Taming Mr. Jerkface: The Taming Series, #1

By Nia Arthurs

Melody Reyes is on her first public relations assignment overseas. She's living life the only way she knows how, with one foot in the Kingdom and the other in the world. One divinely inspired encounter knocks her flat to the ground, literally. Melody finds herself swept off her feet by a hunky, Asian guy who is her opposite in nearly every way. 

She's a quirky girl from the Caribbean in the big city for the first time. He's a smooth, no-nonsense businessman helplessly drawn to her sincerity and weirdness. She blurts exactly what she's thinking and he keeps his cards close to the chest. He's close to perfect but not quite. Can this lively Belizean beauty tame the Jerkface?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nia Arthurs
• Release date: Jan 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386659990

Book preview

1

My fingers silently drummed the shiny black glass conference table. The soft thuds did nothing to curb my boredom. I wondered if professional finger thrumming was a thing. There was such a sport as professional thumb wrestling.

Hmm…so maybe a distinct possibility.

Ms. Reyes? My head jerked upright and I snapped to attention. Mr. Thomas stood at the end of the conference table, tall and proud, his eyes staring my way.

I’d met the head of Maladon Resorts and Enterprises two days ago. The introduction was brief and the term ‘met’ might be stretching it a bit. I don’t think the man lifted his head to acknowledge my colleague Missy and I at all. He’d scared the crap out of me then and the feeling hadn’t changed in the last forty-eight hours.

His sharp blue eyes and large nose reminded me of a hawk. The man was old and prickly. Like a porcupine. I fidgeted in my seat, embarrassed that I’d been caught daydreaming.

As the public relations representative of the Belize Tourism Board, it was my responsibility to attend humdrum meetings such as these and write reports and summaries utilized in enhancing the Belize experience. Despite my lofty intentions, this part of my job was far from my favorite.

Uh— I quieted my drumming fingers. Could you repeat the question?

The twelve occupants of the wide room snickered softly under their breaths. I felt like the weird kid at school who’d said something stupid in class.

Generally, I was the weird kid at school who didn’t speak at all. This new role didn’t feel particularly comfortable. As the smirks slowly faded, I straightened my black jacket and twisted the knot at the neck of the cream blouse tucked inside my pencil skirt.

I’d chosen this outfit with the help of my best friend, Mia, back home in Belize. Mia had been ecstatic when she’d learned of my pseudo-promotion. My usual job locale was limited to the six districts of Belize.

This was my first assignment out of country. And it was in L.A. no less! Unfortunately, no one had warned me that a tyrannical boss-teacher man would call me out in the class—I mean, boardroom.

We’re waiting, Ms. Reyes, Mr. Thomas said.

I-uh— My feet began to shake in my insanely high turquoise blue pumps. I was normally a very blah, conservative dresser when I was at work, but I couldn’t resist a pop of color on my feet. Both Mia and I fairly worshiped shoes.

As I stumbled over my words, my eyes sought help from the rest of the people in the room. Looked like everyone lived by a regular penguin code. It was a Man in Black reunion in here. Except there was no Will Smith to burst the tension with comedic relief. Or remind Mr. Thomas that he hadn’t repeated the question.

Sir, you didn’t repeat the question, I feebly pointed out.

An eyebrow quirked before Mr. Thomas haughtily said again, We were discussing the abominable revenues the Maladon Resorts Belize is generating. The rising crime rate against tourists is affecting the bottom line. How is the Tourism Board working with the Defense Force to protect the company interests?

I mulled over the question. Maladon Resorts was one of the biggest all-inclusive resorts in Belize. The franchise was headquartered on the beautiful island of San Pedro, but there was a branch in most of the six districts in the country.

Tourism was the main industry in Belize. People like Mr. Thomas had a lot of sway with the government who in turn engineered tax holidays to lure big hotels to root in our little country.

If the Maladon Resorts shut down, many people would lose their jobs and the economic stability of Belize would be head-butted in the gut.

Composing myself, I chose my words with care. As you know, I do not speak for the Belize Government or the members of the Board…

Mr. Thomas began to pace as though expecting an excuse or a deflection. He closed his eyes, his face shuttered in that expression that all teachers have when they realize their students are unwaveringly stupid. As I continued, however, he stood still and cocked his head attentively.

