, Costume Ballers are the ones who make the bus rides exciting.

  This evening the bus was relatively quiet and I was too tired to people watch. When I got off fifteen minutes later, I hadn’t observed any of my classes.

  Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.

  I trekked up the stairs to our apartment and wrestled with the lock until it opened.

  “Missy!” I called, “Are you home?”

  “Hey,” Missy strode out of her room, looking as healthy as an ox.

  “You feel better?” I asked her, not even hiding the lack of warmth in my voice.

  “Ooh, touchy this evening, aren’t we? For your information I went to the doctor today and he told me to take two weeks off.”

  “Really.” I arched an eyebrow, “What’s your diagnosis?”

  “Uh,” Her eyes searched the room, “I have high blood pressure.”

  “All of a sudden, you have high blood pressure and this random doctor relieved you from work for the exact duration of your stay here.”

  “Yup,” Missy said innocently, padding to the kitchen and removing our box of Pop-tarts from the cupboard, “Hey, you should probably go grocery shopping since there’s like nothing but Pop-Tarts in here.”

  I groaned, depositing my purse in the living room chair and following her to the kitchen, “Missy, why don’t you just go back to Belize.”

  “Oh you would like that wouldn’t you.” Her icy tone surprised me.

  “Whoa, what’s with the attitude?”

  Missy flipped her hair, “Do you honestly think I buy your whole nice girl act. I know you don’t like me,”

  Really? I thought I was better actor than that. Oh well.

  “Don’t try to turn this conversation back on me. Do you even have a signed doctor’s release form?”

  “No!” She yelled at me, “But it doesn’t matter because Uncle Drake already approved my sick leave.”

  I narrowed your eyes, “So what you’re saying is, you basically get a paid vacation while I go out and work every day?”

  “I’m sick.” Missy fake-coughed as evidence.

  Unbelievable.

  “You know what Missy, I don’t even care. You do what you do, and I’ll stay over here and do what I do.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Missy twirled her hair around her finger, “Hey, I wonder if Spencer’s available sometime this week. Did you get his number by chance?”

  I froze, fisting my hands and taking huge calming breaths before responding, “No, Missy. The last thing Spencer knows is that we went back to Belize on Saturday. He doesn’t know we exist anymore. Just forget about him.”

  Missy flounced in front of me and positioned herself on the couch, “He probably forgot about you, honey, that’s for sure. I, on the other hand, I’m a little harder to forget.”

  Is murder still ‘murder’ if no one finds the body? How on earth would I survive living with this girl for two weeks?

  Buck up, kiddo, I told myself, your job is a good one. You like working there. Missy’s uncle is your boss. Keep calm and ignore her.

  Right, she was only one privileged, bratty, and self-entitled pageant queen. How hard could it be? I’d been through a lot in the last three y
ears. If there was anything I could handle, it was Missy Garbutt.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As a child in Belize, my every need was met. I had no experiences with heavy disappointment or pain. All my immediate and extended family members were healthy and well. Even my great-grandmothers on both sides of my family were alive. I’d had my life set in a perfect little line. High school at the most prestigious academy in Belize, two years at the local sixth form, and three years at the University of the West Indies.

  I was so excited when my UWI acceptance letter arrived. I applied for every scholarship available. I lit my candles. Prayed. Fasted. Donated money to the church to “open the floodgates of heaven”. Despite my parents grave warnings that I should be prepared with a plan B in case my scholarship fell through, I’d remained steadfast in my faith. The Big Guy would come through for me. I prepared myself for my leaving. I bought suitcases. Paid for a dorm room. Told everyone who asked that I wouldn’t be in Belize the next school year.

  But then…

  June turned into July which turned into August. No scholarship awards rolled in. No generous benefactors who’d heard a quiet whisper from our Lord swaggered into my hope filled life. I held on until the very last second and even went into overtime. I started looking out for abandoned suitcases full of cash or maybe an old artifact that I could pawn for a payday, until finally I accepted that college was not in my eminent future.

  It had taken a lot out of me to pluck up under the intense disappointment and embarrassment. I had been so sure and reality was a pain in the butt. I spent a ridiculous amount of time at a variety of minimum wage jobs: waitressing, call centers, and even secretarial work. These employment opportunities lasted for about one month each before I either got sacked or bored. Those were hugely depressing life moments. Until that fateful day when Mom tossed a newspaper in my lap and I saw a vacancy at the BTB.

  Now working with the Maladon Public Relations Branch in LA of all places, researching surveys on socio-economic issues like poverty and unemployment and pin-pointing the proper areas of improvement-I felt like maybe the ups and downs of the past three years of my life were actually leading me to this moment.

  The past two weeks I’d felt such a surge of purpose. The shy little church girl from Belize had transformed into a big wig authority with her own assistant!

  Ha! In your face!

  The only bane of my blissful existence was Missy Garbutt.

  There were many nights when I contemplated throwing on a hoody, planting myself at some non-descript alley way and buying a gun so I that I could shoot her. When Missy wasn’t out shopping, going to the salon or hanging out with a crowd of snotty college kids that she’d met when she wondered onto a prestigious university campus, she was at the apartment complaining about life or worse, talking about her dreams of winning Miss. Universe. And I tried. I really did try to break behind the superficial shell that she weaved around herself. I knew instinctively that nobody simply came to be so shallow. There had to be a bit of good embedded deep, deep, deep down in that mannequin of a human being.

  Unfortunately, when a girl is used to getting everything she wants without any correction or direction and everyone consistently tells her how beautiful and privileged she is, she doesn’t see anything wrong with her behavior. Every time I tried to get through to Missy, maybe be a friend to her, she’d rake out her claws and taunt my singleness, my lack of status, or my appearance. In the beginning of her ‘sick leave’, I’d thought that Missy was supposed to room with me for a little longer. Maybe The Man Upstairs had some type of plan and one night Missy would confess that she was such an awful human being because of some tragedy that had happened in her life, I would offer to be there for her, and she’d magically transform into a bearable person.

