Professor Feelgood

by Leisa Rayven

  Not untrue, but still … it makes me feel like crap.

  “Goddamn Devin,” I mutter, before pointing aggressively at the screen. “And for the last time, we didn’t steal anybody. I discovered him!”

  Either Devin doesn’t understand the precarious situation Whiplash is in right now, or he’s determined to get a few hits in against the woman who took his promotion. Either way, he’s a petty little man.

  Max gives me a sympathetic look. “Sorry.”

  I sigh. “Not your fault. All good. Thanks, Max.”

  Eden gives me a quick hug. “Have a good day.” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

  “Unlikely, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  I head out of the apartment and hit the button to call our creaky elevator. When I step inside and the doors close, I drop my shoes onto the floor and push my feet into them. Of all the mornings to be late. It’s going to be weird enough to introduce Jake around to my colleagues like he’s a stranger, but I’d hoped to have some quality time with Serena, so I could pick her brain about how to approach the narrative for Jake’s book.

  When I thought he was someone else, I had no trouble imagining myself steering this ship in the right direction. But now …

  I’m hoping against hope that a good night’s rest might have brought him to his senses about us working together. I realize it’s not likely, but a girl can dream.

  I fish around in my purse to find my lipstick as the ancient elevator makes its creaky descent to ground level. I should have taken the stairs. I’ve just finished swiping on some bright crimson, when my phone rings.

  “Shit.” I groan when I see Serena’s name flashing on the screen. “Oh, goddamn double shit.”

  When the elevator opens, I answer the call as I struggle to shove my arms into Eden’s coat.

  “Serena, hey. I’m so sorry I’m not there. I had an alarm mishap this morning, but I’m on my way.”

  I push through the doors leading to the street and pull up short. It’s raining. Hard.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Asha, what’s going on?”

  I take a breath and hold my vintage Fendi handbag over my head before making a mad dash to the subway station. “Well, I didn’t realize it was raining, so I don’t have an umbrella.”

  “Not with the weather. The whole team is in the conference room, waiting for you to brief them about the professor.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes, well ––”

  “Did you see The Pub Hub this morning?”

  “Yes, I did, and I’m mad as hell about it––”

  “People are already judging us for entrusting this project to you. Don’t prove them right by dropping the ball. You should have been here half an hour ago.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, I just ––”

  I’m hurrying down the subway stairs when I slip on the wet tiles. As I let out a shriek, my phone and bag go flying, and I tumble heavily down the remaining steps. I grunt when I hit my knee and elbow as I fall, until I finally land in an inglorious heap at the bottom.

  “Goddamn freaking shit!” People crowd around me, asking if I’m okay as they help me up. I quickly grab my purse, but when I look around for my phone, it’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Did any of you pick up my phone?”

  Having done their bare minimum duty to help a stranger in need, the members of my rescue party mumble various versions of ‘no’ before scurrying off to catch their own trains. As they leave, I scan the area again, and when I almost fall again, I realize the heel has snapped off my shoe. I nab it from the bottom of the stairs before doing one final search for my phone.

  “Honey?” There’s a female cleaner standing nearby holding a mop. Ironically, she’s right next to a ‘Slippery when wet’ warning sign.

  Too little, too late, sign.

  “Are you looking for a phone in a bright yellow case?” she asks.

  “Yes!” I cry, limping over to her. “Did you find it?”

  “No, but a saw a young punk with a hoodie and backpack running away with it right after you fell. I tried to grab him, but he was too quick.”

  “Oh, my God, seriously?”

  She points to a set of stairs a short distance away. “He went down there. You want me to call security?”

  “Ah, no, no time. Thank you.”

  I stride off as quickly as I can with one crippled shoe.

  “Honey!” the cleaner calls after me. “Don’t bother. He’s long gone by now.”

  I ignore her and head down the stairs, but keeping true to karma’s determination to screw me over, I see the train speeding away into the dirty tunnel, just as I get to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Ballsucking nippleslut! Are you kidding me with this?”

  I slump in defeat. My life was in that phone. Now I’m late, wet, one-heeled, no-phoned, and bruised in several places. And to top it all off, my boss probably thinks I just hung up on her while she was chewing me out for being tardy. Well, at least this day can’t get worse, right?

  Did you forget you’ll be spending most of the day with the King of the Assholes? a tiny voice whispers in my mind.

  “Shut up,” I hiss under my breath. “You shut your filthy mouth.”

  _______________

  “Serena,” I mutter to myself as I approach the Whiplash building, “I’m sorry about being late, but you see, Professor Feelgood is actually my old nemesis from high school, and last night somewhere between revealing his real identity and calling me a self-righteous bitch, Jacob Stone put a whammy on me, so now, everything in my life is turning to crap.”

  I know I can’t logically blame my current run of bad luck on Jake, but since he came back into my life, it seems as if every good thing is counterbalanced by something shitty, so I’m pointing a finger in his direction. He’s like my personal, one-man wrecking ball.

  As if to underline my theory, I’m waiting at the crosswalk opposite the Whiplash building when a bike messenger flies past, hits a nearby pothole, and splashes filthy street water all over me. I squeal in surprise and say several curse words regarding maternal fornication as the grossness drips down my face.