But Belize is a developing country. Like any other, we have our issues with unemployment, gang activity and political corruption. I cannot brush aside the importance of tourist safety; however, the problem is not solely the lack of defense, but rather the lack of socio-economic opportunities.

I paused, wondering if I had said too much or had infused too much honesty into my reply. Mr. Thomas opened his eyes enough to peer at me.

Well, go on!

If you are truly, uh, interested sir in protecting not only the tourist flow to Belize but also the reputation of this company, I’d suggest focusing some of your energies on poverty alleviation and social justice.

Nodding my head once to signify I was done, I shut my mouth, glancing around to see the reactions of the others. Gauging by their expressions, I had just slammed into an iceberg. The woman on my left awkwardly scooted her chair away from mine. Instantly, doubt flooded in.

Should I have done that?

It surely wasn’t my place to suggest anything to this important man. I recalled my first day at the Belize Tourism Board. Sandra Bay, the senior information consultant, had schooled me on the number one rule of summary meetings: sit tight and just write.

The mantra was drilled into my head so much that I felt suddenly naked in this boardroom with these strangers in this big and cold country.

I eyed the empty chair next to me, wishing that my co-worker Missy Garbutt had opted to join me this morning. Unfortunately, Missy had stayed in today, claiming a headache. I had a feeling that she was really feigning ill and shopping instead. I wished I had joined her.

As regret washed my mouth with a gritty taste, I held my breath. It was so quiet, a pin could drop and it would clang like a gong. Seconds ticked by, but it felt like minutes until Mr. Thomas spoke.

Well, it’s a damn shame you don’t speak for the Board.

And that was that. The meeting continued as if my climb up my soapbox had never occurred. I, for one, did not forget it. And by the time that conference concluded I’d taken pages of notes. No way did I want to be called out again.

Fortunately, after wrapping up Mr. Thomas walked out of the boardroom without any further contact with me, for which I was eternally grateful. I lingered for a few minutes and greeted some of the associates in the room. I enjoyed getting to know new people and learning their stories. I soon fell into conversation with the company accountant.

The kindly older woman greeted me politely and then expressed interest in vacationing in Belize someday. I was trained to latch on to ins like that and steered the conversation to retrieve a more committed visit from her.

It made me feel like some kind of traveling saleswoman, but what’s a girl to do?

As I expounded on the many fun and relaxing things that she could experience in Belize, I knew that if Ms. Neil could catch a jet to my country at that moment, she would. Honestly, it wasn’t a hard sell. Belize is a jewel. Some people just recognize it quicker than others.

Well thank you, dear. It sounds quite lovely. I’ll be sure to talk to that travel agent you recommended.

No problem, Ms. Neil. And when you do come to Belize, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I’d love to show you around.

With a smile and a wave, Ms. Neil shuffled back to her office.

Noticing that the room had emptied out save for a few lollygagging suits, I returned to my seat to put my notes in order and shuffle them into the folder that the company had provided.

As I bent over to reach the last paper I heard a male voice whisper close to my ear, So, is every girl in Belize this pretty or is it just you?

I whirled around. Really? That was the best line that he could throw. I knew homeless men in Belize who could spit better lyrics than that. Not that it was right, mind you.

Excuse me? I’d give this sucker enough time to save face and walk away before I did serious damage to his ego.

You heard me. Wanna meet up after this?

I twisted around, my heels clacking on the floor as I bent my back at awkward angles. I noticed the perplexed look on his face.

What are you doing? he asked.

I’m trying to see if the word ‘DESPERATE’ is written on my butt or something.

He still wasn’t getting it.

Get lost, mister, I said simply and then grabbed my papers and the folder and walked out.

I heard his buddies laughing at him as I trotted out of the door. Served him right. Don’t get me wrong; I was flattered, sort of. But I wasn’t interested in anything that he was offering. Ain’t nobody got time foh that!

The encounter was quickly forgotten as I strolled to the elevator and started planning my schedule for the afternoon. I didn’t have enough money to shop like I really wanted to, but gawk I would. This was only my second time to America. The first time I’d been a baby so that didn’t count.

The elevator doors opened. I rushed to get on. Yesterday, I’d tried to be courteous and let others board first. After continually being left in the cold as the elevator filled up without me, I had learned to elbow my way in with the best of them.