  Unfortunately, that never happened. When fourteen days were up, Missy was forced to return to Belize and I could not have been more ecstatic. I think Susan was concerned for my mental well-being. I was literally on cloud nine. An apartment without Missy Garbutt in it was like cold Kool-aid on a hot day or the perfect song on the radio when you’re feeling down. I know, I know. It sounds so bad to speak such negative things about her, but I’m telling you, being Missy-less was a breath of fresh air after so long in the darkness.

  Ah yes, things were looking up.

  With all that had been going on in my life over the past two weeks, I’d honestly forgotten about Spencer Braden. Okay, forgotten isn’t the term I’m looking for. No one can choose to erase a man like Spencer Braden from memory. However, the Missy drama, my obligations at work, and my check-ins with the Belizean home base had crowded him out of the forefront of my mind.

  Our last encounter sixteen days ago, ended with a tender kiss, my first. I would never forget it, but I didn’t know what to do about it. My entire romantic experience with the opposite gender could fit into an American taco shell. All my guy friends in Belize were respectful of my innocence and fearful of my father. I was never a Cosmo or Seventeen Magazine kind of girl so I had no idea what the appropriate behavior was after a kiss with a stranger. I mean, was I supposed to have slapped him? Did the kiss mean that we were in some kind of relationship?

  I honestly had no idea. My grip on sanity slipped whenever I thought about that kiss or that man. I figured my safety would be ensured if I just kept my distance.

  Of course, hiding from Spencer Braden was one of the easiest things to do in a high rise building filled with thousands of people. The few times I did spot the yummy looking figure stalking anywhere in my vision, I’d hide behind something be it man or furniture. I soon learnt to leave work on time everyday and eat in the cafeteria for lunch so that I wouldn’t get caught. Despite the fact that Spencer Braden intrigued me, I wasn’t interested in whatever it is that he was selling. No matter how tempting the man.

  My success rate on the “Avoid Mr. Hunky” mission was blown to bits one week later. It was a crazy day at the office that Friday. Susan, my assistant (yup, still not used to saying that) was out sick and the service computers decided to revolt and give me a heart attack when it simply shut down with a very important file unsaved. I ended up staying at work until 7:30 waiting for the IT guys to get around to my machine. My hair was a mess because I’d run out of the only product that tamed it: virgin coconut oil and the stores I had become familiar with in my short sojourn did not sell that particular brand. Plus, my new fire red peep toed pumps were not properly broken in yet and so scraped my heel. All in all, I was not in the best of moods when the elevator deposited me out into the lobby.

  For the cherry on top of a craptastic day, I spotted the broad-shouldered GQ model look alike on the adjacent side of the room. Spencer was heading for the two huge automatic doors located in frightening proximity to where I was currently standing.

  Oh crap.

  Scrambling for cover, I dived behind the only hiding place I could find, a shiny totally un-lifelike potted fern with large leaves. I stooped behind the decoration that reeked of Pledge and peered out through the shrubbery to scan the area for Hotties. Plenty of suits littered the lobby, despite the late hour, but my suit was nowhere in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief and took a quiet victory observation of the fake plant. Its shininess was so obvious that it gave away the fact that the thing was dead. Hmm… but if the plant was not real to begin with, did that mean it was incapable of life and therefore the absence of life?

  “Who are we hiding from?” A baritone sounded in my ear. After three weeks, I still knew that voice. I jumped, knocking the fake fern and its vase to the smooth marble of the lobby floor. The vase protested with a loud crack before it severed into seven smaller fragments.

  Yes, I counted before turning around and acknowledging the man who’d starred in most of my thoughts and dreams for this past Missy-free week. My breath hitched at the sight of him close up. He really was a magnificent looking man. One who’d kissed me without warning, knowing that I lived half a million miles away.

  What was up with
that?

  Suddenly anger infused my bones. I turned on my heels with a scoff and scooped to pick up the broken shards.

  “Here let me help.”

  And get this, Spencer Braden stooped down with me and helped me pick up all those pieces. By the time we’d collected them all, a member of the janitorial staff ambled over to finish the clean-up. I was embarrassed, distraught, confused and harbored suicidal thoughts when I realized that the day Spencer Braden caught up with me was the day my hair decided to revolt. I am not a shallow person. In fact, I am very aware of my flaws and I have learned to cherish the character and not the face. It’s a mantra anyone who struggles with bad acne adopts in order to survive. But I so did not want to face someone as attractive as Spencer without looking my best. This too ticked me off.

  How dare he confront me today of all days, when I look like this!

  I know. I know. I was completely irrational and an irrational Melody was not someone I liked to introduce around. So without a word, I trotted toward the exits to hail a cab. There was no way I wanted to deal with Spencer tonight. And I did not have the energy or the patience to wait for the bus.

  Unfortunately, Spencer remained oblivious to my foul mood because he followed me outside.

  “Melody wait!” he called, “I had no idea you were back in L.A.”

  I whirled to face him, “Well, I never left.” I said with a lot more vehemence than necessary, “I guess you don’t know everything.”

  Spencer blinked slowly at my outburst, before a knowing look crossed his face. He folded his arms and gave me that slight tilt of the lips. I felt my anger crumbling under the unintentionally seductive weight of it. No. No, I needed him to fight with me. Rile me up, not unnerve me with sexy ghost grins.

  “You were hiding from me in there. You’ve been hiding from me for a while.” Spencer spoke to himself.

  I kicked at the sidewalk and my big toe responded with a shot of pain up my nervous system. Sugar crap.