Happiness In Jersey: The Prototype

By Jacinta Howard

The only thing in Jersey Kincaid's world that she has time for are keeping her grades up so that she doesn't lose her scholarship to South Texas University, playing the bass in her band, The Prototype, and satisfying her coffee addiction. Oh, and the occasional random hook-up she indulges in to pass the time.

Love? Eh, not so much. Save that crap for a Katherine Heigl or Natalie Portman movie.

Jersey's seen enough in life (courtesy of her Pops) to realize that undying romance is nothing more than a myth used to sell books and movie tickets. As she knows too well, the only thing inevitable in life is death— love is definitely not promised.

That's why when Jersey meets Isaiah "Zay" Broussard with his soulful gray eyes, quick wit and easy charm, she's determined to remain aloof. She doesn't have time to get sidetracked by fleeting fantasies, even if she does feel an unexplainable connection to Zay she's never experienced before.

But when his interest in her only seems to intensify, despite her attempts to brush him off, she gets to see a side of him and herself she didn't expect…

• Language: English
• Publisher: JACINTA Howard
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781393657330

Book preview

One

I wasn’t having an orgasm. And that realization was a little disappointing, given that he was still on top of me pumping like there was no tomorrow. Or like… well, I was about to have an orgasm.

I would feel sad for him if I wasn’t the one under him, having to endure his subpar sexual ability that he clearly had not yet realized was subpar.

I wondered if Willow remembered to record the Different World marathon for me. Whitley is pretty hilarious. She probably didn’t. Willow didn’t ever remember shit. I should’ve left one of those post-it notes for her. But I refused to write a note on a neon heart for another girl. It’s weird. I wondered why she buys those kinds of post-its. I mean, I got that she was a girly-girl and generally enjoyed anything shaped like hearts but…

Jersey!

My eyes automatically opened when he said my name. He said it like he just realized he was about to have an orgasm and I couldn’t help but feel more than a little giddy that this terrible shit was about to be over.

Once upon a time I would’ve stopped him right in the middle of his pathetic, rhythm-less humping if he wasn’t getting me off. I must have been getting nice or something. It was probably that freaking Willow rubbing off on me.

I kept my eyes open, waiting for the moment as I studied his face. Despite his lack of sexual skill, he was pretty damned fine. Nice eyes. Strong jaw. Pretty smile. Not that it meant anything. I never slept with anyone that I didn’t think was attractive.

A few seconds later, he grunted and rolled over, utterly spent. From what, I had no idea. I guess he worked really hard or something. I just hoped he didn’t try to spoon me. Guys who think they need to spoon me after sex are pretty pathetic. Nothing about me even remotely suggested that I was the kind of girl that enjoyed spooning.

That was so good.

He inched toward me and tried to drag me against him. Shit. He wanted to freaking spoon.

I have to get out of here.

I pulled out of his loose hold and sat up, pulling my short, manicured fingernails through my untamed, curly hair. He looked up at me with a content, almost cocky expression. He did realize I didn’t have an orgasm, right?

I somehow stopped myself from rolling my eyes and leaned over on my hands and knees to find my Spider-man underwear, giving him a great view of my ass. It’s the last time he’d ever see it, so why not?

He eyed my underwear as I sat down next to him, hastily pulling them on. I found my purple Jimi Hendrix t-shirt hanging off the side of the cheap mattress and slipped it over my head, ruffling my hair with my fingers again. I hadn’t taken off my bra, so once I found my shorts I’d be out of there. I lifted up his plain beige comforter and peered under the sheets. I’m pretty sure they’d been discarded under there somewhere.

You were wearing Superman underwear?

I didn’t look at him.

"I am wearing Spider-man underwear," I corrected.

Seriously. What kind of idiot didn’t know the difference between Superman and Spider-man?

Where the hell are my shorts?

Are those actual little boy underwear? he asked, still gaping. Like for actual little boys?

He had the nerve to sound disgusted. I rolled my eyes, becoming increasingly annoyed.

They’re more comfortable than that lacy, frilly crap.

I shot him a look. Why the hell was I explaining myself to this guy anyway? I didn’t explain myself to anyone. I didn’t have to.

So, what, did you buy them at Wal-mart or something? In one of those packages that have like, four or five pair in them?

What the hell?

Are you seriously still talking about my damn underwear? I asked, unable to help myself.

Where the hell are my shorts? He didn’t even get me off and now he’s talking shit about my choice of underwear? I knew coming up here was a mistake.

You have such a potty mouth, he said, making his disgusted face again.