Belize didn’t have many elevators and most of us believed in the reliability of stairs. Being repeatedly smushed against complete strangers in a moving broom closet was not my idea of a good time, but when in America… one must act as the Americans do.

Fortunately, more and more people let off. I made it to the lobby flying mostly solo. There were two more people in there with me. Both were glued to their phones, tap-tapping away as though they had some urgent business to attend to.

Feeling peer-pressured, I took out my cellphone and started playing the piano game. My fingers tapped the screen and I schooled my face into the same blasé yet intense expression as the other two. There. Now I fit in.

The elevator doors opened and the two important people stomped out, leaving me enthralled in my game. I didn’t want to lose. I moved forward with one eye on the phone and the other on the slowly closing door. I put my hand out to stop its movement and walked out of the elevator.

The phone with my States number rang. My fingers dove into my purse and I clutched my notes to my side with the point of my elbow. What the heck? Was my bag like the wardrobe to Narnia? Where did my phone go? Distracted by the ringing phone and the bottomless purse, I stepped into the lobby.

Except it wasn’t a lobby.

Unless the lobby had a huge wall installed in front of the elevator. And that wall was a smart wall that could talk and curse. I scrunched my nose. What a dirty mouth the smart wall had.

Then I looked up.

The wall had the sexiest face I had ever seen. Strong slightly pointed jaw, clean shaven cheeks, beautifully masculine lips, an angular nose, perfectly proportioned for his face, and the most brooding dark brown almost black eyes set in a slant that tattled an Oriental heritage.

Sexy Asian Man shook me from further checking him out when he yelled, Hey! Watch where you’re going!

Mr. Hunky pushed me away and I shamefully realized I’d been in his arms and hadn’t taken note of it. He stooped to pick up the papers that had fluttered out of his open briefcase.

Hm, I didn’t know people still carried those around. Weren’t man purses all the rage over here?

What is wrong with you? He seethed. Didn’t you see me?

Unfortunately, Mr. Hunky wasn’t waiting around for an answer. He finished gathering up his papers and stormed into the still open elevator. His rudeness grated on my nerves and as I stooped to gather my things, I rattled my brain for the dirtiest non-curse word I could aim at him.

"You watch where you’re going… jerk-face!"

Lame, I know, but it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. If he’d given me just a few more minutes, I could have thrown something more lethal.

Mr. Hunkster glared at me and, despite the annoyance in my heart I noticed that his smoldering gaze made him look even hotter. Hunky Dude huffed and his eyes, narrowed into slits, was the last thing I saw as the elevators closed around him.

Jerk! I muttered one last time. My knee cracked as I straightened my notes and tucked them safely into the folder before standing. The nearest potted plant received the heat of my stare as I imagined Jerk-Face standing there.

Didn’t elevators have weight limits? How did Mr. Hunky’s ego fit and not break the machine?

Rolling my eyes, I deposited my notes in my bag for safekeeping, the ringing phone forgotten.

2

Hoping to shake that terrible encounter from my mind, I decided to do a little sightseeing. Being in America was like being in a completely new world. Everything from the skyscrapers that threatened to tear the fabric of the clouds to the loud obnoxious traffic was new and exciting to me.

In Belize, the pace was noticeably steadier, the people more prone to inventing their own rules when it came to traffic. Americans took their road safety seriously. I’d counted at least three different types of traffic police already and I was simply strolling down the sidewalk!

As I waited for the crosswalk to turn green, I contemplated which site I wanted to visit first. I was in downtown L.A., far away from the Hollywood sign or Beverly Hills. Turning to Google, I learned the Walt Disney Concert Hall was the nearest attraction and figured I’d go there first.

I’d seen the hall on TV when I was a kid. What would it be like to gaze at the towering architecture in person? Excitement stirred my stomach. I had a destination. I just needed to figure out how to get there.

With no idea how to use public transportation (I didn’t even ride the bus back in Belize), I strutted to the nearest subway station. After receiving a card from a very complicated ATM machine, I stood before the turnstile that allowed passengers to cross into the waiting area near the shuttles.

I waved my card over the scanner.

Nothing happened.

I waved it again. Still nothing.

I stooped, wondering if I could crawl through the bars instead of try to get in the legal way. It looked doable, but too many people were milling about to get away with it. I decided to try the scanner more time.

Nothing.

Groaning in frustration, I moved the card vehemently over the turnstile bars. Suddenly, the piece of plastic slipped from my hands and flew into the busy subway station.

