Professor Feelgood

by Leisa Rayven

  I look over at his crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows. “That wouldn’t be weird?”

  “We used to sleep in each other’s beds all the time.”

  “Well, yeah, but that was before we grew up and had … urges. If I take a blacklight to your sheets, will they glow like a neon rave party?”

  He laughs. “I’m flattered you think I’m getting that much action, even by my own hand. But my sheets are clean. Mostly.” He picks up his notebook and pen. “Go sleep. I’ll wake you up when I have something worthwhile for you to read.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I take off my coat, kick off my shoes, and make my way across the room. “God bless you, Jacob Stone. I take back every bad word I ever said about you.”

  He raises a fist in victory. “About time.”

  When I reach the bed, I climb beneath the thick comforter, snuggle down into the Jake-scented pillows, and let out a long sigh. Within seconds, everything fades to black.

  _______________

  I slowly become aware of someone stroking my hair. It feels like I’ve just dozed off, so I’m reluctant to open my eyes. Also, I love having my hair stroked, so I’m in no hurry for it to stop.

  “Ash.”

  It’s Jake. Oh, yeah, I’m in his bed. Only fitting since I just had an incredibly erotic dream about him.

  I hug a pillow and sigh. My God, he smells good. He always did.

  “Asha.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The stroking fingers move from my head down to my arm. I break out in goosebumps.

  “Are you awake?”

  I stay silent. The soft caresses feel amazing. Everything is becoming warm. I move my hips and make an approving noise.

  I reach out and find him. He’s close. Soft fabric. I move my hand down, and then push beneath the fabric, where there’s warm skin and ridges of firm muscle. It feels amazing.

  He makes a noise. “Asha, touching me like that isn’t a great idea, unless you want to redefine our friends pact.”

  I crack one eye open. Jake’s right next to me, propped up on pillows, a notebook in his hand. “So you are awake?”

  My hand has slipped under his t-shirt and is pressing against his stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans.

  He’s looking at me with the same heat he had last night, and it’s no less thrilling and frightening today.

  “Serious question,” he says, his voice strained. “Are you trying to drive me insane? You’ve been making all kinds of sex noises, and now with the touching …”

  I pull my hand away. “Sorry. I was just ...” I shake my head and cringe from the pain behind my eyes. “You felt nice. Warm. I was half-asleep. Sorry.”

  He pushes out a breath. “Don’t apologize. It’s just that a woman hasn’t touched me like that for a long time, and my body was getting excited about finally getting some action.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Not just the unexpected admission that I turn him on, but also the unlikely news that he’s not bedding dozens of women on the regular.

  “How long has it been for you?” I say. “I’d assumed that part of your quest to get over Ingrid included copious amounts of hot sex. After all, it’s not like you don’t have millions of women lusting after you.” Every time I think about how many women want him, I get deeply uncomfortable. In my mind, my attraction to him is unique and special, but perhaps that’s what everyone who fantasizes about him believes. “Your inbox must be overflowing with offers. You were never tempted to accept any of them?”

  He leans his head back against the headboard. “No. Meaningless hook-ups don’t work for me anymore. I tried a few one-night stands when I got back from overseas. They were awkward as hell. I’ve come to the conclusion that I need more than just a physical attraction.” He turns to me. “If I can’t connect with someone on a deeper level, there’s no point in even trying.”

  As he says this, he looks into my eyes, and the rush of desire makes the pain in my head fade into the background.

  “What about you?” he asks softly. “Are you planning on getting over Derek with some hot-sex therapy? I’m sure you’d have no shortage of volunteers.”

  I laugh. Yeah, tons of guys are lining up to date the woman who turns into a cold fish the second they get her into bed. It’s every man’s dream.

  “Uh ... no. It’s not really my thing, either.”

  He goes quiet, and for several long seconds he seems to study me as if he thinks he can find the meaning of the universe in my face. “What is your thing, Ash? What turns you on more than anything else?”

