Taming Mr. Jerkface (The Taming Series Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

“I would have gotten away with it too… if it wasn’t for that blinking fake fern.” I muttered, hopping slightly on my left foot and feeling more irrationally ticked off by the minute.

  Spencer surveyed my Simon says rendition of hopping up and down on one leg with an amused expression.

  “You’re mad.” He pointed out. “Do you always do that when you’re mad?”

  “Yes!” I said sarcastically, “It’s an ancient tradition passed down from my African ancestors.”

  “Cool.” Spencer nodded his head, taking me literally. That made me angry too. So what? He just assumed that because I was black, I had African ancestors. That… made total sense! Ugh!

  “Do you plan on hopping here all night?”

  I glared at him. Was he intentionally trying to get under my skin or was that just an innocent side effect. I screwed my mouth, narrowed my eyes, and unleashed every five feet two inches of myself into his personal space. My head barely brushed his shoulder but I tilted my head back to stare him head on.

  “Look, buster. I could hop out here and play Simon says with you all night.”

  “Huh?” Spencer grimaced, but I kept on, poking his chest for emphasis. “But I have had the worst day. My assistant was sick. I lost a very important document. And my hair, well-” I backed up and paced the sidewalk, not caring that people were stopping to listen, “my hair is in desperate need of virgin coconut oil which I cannot find in this stinkin’ place. And now, you… you kisser and ditcher, you’re acting all concerned and giving me ghost smiles and -”

  “You kissed her and ditched her?” A voice gasped from the crowd. I came to an abrupt halt, surveying the circle of curious faces that were taking in the unfolding drama like Spencer and I were some kind of freak show.

  “That’s low, man.” Another opinion, this one from an obviously effeminate African American man, dressed in pink leggings, a tank top, and roller skates.

  “She’s hot! Nice one, bro!” That sweet little tidbit came from the back of the crowd.

  Oh my gosh, Spencer and I were surrounded. I inched closer to him, as my anger gave way to an all-encompassing embarrassment. Amazingly, Spencer seemed unmoved by our hecklers.

  “Hey, Melody?” Spencer accepted me into his arms, as I hid my face in his chest.

  “What?” My response was muffled by his shirt.

  Spencer set me aside to look me clearly in the eyes, “Have dinner with me.”

  “Awww!” the crowd announced their approval collectively.

  Accepting the diversion, I agreed, “Yes.” and hugged him, “Get me out of here,” I said privately into his ear.

  Spencer grinned, “Thanks everyone!” He called teasingly to the crowd, “She said yes.”

  I punched him in the arm, as he led me through the applauding wave of on-lookers and toward his car.

  “You’re such a jerk.” I complained as we got to his vehicle. He opened the passenger side for me, but I reminded him, “I think I can find my own way home.”

  Spencer whirled around, “Why do you want to go home?”

  “You didn’t actually mean to ask me out, did you?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  I stared at him in confusion. “But I was a complete crackhead just now. I mean, we drew a crowd! And I’m pretty sure that Roller-skates Guy threw ten cents at me.”

  Spencer laughed, “It was a quarter, actually. But I did mean it. I want to take you out, Melody.”

  I folded my arms protectively over my chest. “I-I can’t.”

  “You don’t want to?” Spencer questioned, shifting nervously from one foot to the next.

  But amazingly, I did want to. A smart, sexy businessman who could easily work as a model just asked me out on my first date. On the other hand, I was a single, Caribbean woman in a new country with no family or assurance that I wasn’t going to leave the premises with a serial killer.

  As if he were reading my mind Spencer soothed, “I’m not a serial killer, or an ax-murderer, or any other weird psychopath type floating around in your pretty little head.”

  “That’s what all the ax murderers say,” I groused, kind of enjoying our banter and the fact that, after a major emotional blowout, this man still wanted to spend time with me. It was crazy, but sweet.

  Maybe he was psycho.

  “Come on, I’m hungry and I want some food. Just food, nothing else. I promise.”