I turned and scowled at him, this time not even trying to disguise my strenuous eye roll.

What are you, eight? ‘Damn’ is barely a curse word, I paused, scrunching my face, … and who actually even says ‘potty mouth’?

He huffed but said nothing. I got up and peered underneath the bed. Yes! I yanked my holey jean shorts from under it and quickly put them on, jumping a bit as I pulled them over my hips, covering the tat of the sun I had right where my hipbone met my pelvis.

Sorry if I offended you about the underwear thing, he said, catching my eye as soon as my shorts were on. You’re still the prettiest, sexiest girl I know. Your lips are incredible.

Ugh, I think I just threw up in my mouth. I rolled my eyes at his blatant bullshit. I didn’t have low self-esteem. I knew I was cute, even pretty when I tried. I knew a lot of guys thought I was sexy and I knew the reason why was because I genuinely didn’t give a crap about what people thought about me anymore. Men dig that untamed shit.

My complexion was clear and brown with a red undertone. My Pops said it was the Georgia red clay coming out in me—which didn’t make any sense but he said it all of the time like it was a brilliant observation. My hair was thick and curly and my lips were lush but not so big that they didn’t fit my round face. My nose was small but not too button-ish like the chick from America’s Next Top Model. What’s her name? Eva? Eve? Whatever. Not saying that anything is wrong with her nose. It works for her.

We cool? he pressed when I didn’t say anything.

No worries, I replied, still trying to be nice.

We can hang out if you want, he said, sounding hopeful but trying unsuccessfully to play it off. I’ll order a pizza or something.

Nah, I said, making my voice softer. I have a test tomorrow and I need to go study.

He smirked, almost like he didn’t believe me. I felt agitation surging in my chest. Dumbasses like him always thought that just because I openly enjoyed sex and didn’t run around campus looking like the rest of these misguided chicks, I must not care about my grades. Well, guess what? I have a 3.8 GPA, assholes.

I’ll call you later, J, I lied, nevertheless.

I called him J because I couldn’t remember whether his name was pronounced Jer-on or Jer-in and I simply couldn’t bring myself to give a crap either way.

I found my bag and flip-flops by the door, grabbed my keycard, and lip-gloss off of the small desk that was pushed against the wall of his dorm room and quickly opened the door.

Okay, well, later, he called after me, disappointment lacing his voice. I gave him a half-hearted wave, shutting the door soundly behind me.

Damn. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to worry about getting the obligatory after sex call, in which the guy openly wonders where is this going. The answer is always the same: Nowhere, dude. Now, kick rocks.

I made my way through the hallway that was littered with multi-colored flyers announcing study groups, open-mics, and offers to join bullshit clubs nobody cared about and ambled down the wide stairs that led to the main entrance of the dorm building. I passed by a couple of guys who openly assessed me on my way down the steps but I wasn’t in the mood for them. My lack of orgasm had given me a momentary disdain for overly excited teen boys and their overly confident teenage sex experience.

I pushed through the heavy front doors and inhaled.

It felt good to be out of J’s cramped, stuffy-ass room. The smell made me pretty sure he’d had more than his share of girls up there already, even though we were only a couple of weeks into the fall semester. His roommate, Derek, was clearly not getting any. Derek’s face looked like Mount Vesuvius erupted on it. I suppose I should have probably felt disturbed that I remembered J’s roommate’s name and not his. But I wasn’t.

Oh well.

I dug in my bag for my Oreos, popping one in my mouth as I walked leisurely down the promenade toward Cannon Hall, where my dorm was located. The campus was littered with students, talking and laughing with the various groups that made up the student body. The lawns were impeccably manicured and thick clusters of pecan trees were dotted throughout the campus. It was idyllic, really. The immaculate landscaping was tailored specifically for overprotective moms and dads who otherwise would be too afraid to drop their precious sons and daughters off at school. Pecans trees definitely scream safety. No chance of date rape happening if the campus had pecan trees.

Really, I figured South Texas State was just like any other college—a means to an end. It got me the hell out of Douglasville, Georgia, which has been my sole desire since I was fourteen and fully realized that college could be a legitimate escape.

The curriculum at South Texas was decent enough, the students were average enough, and the tuition was astronomically high and totally not worth it. Yep, just like every other university in America. Which was why I was on academic scholarship. My scholarship covered about eighty-five percent of my tuition. The other fifteen percent was on me, courtesy of my job at the coffee shop around the corner, Aroma.

It was a little after seven and dusk was just starting to settle over the sky. It looked like red and orange crayons had melted there, merging together in a jumbled, but alluring mess. It made me want to draw, or play my bass outside on the patio like I used to do back home.