  Before I can stop it, a singular answer forms in my mind.

  You.

  “Uh …”

  It’s immediately followed by quick, intense mental flashes.

  You touching me. Kissing me. Slowly peeling off my clothes and putting your mouth on me.

  “I, uh …”

  You climbing on top of me. Pushing apart my legs as you sink into me. You making a low noise as you push all the way inside.

  “Jesus …”

  You making love to me. Thrusting and groaning and making every part of me belong to you.

  The flood of scenes comes so thick and fast, I have to squeeze my eyes shut to block them out. My head pounds with the effort.

  The bed moves, and before I know it, Jake’s cupping my cheek. “Asha?” I grip his arm. “Are you okay?” He places his palm on my forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

  “Headache,” I mumble, trying hard not to give into the urge to pull him on top of me. “Bad one.”

  “Are you going to be sick? Do I need to get a bucket?”

  I pull away from him. “I’m fine. Probably just dehydrated.”

  My brain is still churning, projecting what it would be like to feel his hands all over me. His mouth. His tongue.

  Dear Mother Mary, his tongue.

  “Asha?”

  I climb out of bed and head toward the bathroom, trying not to look at him. “I’m fine. I just need a second. You just …” Kiss me, lick me, fuck me. “Uh … keep going with your writing. I’ll be right back.”

  “There are painkillers in the bathroom cabinet.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  I close the bathroom door behind me and collapse back against it.

  Shitting shittiest shit.

  I let out a long exhale. Well, that escalated quickly. I can’t even discuss what turns me on without thinking of him in the most pornographic terms possible? Not acceptable.

  I run the cold water and splash some on my face.

  “Fuck me!” Jake’s cold water must reach Brooklyn via the Arctic, because it’s goddamn freezing. On the upside, the extreme cold makes my excruciating blush feel better, and subsequently, my hangover is slowly fading. There’s still an extreme-fire-danger warning in my nether regions, but I’m not stripping off to splash that area with water.

  I open the cabinet over the sink and grab a couple of Advil before downing them with a handful of water. Better safe than sorry.

  I put both hands on the vanity and drop my head. There must be some defense against the insanity of what he does to me. And if it’s out there, I have to find it, because I’m not going to survive feeling like this for much longer.

  My priority right now needs to be getting this book finished. That’s it. All other distractions need to GTFO.

  I dry my face with a sweet-smelling hand towel, take a deep breath, and pull open the door.

  _______________

  “Can I see it, please?” There’s a touch of whine in my voice, but that’s what happens when he insists on delayed gratification.

  “Not yet. Have some patience, woman.” His hand moves faster.

  “Jake, you’ve been teasing me for an hour. Come on. Put me out of my misery.”

  He groans. “God, I love it when you beg. Do it again.”

  “Jacob!”

  He smiles and finishes with a flourish. “Okay. Keep your pants on. Or not.
Whatever makes you more comfortable.” He comes and sits next to me, then passes over his notebook. “Be gentle. My ego is fragile.”

  “Yeah, fragile like titanium.” I flip through the book and am surprised to find he’s written ten pages, front and back.

  I look over at him. “You wrote all of this today?”

  He nods. “Amazing what I can achieve when you’re not yelling at me. Is that going to be enough to satisfy Serena?”

  “Definitely. Although I think it’s a little unfair to ask for this on day two.”

  Earlier, we’d received a text from Serena requesting some sample pages to see how we were doing. Jake thinks she’s checking in to make sure her three-hundred grand investment isn’t a lemon. I think she’s making sure her editorial protégé isn’t a dud. Either way, the pressure is on to get her something impressive enough to put all her fears to rest. If there’s nothing in these pages that will knock her on her ass, we only have a few hours left to come up with something else.

  I chew on my thumb nail as I read the first few pages of the new material.

  Oh, shit. Game on, Serena.

  “Jake … this is good.”

  “Yeah?”