  By some minor miracle, the teenage girl standing right beside me is completely spared. Of course, she has an umbrella. It’s bright yellow and features a bunch of smiley emoticons. I despise it intensely.

  When I take off my glasses and shake the murky water off, she looks at me with amusement trying to pass itself off as sympathy. “Wow. Bummer, dude.”

  I give her a glare. “Ya think?”

  She turns away a second too late to hide her smile, but the happy faces on her umbrella taunt me with their nylon grins.

  I grumble under my breath and hobble across the road. After I throw my glasses into my bag, I don’t even bother trying to shield my head anymore, because seriously, what’s the freaking point? Rain streams down my hair and over my face as I limp the last few yards to the Whiplash lobby. When I finally step into the warm dryness of the elevator, I sigh as I drip onto the patterned carpet.

  Right before the doors close, Devin Shield steps inside.

  I look up at the ceiling and try to stop myself from screaming in frustration. Dear God, why are you torturing me like this? Whyeeeeee?

  Devin does a double take when he sees me.

  “Holy hell, Tate, are you okay? Did you get mugged or something?”

  I push my shoulders back and try not to look as defeated as I feel. “I had a minor altercation with a stairwell. I’m fine.”

  “Really? You’re bleeding.”

  “What?”

  He touches my forehead then shows me his finger. “See?”

  “Huh,” I say, staring in confusion at the congealed red glob. “Unusual I’m bleeding from the head considering you keep stabbing me in the back.”

  He ignores that and reaches into his jacket to pull out a clean handkerchief. Predictably, it’s embroidered with his initials. “Here.”

  I’m about to t
ake it when he pulls it away. “Actually, you know what? As much as I’d like to be a gentleman right now, because honestly, you look like you just crawled out of a dumpster, this is Egyptian cotton, and blood stains would ruin it.” He puts it back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

  I give him a death-glare. “Seriously?”

  He shrugs. “These things are a hundred bucks each, babe. Can’t just give them away.”

  “Sure. Unlike company secrets, right?”

  He trots out an unconvincing surprised expression. “Uh … What was that?”

  Thank God the doors open, and I stalk away from him before my anger can manifest into violence.

  I hobble over to the coat rack and deposit my dripping trench with the collection already there. Because my hair is sopping wet, my entire outfit is soaked. Guess I picked the wrong day to wear a black bra under a white blouse. Not that it was a conscious choice. Being late meant grabbing the nearest clean clothes.

  When I turn to go to my desk, I find Joanna standing a short distance away, gaping at me.

  “Oh, my God. Were you mugged?”

  I limp past her to my desk. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re drenched!”

  “I’m aware.” I collect my notebook and pen in preparation for attending the meeting I should have been chairing forty minutes ago. Being so late has put me under the gun.

  “Are the briefing kits I prepared yesterday already in there?” I ask Joanna.

  She grabs a handful of tissues and attempts to soak up some of the water dripping off my face. “Yep. As well as sales projections and a basket of muffins from that little bakery in SoHo. Everything’s ready to go.”

  “Great. Also, my phone was stolen.”

  “I’ll try to track it down.”

  “Thanks. Let’s do this.”

  “Uh … Ash? Do you maybe want to clean yourself up first?”

  “No time. I only have fifteen minutes to brief everyone before Jake arrives.” I head toward the conference room, and Jo falls into step beside me. “I’m not sure I can encapsulate the awesomeness of the professor and the accompanying terribleness of his real-life persona in that time, but I’m happy to give it a try.”

  She keeps dabbing me as we walk. “So, you’re going to tell people your history? Is that a good idea?”

  I think for a second. “Actually, no. If I admit we know each other, either I look like an idiot for signing him before I figured out who he really was, or it will seem like I colluded with him to get the biggest advance possible. Either way, it looks bad. Let’s just keep it between us.”

  “Is Jake onboard with this plan?”

  “Uh, good point. Can you text him? Tell him I asked to keep our history under wraps for now.”

  “Got it.” She taps out the text and hits send. “Done.”

  “Excellent,” I say as my stomach becomes weird. “Crisis averted.”

  “Sure. Good job.” Jo’s trying to be supportive, but I’m not buying it. Even she knows that having Jake here is going to be like swimming with a shark. There’s a good chance that at some point, he’s going to turn of me.

  “Oh, I do have some bad news,” Joanna says.

  “Not surprising. That seems to be the theme for the day.”

  “I called the bar where you left your coat last night, and they said they couldn’t find it. Seems like someone might have taken it home.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? That coat was freaking fabulous.” I get a twinge of sadness, but I have no time to dwell on it now. There’s more at stake today than mourning a coat.

  When we reach the glass doors, I push them open and greet the small assembled group. A few of them do a double take, but I don’t have time to stop and explain. “Good morning, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Please take a moment to flick through the info packs in front of you, and then we’ll get started.”

  As I sit next to Serena at the head of table, I glance over to find her mouth agape.

  “Good God! What happened? I knew something was wrong when I heard you scream and then the line went dead. I’ve been calling your phone every few minutes, but got no answer. Were you mugged? Are you alright?”