I kept my stroll steady as I passed a couple of girls who were clearly art majors. They practically wore their creativity and disdain for any conventionalism on their hipster sleeves. I hated hipsters. They’re stupid. Talking, dressing, and looking like everyone else who goes against the grain kinda defeats the purpose of going against the grain, right?

Plus, majoring in anything artsy was a waste of time. I mean, I played the bass guitar and I wasn’t a music major. No way I’d ever do that stupid shit. I learned a long time ago that all of that following your dreams crap was just that… crap. I needed to survive. And I didn’t have fifteen years to waste finding my way while I waited for my art to start paying. Nope. I was a business management major.

Jersey!

I whipped my head to the left and saw Devin, one of my oldest friends, jogging toward me. I finished off my cookie and waited for him to catch up. We grew up together in Douglassville and decided to come to college together. Actually, I decided to come college here. Devin didn’t really care where he went to school so when our overworked guidance counselor, Ms. Mitchell suggested South Texas he’d applied. Once he found out I was going it was just extra incentive, mostly because one day while sitting in Mr. Thompson’s Trig class, he decided that we were eventually going to be the black, unmarried version of the White Stripes. He’d literally texted me the declaration in the class. I remember because my phone buzzed loudly and Mr. Thompson almost kicked me out of class.

Damn, Kinkaid, he said calling me by my last name, as he often did. He sounded a little winded. I’ve been trying to catch you for the past five minutes.

Sorry, I offered with a slight shrug. Must’ve zoned out.

I was just about to text you before I saw you, he said, falling in step beside me. His Red Sox baseball cap was twisted backwards on his head and he was wearing a black Velvet Underground t-shirt and some camouflage army shorts with the bottoms cut off.

What’s up?

We’re calling a mandatory rehearsal tonight. We booked that gig for Saturday at The Spot.

Devin’s face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he delivered the news and I couldn’t help but grin in return. He played drums and was the one who put our band, The Prototype, together last semester. He got super excited whenever we actually booked something. Mostly we just played open mics and jam sessions around town. A real featured gig was a feat for us.

Awesome, I said, trying to remember if Cheyenne had scheduled me to work on Saturday. I’m pretty sure she did.

We wouldn’t start playing until at least ten though, so there is no need to call out. It just meant I’d be extra tired. I usually worked twelve-hour shifts on Saturdays so that I could have more time for school during the week.

What time is rehearsal? I asked, rounding the corner on the path to my dorm. I’m supposed to be studying for my macroeconomics test as we speak.

He rolled his eyes, repositioning his cap on his head.

Come on, Jersey. You know you already studied for it, right?

He eyed me, a knowing look on his face. In all truth, I already had. But I needed to review. I needed an ‘A’ on this test to pull my grade up from a ‘C+’, which was important for my overall G.P.A.

We’re not all intellectually blessed like you, I shrugged.

Devin was majoring in business management, too and he has at least a 3.0, despite rarely going to class. Once again, he rolled his eyes. Normally a girl thing to do, but there wasn’t much Devin could do to appear ‘girly.’ He was so damned good-looking, everything he did was just sexy and enticing.

Stop bullshittin’, Kinkaid, he said. We need you there. You’re the rhythm of the band, the pulse of the music, the vibe of the vibration.

I couldn’t help but laugh and he grinned. He really didn’t need to make a speech though. I never missed a rehearsal. We rehearsed at our guitarist and sometimes singer, Travis’ house because he actually had a house with a garage and a basement. He stayed about fifteen minutes from campus in the small, old house his grandma left him when she passed away a couple of years ago.

You gotta help me review then, I said, daring him to decline. He shrugged.

We passed by a group of Scantily Clads, as I call them, and Devin jerked his head to check them out. One of them turned around and grinned at him.

Hold up, he said, turning back toward her before I could respond.

I waited patiently, twisting the mood ring I always wore on my ring finger. Devin was the most attractive guy in our band, not that Travis or Bam, our keyboardist, were bad looking at all. They were both actually really cute. But Devin was stereotypical-sexy. Caramel complexion, sexy, bedroom eyes, lips that he licked a lot to draw attention to them and confidence that practically permeated from him. His hair was unkempt in a little ‘fro, but it worked on him. It gave him an edge and took away from his natural, pretty-boy look.

Even though he played the drums, he still got the most attention, because he was so charismatic and good-looking. Well, besides me—a girl bass player with wild hair and nice legs kind of demanded attention, too.

