Prologue
Haden
The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.
That’s being nice.
And nice isn’t something I do.
Give me something in return, and maybe I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with a made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can’t forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.
I get what I want because I don’t give a damn.
About anyone or anything.
I just want to have fun, but even now, that game is fast becoming old.
I am bored and need a new challenge—something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place by accident, of course.
Our office is one giant playground. I dub myself the school bully, and the Ice Queen is my target. It’s her own fault, though. I’ve never met a woman so fucking uptight where you’d need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.
It is one juicy ass, though—perky, with that round bounce that you just know will make a terrific sound when you slap it with your palm.
But that is beside the point—way beside the point.
I don’t like her stubbornness, nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathe the way she answers every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wears which makes her look like a schoolgirl. All right, perhaps there are benefits to that skirt if you picture her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through, but it is not appropriate office attire.
What irks me most is the way she parades around the office with her nose stuck up in the air—Miss I’m-Too-Good-For-All-You-Juveniles-So-I’m-Going-To-Act-Like-A-Fucking-Grandma.
Yeah, she thinks she is fucking all that. I don’t like women like her, especially when they parade that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her because he had a small dick and knew he’d hit the jackpot. Yeah, well, I’ve got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me.
The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The Ice Queen didn’t even look sad. I don’t even think she shed a tear, and probably Mr. Small Dick found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.
It is exactly the challenge I need.
And I don’t intend to play nice.
Nice is for chumps.
It wasn’t a payback, and it wasn’t vindictive.
It was clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that… it was dirty fun.
There is only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I exist. I have to make her life in the office a living hell and push all the right fucking buttons. She is vying for a promotion, and perhaps—so am I. The same very role.
According to her, if it walks and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.
But I understand the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently—to be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
One
Presley
From a very early age, I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn’t shy about telling me I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn’t consider it a bad thing as my grammy was the most beautiful lady who ever existed, next to my mother, of course.
It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to
rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center position.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well, dear Mother, other girls had Barbies with godawful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
I had to have everything perfect.
So, you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day, and every girl with their new Peaches ‘n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes, and zero rings. I decided then that my Barbie deserved the best. So, I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.
Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.
I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, ‘fresh out of the box,’ and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light gray suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.
The thrill and excitement of this perfect day were forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our two-story dream house.
I had a plan.
The problem with plans is the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.
Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name is Jason Hart—tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes—and if you stared long enough, it was like looking into the ocean.
We met at a mutual friend’s wedding and were thrown together at the shameful singles’ table in the back corner of the ballroom. All we needed was a neon sign flashing ‘sad and pathetic single people looking for a good time.’
This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get drunk on some free alcohol. Jason was seated directly opposite me, and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served, and damn, we would make very cute babies together.
Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly know. It was the perfect story to pass on to our grandkids—met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet but so what, bouquet-catching should be declared a sport—it’s every woman for herself out there.
The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought, Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-over, of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.
We went through the relationship milestones—moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question, and obviously, I said yes.
My parents loved him, and his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD, which had intensified over the years, it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.
We spent hours going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page thrown in front of me was showing a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable, but comfortable wasn’t perfect. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.
Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that bug had sunken its teeth in even further.
We both were stuck in routine—working late, ordering takeout almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the laundromat. The spark which had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.
I craved more. Not being sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking in some nights, a quick rendezvous to The Hamptons for Valentine’s Day. Maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.