  Man, why does everyone think I was mugged. How bad do I look?

  “I’m fine, Serena. I need a new phone, but otherwise––”

  “They mugged you for your phone?! Shameless.”

  “No, I just––” I take a breath. “I’m fine, really.” I don’t sound convincing, and with good reason. Despite trying to act normal and get on with the task at hand, there’s a deep ache that starts in my elbow and goes down to my knee where I hit them on the stairs. Not to mention the dull pounding that’s taken up residence behind my left eyeball. People are throwing questions at me about what happened, but I cut them off.

  “Honestly, don’t worry about me, guys. Please, let’s just get through this meeting before the professor gets here.”

  Our team today consists of our in-house promotional guru, Sidney, his second-in-command, Shawna, and our social media director, Dominique. There are also three girls who are interning with us for a few months, and I notice how they exchange glances when they open the dossier and see pictures of a semi-naked professor. It’s funny how favorable reactions to him used to make me feel great about this project, but now that I know it’s Jake, I just want to yell, “Stop! Don’t find him attractive! He’s a butthead!”

  “So,” I say, while opening my own dossier. “A few of you are already familiar with our latest author, but for those who aren’t, let me introduce Professor Feelgood.”

  “Terrible-looking man,” Sidney says, clucking his tongue. “How does someone cope with a hideous body like that?”

  “And untalented,” Shawna adds. “I’ve been trawling his Instagram feed for the past twenty-four hours, and … well …” A bright blush starts on her neck. “He really needs to learn how to string a sentence together.”

  Serena smiles. “I’m glad to see no one here is immune to the professor’s charms.”

  I consider mentioning that at least one person here finds him gross, but what would be the point?

  Serena gestures to me. “Asha has done a fantastic job finding us a rare and special gem in the professor, and we need to make sure we capitalize on this opportunity to bring home a monster hit for Whiplash.”

  “Have you guys met him yet?” one of the interns asks. “Is he as amazing in real life as he is online?”

  “No,” I say, a little too quickly. “Uh … what I mean is, we haven’t met. That’s what today’s for. To introduce him to everyone, answer questions, and generally welcome him to the Whiplash family.”

  “Well, one thing the bidding war did was give the professor some invaluable publicity,” Sidney says. “I was chatting with some media friends last night, and they’re all clamoring to find out more about the man who sent the publishing world into a tailspin. There’s already quite a bit of jostling to get early interviews and photo ops.”

  Serena nods, impressed. “That’s fantastic news. Getting buzz going early is going to drive the popularity of this book. The more pre-sales we can get, the better.” She turns to me. “Asha, is there anything else you can tell us about the professor?”

  So very much, but little that would be relevant to this conversation. “Well, I know he’s a twenty-four-year-old Brooklyn native. He went to a local high school, and his father was a police officer at a Brooklyn precinct.”

  I’m trying to make it sound like these are things I haven’t known most of my life, but it’s tough to fake non-familiarity with Jake. I know every major milestone of his life, including his first kiss and when he lost his virginity. Not things I necessarily want to know, but nevertheless, know them, I do.

  “Okay. Local boy. That’s a good angle,” Sid says. “Did you warn him about me grilling him today?”

  Damn. I’d forgotten that one of Sid’s favorite tricks is to run comprehensive interviews with all our authors, so he can unearth interest
ing personal stories he can sell to media outlets to gain exposure. He has a way of getting people to tell him incredibly personal anecdotes, but I doubt Jake will succumb to his charms. When it comes to divulging details about his personal life, Jake is about as forthcoming as a steel trap locked in a cast-iron filing cabinet that’s stored in the basement of a condemned building.

  Still, if Jake does decide to cooperate, I hope he has sense enough to keep me out of it.

  “No warning,” I say, trying to seem unrattled. “I guess we’ll just see how things go.”

  “Excellent,” Sid says in his best Bond villain voice. “I like to take my prey by surprise before cracking them open like a walnut. Hopefully Mr. Stone will have some fascinating stories about his life and upbringing.”

  Serena starts a conversation with Sid about which photographer to use for Jake’s upcoming photoshoot, but their voices fade into the background as I rub my head. It’s starting to ache, and I need to down some painkillers before I have to deal with him. He makes my head feel like it’s exploding with rage on a good day, so I’d hate to see what happens when my cranium already feels like it’s splitting open like an egg.

  “Okay,” I say. “If there are no other questions I’ll leave you to read over the information in your packs for a few minutes …”

  “Asha, you’ve spoken to this guy on the phone, right?” the short, dark-headed intern asks.

  “Uh … well, yes.”

  She leans forward. “Does he have a sexy voice? It seems like he would.”

  “Well …” Aaaand here’s the quandary in which I’m going to find myself throughout this entire process. How can I make objective comments about a man I subjectively hate? Whichever way I go, I’ll be denying some version of the truth.

  “His voice is … that of a man.” Awesomely dodged.

  “But a sexy man?” the brat presses.

  “Uh … Some would find him attractive, I guess. Not me, but some.”

  “Seriously,” the girl says, holding up a picture of the professor’s ripped physique. “You’re telling me you don’t find this sexy?”