  I sit up straighter and read the rest. “Yeah.” Maybe it was our dysfunctional relationship holding him back after all, because whatever mental block he was having yesterday has disappeared. What he’s written is passionate and thought-provoking, and he’s settled into an interesting literary style that incorporates the imagery of his poetic elements. The last couple of paragraphs give me the shivers.

  Anger is a powerful emotion. It makes everything simple. You can take fear, anxiety, humiliation, disappointment, and loneliness and distill them down into one singular, potent form. And if you let anger have its way, you’ll never have to worry about feeling anything else. It’s a balm for the broken-hearted. A shield for the vulnerable. It’s the cozy blanket of deniability that convinces you nothing was ever your fault.

  When you’re terrified that you’re too broken to be loved, anger reminds you that you don’t need to be.

  And when you burn down the world and stand in the smoldering ruins of your life, anger is still there, congratulating you. Insulating you. Convincing you that the smoke in your lungs isn’t slowly killing you.

  I turn to Jake who’s clasping his hands in front of his mouth, elbows on knees, waiting for me to say something.

  There’s only one thing I can say. “Holy Mother of Shit. You nailed it.”

  “You think Serena will like it?”

  “Jake, she may very well orgasm and send you a fruit basket.”

  His smile is instant. “Outstanding.”

  “I can see your dimple,” I say, touching the indentation in his cheek. “It’s been a long time since that happened.”

  He tenses at my touch, and I pull my hand back. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been this happy.”

  “Not since Ingrid.”

  He looks confused. “What?”

  “In that photo of you guys together, your dimple is showing. You were happy with her.”

  He glances over to the storage unit that holds his photos. “That seems like a lifetime ago.”

  But it wasn’t, I want to say. And even though I want to believe your love for her isn’t going to stifle your future relationships, I know it will. One more compelling reason for me to ignore how you’ve been looking at me all day.

  I pass back his notebook and stand. “Well, you should keep going while the word gods are on your side.”

  “Asha, wait.” He takes my hand and looks up at me. “I … ah … I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

  “For what?”

  He strokes my fingers, and I take in a sharp breath. It’s something he used to do when we were young, but it never felt like this.

  “For believing in me. For giving me this chance to do something I can be proud of. All of this is because of you.”

  I’m mesmerized by the soft brush of his skin over mine. I normally wouldn’t count my fingertips as erogenous zones, but with him they absolutely are.

  “I just opened the door, Jake.” I pray he can’t tell how intensely my heart is pounding. “You’re the one who had the talent to walk through it.”

  I pull my hand back and clench it a few times to get rid of the tingling.

  He looks at it then clears his throat. “Friends can’t hold hands, either?”

  “Not when it feels like that, no.”

  He gets up and stands next to me, almost touching but not quite. I will myself not to look up. If I connect with those dark, passionate eyes of his, I’m done for.

  “You know,” he says quietly. “I thought going back to being friends with you would be as easy as breathing, and in some ways, it is. But we used to touch each other all the time and not even notice. Now, just being in the same room with you feels different.”

  I glance at his neck. His pulse is racing, and it pleases me more than I’d like.

  “But the last thing I want to do is screw this up, Ash. It’s taken too long to get back here. So, I need you to keep telling me when I cross the line, okay?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  We both go quiet, and after a few seconds, he says, “Friends can’t stand this close to each other, can they?”

  “Nope.”

  He steps away right as his phone rings, and as soon as I’m free from his thrall, I let out a sigh and flop back into the couch. I swear to God, my body can’t take this much stimulation every day. Pretty soon, blood vessels are going to start popping, and I’ll bleed out in a cloud of smoldering lust. The one good thing about this crazy-hot attraction is that standing next to him is the best cardio workout I’ve ever had.

  I steady my breathing as he answers his phone and walks over to the huge picture window, while I start typing up today’s words. I only need a few pages to send to Serena, so once I get everything into the document, I’ll choose my favorites.