  “But, my hair,” I protested one last time, and with good reason, my frizz was ballooning by the minute. The shadow my body cast in the waning light of the parking garage resembled a broccoli wedge.

  Mufasa called, he wants his hair back, my shadow taunted.

  “You’re hair looks beautiful to me,” Spencer interrupted my shadow’s bullying,” but if it makes you feel better, we’ll go somewhere low key.”

  I caved because, come on… it was free food. My parents had taught me well.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  L.A. is a beautiful city where the energy transforms into a living breathing thing every night. The bright lights, the high rise buildings, the never ending flow of traffic on the street, the frenzy of pedestrians all rushing to get somewhere and do something … these were all foreign experiences to me, but I loved every minute of it.

  In Belize, the traffic starts thinning out by ten o’clock. Most stores close at nine and the clubs shut their doors at 3 in the morning. People while away the evenings in their living rooms watching T.V. or on their verandahs, gossiping about the latest case of teenage pregnancy, divorce, or church scandal while slapping at mosquitoes that are sucking the lifeblood from them.

  I was an island girl at heart, but I had to admit the energy of this town could get under my skin. I gazed out the window at the passing scenery as Spencer drove down the freeway. That was one of the things that I missed about my home. All I had to do was walk down the street to reach the nearest Asian grocer or the park or my grandmother’s house. Every destination in America felt like it was hours away. No wonder kids always asked “are we there yet” over here. Fortunately for Spencer, the soft hum of the local jazz station filled the cab with a calming bubble and I felt my muscles relaxing with every chord, causing me to actually enjoy the journey. As the crooning saxophone reached its crescendo, I turned to look over at the driver. The lights and shadows of the buildings outside played over the planes of his face. I felt a new excitement in the pit of my belly that had nothing to do with L.A. and everything to do with Spencer Braden.

  The moment felt surreal like I was in some cheesy romcom where the awkward, socially rejected heroine really does get the wealthy, hot guy. I decided, at least for the next couple of hours, to try my best and shut down the blabber-mouthed analytical part of me. Maybe, I could push my luck and actually be charming tonight, hopefully move past the Taser thing, the hiding behind the fake fern thing, and Spencer never had to find out about the subway station sneak away thing. So maybe, hoping for charm was reaching a bit. Either way, I liked sitting silently next to this man. I could figure out the rest later.

  Later came forty-five minutes afterward. Spencer pulled up in front of a charming little Italian restaurant called “Lliani’s”. The building boasted a small exterior courtyard filled with umbrella-shaded iron wrought tables and diner chairs, all fenced in by waist-high wooden posts. He opened the gate and led me past the seated diners outside, past the line of customers waiting for a seat, and straight to the hostess herself. A few of the standing patrons gave us the stink eye when we floated past. I chose to believe those stares rooted from their sense of justice rather than the swirl vibe happening between me and my date.

  “Spencer,” I tugged his arm to get his attention, “why aren’t we waiting like everyone else.”

  He bent to speak privately, “Trust me, we don’t want to do that.”

  I soon found out why. As soon as the maitre’ de spotted Spencer, she fled her post and came barreling toward us. The flying Latina woman bore a striking resemblance to Spencer’s housekeeper, though she w
as about a foot taller and leaner. Spencer planted his feet on the ground just in time for the lady to launch herself into his arms with a bone-crunching hug. Spencer winced, but put on a brave face and hugged her back.

  “Hello Isa,” Spencer croaked out when she released him enough to breathe.

  “Spencer, mi amor. Donde has estado. It’s been so long since you’ve come.”

  Spencer protested, “I was here last week.”

  Isa narrowed her eyes as if this answer was unsatisfactory, “Too long.” She confirmed; her gaze then moved to me. Without any hesitancy, the thin hostess showed some love in another heart-crunching squeeze. I barely survived. Spencer smirked at the helplessness on my face.

  “Isa,” he introduced, “this is Melody Reyes. Melody, Isa. She was my nanny until she deserted me when I turned fifteen.”