Crap.

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the 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 gate. A young man sang about love and loss somewhere in the crowd. The thrumming of his guitar flowed beneath the ceaseless chatter of commuters and the noise of the incoming trains.

No one was looking my way. I was safe. For now.

I glared at the disgusting blue card resting just a few feet from me. My fingers twitched. I looked at the card again, gauging the distance from the turnstile. What I would give to be that stretchy guy from Street Fighter right now.

Determination welled within me. I could reach. 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 hand around the lowest rung. Groaning, I stretched, stooping to direct my stubby arm.

Ah, curse my mother’s genes! Victory was mere centimeters out of reach. I brushed the dirt off my hands and squeezed even closer to the cold turnstile. The steel frame knocked my cheekbone. Almost there… Almost there…

Ma’am? A hard voice ran chills down my spine. I have to ask you to come with me.

I awkwardly craned my neck to see a heavyset security guard standing over me, his brows lowered, hands on hips. My eyes flitted to his nametag. The shiny gold plate read: OSCAR CERVANTES, SUBWAY GUARD.

Oh no.

I can explain. I tried to maneuver out of the pretzel yoga position, but my body had suddenly lost all sense of direction and grace.

Ma’am, you are in violation of Code 596. You need to extricate yourself from the fare gate and follow me.

I succeeded in detangling my arms and legs, but as I stood, an evil thought popped into my head.

You could totally outrun this guy.

A quick survey of the ‘fluffy’ security guard convinced me that maybe, just maybe, I could make a run for it. I was a tourist about to get busted for something that was a complete misunderstanding. There had to be another way.

It’s not what it looks like. I accidentally threw my bus pass over the gate… I pointed and then did a double take. W-where did it go?

My only alibi, my precious subway card, was gone. Poof. Like it never existed. Looked like I couldn’t explain my way out of this one.

Hey, I yelled, what’s that over there?

Unfortunately, Mr. Cervantes didn’t fall for my trick. What I thought would have given me a head start actually tipped him off to my plan. Oh well. I took off, sprinting past the crowds streaming into the building.

Excuse me! I called as I jumped over a waiting bench and zigzagged 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. My feet pounded the sidewalk and I ducked 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 glanced right and left then flung his hand in a frustrated wave of defeat.

I was safe.

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.

I dragged myself to the company apartment and crawled up the stairs. My chest threatened to explode. Never in my life had I been as frightened or as impulsive. The air must be doing something to me. I was so done with America.

Where have you been? A shrill voice called the moment 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 she’d 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.

Professionally, Missy’s presence on this trip was a mystery. She’d been given the job of Belizean Cultural Representative and she was doing a bang up job if it only included shopping and flirting with American men.

Complaining was meaningless. Especially since Missy’s uncle was the assistant director of the board. Nepotism was alive and well in Belize, but what would I gain by rocking the boat? I was thankful for my nice job and my steady paycheck. My co-worker could relax to her heart’s content.

Well? Missy folded her arms over her chest.

I was… out.

It was best she stay in the dark about my subway sprint in case the FBI and CSI: LA came after me. The last thing Missy’d want was a fine and the title ‘Accomplice to Subway Sneak’. I was doing her a favor.

You were out? Missy hissed. What did you do?

I winced. Wait… was running from a security officer that big a deal? Had Cervantes squealed to the police? Had t hey contacted Missy already?

I rushed to defend myself. "The card was in the station and I was only trying to get it back. I’m innocent, I tell you! Innocent!"

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?

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

Missy was talking. I zoned back in to the conversation as she said, 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? Why? Was he 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 get sacked. Which was worse. The information consultation gig was one of the only jobs I’d enjoyed in a 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. The words teetered dangerously close to the edge of my tongue, but I bit them back. It was better that she’d stayed home. Missy wasn’t the sharpest cookie in the Oreos pack.

Let it be known that I am not prejudiced against beauty pageant women. Plenty of intelligent, well-spoken females participated in those contests. But Missy wasn’t one of them. I suspected she’d used this business trip as a free, taxpayer paid vacation.

If you get us in trouble, Melody, so help me I will end you.

A barb burst to mind but once again I held it back. This day was not getting better at all.

Remain calm, girl, and keep quiet.

Let me see your notes. Missy held 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