  I don’t try to overhear what he’s saying on the phone, but it’s impossible not to in this space.

  “Yeah, I can’t get there ’til around five … You sure? … Okay, great. See you then.” He hangs up and walks back over.

  “You have a hot date later?” I’m just kidding around, but even so, I think my eye twitches.

  “Uh, yeah. Sort of.” He sits beside me. “I need to head out a little early today to get to the crematorium.”

  I stop typing. “You’re taking a date to the crematorium? That’s … morbid.”

  “I guess. The date is with my dad. I’m going to say goodbye.”

  “Your dad …?”

  “He’s being cremated tonight. I asked if I could be there.”

  I turn to him. “Wait, last night when you told me he’d died, I just assumed it was a while ago. When did he pass?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  I think for a second. “But that was … that was your first day at Whiplash. That’s why you left right after the meeting?”

  He nods. “The hospital called. Said he was fading and I should get there as quickly as possible.”

  Just when I think I can’t feel worse for not being there for him, I find out I can. I bitched him out for running off to be with his dying father. “God, Jake. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. He’d been sick for a long time. I knew it was coming.”

  “It’s a shame he won’t be around to see you become a published author. Did he know about the book?”

  “Yeah. He thought I was lying about the advance, because in his words, ‘What kind of idiot would pay that much money for your stupid goddamn love poems?’”

  Ah, yes. Mr. Stone was always warm and supportive. I remember the time Jake told his dad he wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps and become a cop, and Mr. Stone had shoved him into the kitchen wall so hard, it cracked the plaster. Jake was ten.

  “Well, at least he was consistent to the end,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Jake picks some flu
ff off the sofa cushion. “He did one thing that surprised me, though. When I told him I’d be working with you, he said two words.”

  “Let me guess - Get out? Quit now? Do drugs?”

  Jakes stands and looks down at me. “He said, ‘Marry her.’” He shakes his head. “He may have hated my guts, but he always loved you.”

  I sit in stunned silence as he gathers up empty coffee cups and half-eaten pastries from the coffee table and takes them over to the trash.

  “Jake?” He turns to me. “Do you want some company tonight? I wouldn’t mind saying goodbye to your dad, too.” No matter how rocky their relationship was, I know that this is something he absolutely shouldn’t do alone.

  “Are you sure? It’s Friday night. You probably have a million more important things to do.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing’s more important than this. I wasn’t there for you in the past, but I sure as hell can be now.”

  He nods, and I don’t miss how relieved he seems. “So, friends can’t hug or hold hands, but they can attend the ritual incineration of recently deceased family members?”

  I smile. “They absolutely can.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  ____________________

  No Regrets

  ALL FRIENDSHIPS ARE DIFFERENT. Some are so strong they can weather any storm, while other are so fragile, they’d disintegrate in the mildest breeze. Then there are those that defy definition. They straddle an invisible line like a circus performer on the high wire, and you’re not sure if you’re craving the comfort of making it safely to the other side, or the stomach-tingling exhilaration of an unexpected fall. It’s those friendships that can either result in lifelong bonds, or a sudden and inglorious curtain call.

  That’s where Jake and I have been living for the past few weeks––right in the middle of a teetering balancing act that could go either way at any second.

  Since our close call last month at the HEA party, the pressure to be our past selves isn’t a problem. Despite our years of animosity strung together by hurt feelings and blame, spending time with him is like putting on a favorite record; I may not have listened to it in a while, but I know every note and lyric. He still makes me laugh like he used to. He still has a giant heart, fluctuating levels of patience, and a stubborn streak as wide as the Grand Canyon. We still fit together in so many important ways, but there’s also a lot that’s different. Like the way I can’t help but stare at him when he’s not watching; the tight pull in my chest every time he writes about his time with Ingrid; the subtle dance of distance we engage in to ensure we don’t stand close enough to trigger tense moments of mutual longing.