  “Such foolishness you speak, pequeño. My husband, he needed me, you did not. Melody, vienbenido.” She paused, surveying me strangely, finally she spoke, “Ah,” Isa nodded in understanding, “you’re the Melody Spencer is always singing.”

  “Oh really?” I turned to Spencer, laughing silently as his face grew red with embarrassment.

  He nervously massaged the back of his neck and coughed to redirect the conversation, “Any tables available tonight, Isa?”

  “Such silly preguntas. There is always a table for you. And you too, Melody. Don’t let this cabeza grande give you a bad impression of us.”

  I laughed. I liked this woman.

  “Come, come, sit.” She led us personally to a table near the middle of the room. The restaurant was decorated in cheery shades of red and black. The smell of warm garlic bread permeated the air. My stomach gurgled in response. Thank God the light bellanoche music cranking over the speakers masked the sound.

  Isa left us with menus and one more round of her exuberant energy before darting back to her post.

  “Well,” I breathed, “that was… something.”

  “I blame my reticence on her. I could never get a word in, so I learned to keep quiet.”

  “It must have been fun having her as a nanny,”

  Spencer nodded, “She raised me, when my dad was off doing his own thing. She’s a devout Catholic so every Saturday morning when she was cleaning I had to watch an hour of church television before I could get to my cartoons.”

  I giggled, “So what did you choose,”

  He gave me a searing look, “I chose Veggietales,”

  My face heated at the compliments in his eyes. Looking around, I changed the subject, “this place is fantastic.” I admired the dark panel scrollwork and the pictures of what seemed to be Mediterranean seascapes framed on the wall, “but why is it an Italian place? Isn’t Isa a Latina?”

  “She is. They had a Mexican family restaurant first, but Isabella fell in love with an Italian man and turned the restaurant into an Italian one ten years ago.” Spencer explained.

  I nodded my understanding. “And that’s when she left you.”

  “It nearly broke my heart. I’d already told her that she was marrying me.”

  I laughed as I imagined an adorable little Spencer proposing to the much older nanny.

  Spencer laughed along, “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at my expense.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just… your funny.”

  “Thanks. And I’m glad that you like the place. I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested. It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food is magnificent.”

  “I figured as much. You strike me as a man with good taste.”

  Spencer’s eyes narrowed as though he couldn’t pinpoint if my statement extended to our association or if I meant his taste in food specifically. I smiled, delighting in his uncertainty.

  “So you come here often?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say, I’m allowed around here even when the kitchen’s closed.”

  At that moment, the waitress for the evening arrived. The twenty-something Barbie doll look-alike fairly fawned over Spencer as she took his order. I don’t believe she even heard my request for the chicken alfredo or respected that Spencer was on a date. I hoped she wouldn’t spit in my food.

  “Thank you, Amber,” Spencer gave the girl an unfairly charming smile before she scurried off to get our drinks. Her giggles could be heard even as she crossed the room to the kitchen. I surveyed her sashay.

  “How does it feel?”

  “What? How does what feel?” Spencer said quizzically.

  “To get that kind of reaction from women? How does it feel?” I leaned forward in my chair and grabbed a warm breadstick from the basket on the table.

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

  Using my breadstick, I pointed toward the general area where Barbie had disappeared, “I’m guessing that’s not the only woman who’s flirted with you today.”

  Spencer cocked his head, ghost smile on his lips.

  “Melody, are you jealous?”

  I snorted, “That was an innocent question. Trust me, I am not jealous. And don’t change the subject.”

  Spencer shrugged, selecting a long breadstick for himself, “I grew up with Amber. She’s Isa and Becky’s niece. We used to play together all the time. We’re more like brother and sister than anything. I’m sure you’re misreading the situation.”

  I was not misreading anything. And I knew just how to show him. I stood abruptly. Spencer gaped up at me, half a breadstick shoved into his mouth. I sidled close to him and bent down into his personal space.