I picked at my chipped blue nail polish while I waited, wondering again if Willow had remembered to record A Different World. After my fiasco with J, I was in desperate need of a Whitely and Dwayne Wayne fix.

They’re coming to the show, Devin told me, grinning widely when he came back a couple of minutes later.

Thrilling, I deadpanned. I gotta go if I’m gonna get some studying done before rehearsal.

It was already almost seven-thirty.

You’re a nerd, he said, falling in step beside me as we continued on the way to my dorm. So, where were you coming from? he asked. Obviously not a class.

I sighed audibly. I stopped by Jer… J’s.

He shook his head at me like a disappointed father or something.

What? I said, feigning agitation.

You don’t even like him, Devin answered, shooting me a look.

He’s alright, I lied.

You don’t even know his name, Jersey.

It’s ‘J’, I said, huffily.

He shot me another look. We reached my dorm building and he pulled open the front door for me and followed me in.

You need to stop kicking it with lames that you don’t even like, Devin said as we made our way up the steps to the second floor, where my room was located.

I sighed heavily, beginning to get irritated.

Just drop it, Devin, damn. You’re pissing me off.

When have I ever given a shit about pissing you off?

He had a point. It’s one of the reasons our relationship worked so well. He didn’t sugarcoat anything and neither did I.

I’m just saying, he pressed.

No, I’m just saying, I interrupted, trudging up the stairs. I don’t harass you about the chicks you sleep with that you don’t even like.

That’s because it’s different. My feelings aren’t all involved.

I stopped in my tracks, my hand on the freshly painted rail. A couple of girls passed by us on the stairs and gave Devin the once over as they laughed loudly. But he wasn’t paying them attention. He was looking at me with an irritable scowl, although his eyes were concerned.

You think my feelings are involved? Come on, Devin. You know me better than that.

I shook my head and continued up the steps.

Your feelings are involved. You may not have feelings for the lame ass dudes you mess around with but your emotions are definitely involved. You run off of your emotions, Jersey. You try to act like you aren’t, but you’re one of the most sensitive people I know. And messing with these dudes isn’t anything but you being emotional about other shit and trying to compensate for it with them. I guarantee you talked to your Pops today, huh?

I sighed loudly and rolled my eyes, even though I felt a little flustered and exposed because he was right, I had talked to Pops. This wasn’t the first time that Devin had hit me with his psychobabble bullshit, but today it was extra irritating for some reason.

Just drop it. We’d reached the long hall leading to my dorm room.

What happened with your mom wasn’t your fault, Jersey, he said softly, halting outside of my room.

My chest started to burn as anger and frustration and whatever else formed there.

I said drop it, Devin.

The tone of my voice and my severe look must’ve worked because he just shook his head and closed his mouth. We were right outside my dorm and I didn’t want Willow overhearing our conversation. She didn’t know about my mom and although it wasn’t a secret or anything, I wanted to keep it that way. It was embarrassing, and personal, and as soon as she found out I’m sure she’d look at me with pity—which I freaking hated.

I pushed open the door to my dorm room and was greeted by the intense scent of strawberries and vanilla, which meant that Willow and her body spray of the month were there.

Hey, Jersey! she sang brightly.

Willow was, by far, the happiest individual that I had ever met. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, with a book open next to her laptop, which had a huge Hello Kitty sticker covering the back of it. Her bright yellow comforter was dotted with lime green flowers and actually matched the yellow sundress she had on. Her jet-black hair was braided to the side and hanging over one shoulder. She kind of looked like she could’ve been Tia and Tamera’s third twin or something.

"Did you remember to record A Different World?" I asked, entering the room and throwing my bag on the pitifully small desk that was shoved in the cramped corner of the room.

Sheesh, Jersey, ‘hi’ to you too, she laughed, easily. It’s recording now.

She glanced at Devin and looked away quickly. Normally, I found such happy people to be irritating, mostly because it was fake and they were usually trying to hide something by being extra bubbly. But Willow didn’t bother me. She was actually genuine and sweet and even though I had absolutely no motherly-instincts in my bones and we were both nineteen—I felt the need to protect her. Which is why it was so troubling that she clearly had a thing for Devin’s whorish ass.

What’s up, Willow? Devin greeted her, plopping down onto my bed, shoes and all.

Hi, Devin, she said a little shyly.

Devin, get your crusty-ass feet off of my bed, I snapped, scowling.

Fuck yo’ bed, Jersey! he said, wildly stamping his feet all over my dark red and purple comforter in a terrible impersonation of the Rick James skit on The Chappelle Show. I slapped his legs off, not finding him to be funny in the least.