  “Hey, big guy, see anything you want today,” I purred an exact replica of Barbie Doll’s performance earlier. The uneaten half of the breadstick broke off and fell into his plate with an audible thwap, but I wasn’t finished yet. Biting my bottom lip and twirling my straw as if it were a pencil, I trailed my finger down his arm,

  “I recommend the special.” I said in my most provocative tone and then-feeling that I had made my point- I hastily withdrew my hand and resumed my seat. Spencer reached for his water glass and chugged it down, as I smiled smugly. When he regained his composure, he quipped,

  “If she’d been doing that, I certainly didn’t notice as much as when you did.”

  Now it was my turn to feel flustered.

  When Amber returned with our drinks and our food, we both carefully avoided eye contact with her.

  Thankfully, Spencer didn’t allow the awkwardness to seep into the rest of our evening,

  “Tell me about you.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  I shook my head, “that’s too broad. But there’s not much to tell. I’m just a simple Belizean girl.”

  Spencer’s languid stare said he didn’t buy it. He leaned forward.

  “Tell me about Belize.”

  And so I did. My eyes lit up as I described the way the coconut trees swayed in the breeze or how the majestic spread of the Caribbean Sea could inspire songs of poetry. The genuine warmth of the people, the way in Belize, you’re always related to someone or other, all lent to why I loved my country so much.

  Spencer listened and nodded at the appropriate times but after a while, I tapered off. Belize is something you need to see to believe.

  “Am I boring you?” I asked self-consciously during our meal. I’d been talking non-stop for half-an-hour. Spencer’s tone was serious when he assured,

  “There is nothing about you that bores me.”

  I ducked my head, shyly absorbing the compliment.

  “In fact,” he continued, “you made an impression from the first day we met.”

  “Oh, you mean the day we ran into each other?” I recalled fondly.

  “Yes. You called me a jerk-face, if I’m remembering correctly.”

  “No.” I giggled, covering my face with my hands, “you remember that?”

  Spencer laughed. “Yes, I do. And for the rest of the day, I couldn’t get you out of my head. The way you called me “jerk-face”, it reall
y hit me, right here.” Spencer clutched his heart.

  I threw a piece of bread at him, “You were a jerk-face that day.”

  Spencer shrugged, “I’m never going to apologize.”

  “Uh-huh. And why is that?”

  “Because that collision brought you to me.”

  I sucked my teeth, “flattery will get you nowhere,” I pointed out, but truly I was touched.

  The rest of the evening went by in the same light and teasing manner. I considered myself somewhat of a witty person when I’m comfortable, and the back and forth between Spencer and I gave me much time to exercise that wit. When we left “Lliani’s”, Spencer left Amber a huge tip and I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “What?” he played clueless.

  I folded my arms.

  “She made you jealous.”

  “I was not jealous,” I muttered.

  “It’s okay,” Spencer teased, “I know it’s only because you care.”

  The jerk-face.

  As we passed the hostess podium, I thanked Isabella for the food. Her kind, and exuberant, assurance that I should come again even without the Cabeza Grande, as Spencer was so affectionately dubbed, left me with a warm feeling in my stomach. Plus, the food was divine! Which could also account for the warm fuzzies floating around down there.

  Though Spencer offered to take me home, I insisted on taking a cab. I needed time to immediately decompress and analyze the evening. My brain filter had just returned to its pumpkin state and was no longer assured of not embarrassing me. Forty-five minutes alone in a cab was necessary for the good of all. Spencer gave up trying to persuade me when I pursed my lips and crossed my arms in the ancient pose of stubbornness. Shaking his head lightly, he trudged outside to do his honorable taxi-hailing deed. Noticing that he was otherwise occupied for a few minutes, Isabella took me aside,

  “I need you to know,” she whispered, “he has never brought a lady friend to this place.”

  “Uh, okay,” I answered uncertainly. Did Spencer deserve a medal for that?

  Isa and I stepped out of the way, as a party of four boisterously exited the restaurant. She shook her head and stated more firmly,