Willow giggled and he flashed his dimples at her. She blushed and dropped her gaze to her laptop. I swear Willow was like an actual ABC Family character. She’d never had a boyfriend and as far as I knew, had only gotten to third base. She literally said third base when she was telling me one night after I convinced her to drink some shooters with me.

You want to come hang out with us at rehearsal tonight? he asked her, studying her in the intense way that made women’s insides melt.

He was deliberately messing with her and I shot him a warning look, which he ignored. I’d told him on more than one occasion that Willow was off limits. She was too sweet and innocent to have her heart broken by Devin. And since Devin was my best friend and she was my roommate, I really didn’t want to have to deal with her heartbreak when he would inevitably lose interest. Honestly, I was protecting my own selfish interests by keeping them apart.

She shook her head, her cheeks red. She was so fair-skinned most people assumed that she’s mixed, although both her parents were black. I knew because she had a framed photo of them on the nightstand that separated our twin-sized beds. They looked happy and carefree, and nothing like any of the people I know back home.

I would come… I want to come… she stammered.

I watched Devin’s expression and knew his perverted ass was thinking about her very non-deliberate sexual innuendo. Willow was oblivious. But I have a paper to write for Psych, she finished.

He shrugged easily, grinning again. No worries, maybe next time. But you definitely have to come to our show Saturday, okay?

Her face lit up and she nodded her head enthusiastically. I love watching you guys play. Jersey is so talented.

I shook my head.

Really, Jersey. I think it’s so cool that you play the bass guitar, she told me for what had to be the millionth time.

I waved off her compliment and reached for my laptop, which was buried somewhere under my comforter.

We only have thirty minutes to cram now, I told Devin, pulling up my notes before passing the laptop to him.

He sighed exaggeratedly as he took it from me. We spent the next twenty-minutes studying before I hopped in the shower to wash J’s sweat off of me.

As much as I hated to admit it, Devin was right. I really have to stop sleeping with these lame-os.

Two

We pulled up to Travis’ house at exactly eight fifty-seven. Devin was really serious about being on time. Well, when it came to the band anyway. Travis always left the porch light on for us, like the people in the Motel 6 commercial, and tonight was no different.

Even though the light was faint, I could still make out the overgrown shrubs that lined the front of his tiny porch and the old wicker table and chair that was probably Travis’ grandma’s that he just never got rid of. The grass was wild and long and there was a closed cooler on the front porch that was probably full of empty beer cans, sitting next to the table and chair. I never got a chance to meet her, but I’m confident that grandma Pearl would not appreciate how poor of a job Travis has done taking care of her house.

I was taking my time getting out of Devin’s old pickup truck and he looked at me impatiently, pushing his squeaky door open. Devin’s truck was from the eighties—he wasn’t even alive in the decade it was made in. His dad owned a barely operable used tire shop in Douglassville and gave it to him as a graduation gift when we graduated from Ulysses S. Grant High School. As graduation presents go, it was a pretty shitty one. It’d be different if this beat up-ass truck wasn’t like, the only thing that Devin’s dad ever gave him. At least the tires were in great shape.

I hopped out of the truck, trying to oblige Devin’s death stares, and made my way up to the house, swatting mosquitos on the way. The air was sticky and even though it was almost nine, it was well over eighty degrees. I had on a pair of jean shorts that I made when I was going through my fashion phase during my junior year in high school. I realized fashion wasn’t my thing after about two weeks of cutting up every pair of jeans I owned and destroying them with my terrible sewing skills. I now had a drawer full of jean shorts with various patches that I designed. Today’s pair featured black star patches where the back pockets should be and a couple of guitars that I drew on the front with a black fabric marker. They’re pretty damn ugly, but like I said, I had a drawer full of them, so screw it.

I had thrown on a black spaghetti strap tank top and pulled a gray South Texas hoodie over it and braided my hair into two braids so that it would be the right kind of curly for tomorrow before tying on an old black bandana. I looked like Left Eye, or maybe a Beverly Hillbilly, but it was just rehearsal so I didn’t care.

I could already hear thumping coming from inside of the house as Devin took out his key and opened the door, even though I actually had a key here, too. All of our instruments were stored here, so I had access whenever I wanted to rehearse. Really, Travis was just nice as hell, and would probably lend his house to vagrant if he told him a good enough story and brought him a few beers.

I followed Devin through the small living room, which had one huge, coffee brown sectional and a TV the size of Mississippi holed into the wall adjacent to the couch. The wooden coffee table was littered with books, old magazines, and comics. I recognized the book from my Macro