PROFESSOR FEELGOOD

by Rayven, Leisa

  “I’ll text you.”

  “Fantastic. Talk to you later.”

  “Uh huh.”

  As soon as I disconnect the call, Joanna gasps. “Oh, dear heavenly sex voices. You’re going to see that hot piece of man in person tonight. I have spare panty liners, should you need them.”

  I roll my eyes as I grab my phone before we both leave the conference room.

  “It’s a business meeting, Jo. No panty liners necessary.”

  “Whatever you say. But what if he tries to kiss you?”

  “He won’t.”

  “He might. You’re freaking gorgeous. In any case, wear something smoking hot. If he falls madly in lust with you, then so be it.”

  “Jo, I’m taken, so I’m going to wear something appropriate for a business meeting.”

  She makes a disappointed sound but doesn’t push it further.

  When we reach my desk, she sits back in the extra chair. I quickly check my inbox and see that Serena has already sent a slew of emails about the professor coming into the office tomorrow. She’s also asked me to brief everyone before he arrives, so we’re all on the same page. As I read the memos, I feel myself grinning.

  I turn to find Joanna smiling, too. “Your first author, Ash. How cool is that?”

  I nod. “Pretty freaking cool.”

  “I’m so stinking proud of you.”

  I grab my phone with the thought to call Nannabeth and Eden to tell them the good news, but then a text buzzes through from the professor.

 

  A shiver of excitement runs through me as I shoot back,

  Joanna fans herself. “And the countdown to debilitating hotness begins in three … two … one … now.”

  I’m still laughing at her when Devin scurries past us on his way to the lobby.

  SEVEN

  ____________________

  So Very No

  AS I SIT IN THE CROWDED bar, I judder my leg under the table. My nerves are making me feel sick and hot, and no matter how hard I try to settle down, nothing seems to help, not even the über-strong cocktail I’m sipping.

  As I smooth down my hair, I glance around and try to avoid looking like I’m desperate. There’s only so long you can sit by yourself in a bar before people start throwing sympathetic glances your way, knowing you’ve been stood up. Right now, I’m straddling that line. The professor is more than fifteen minutes late, and I’m starting to seem like a social pariah.

  A clean-shaven blond guy approaches me, but I shoot him down before he even opens his mouth.

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  I’m thankful when he nods and veers past me to a couple of college girls.

  I subtly reach beneath the table and tug down the hem of my dress. Earlier, I’d tried on nearly every outfit in my closet before settling on a sleek, black pencil dress. Like most of the items in my closet, it’s form-fitting, because I’ve learned that the best way to minimize my curves is to not add extra bulk, but the hemline and neckline are conservative enough to give it a polished and professional air. I’m hoping I look like a fuller-figured version of Audrey Hepburn; classy, stylish, and confident.

  I’ll admit that I’m abnormally nervous about tonight’s meeting. I’m deeply attracted to the professor’s work and therefore him, but more than that, I have a powerful need to impress him. I really hope I rise to the challenge of doing his words justice. Even though I’ve only seen small glimpses of who he is through our conversations, I know without a doubt he possesses some sort of stark, brave integrity I haven’t encountered often in my life. He knows who he is, and even though he doesn’t seem to like himself very much, he’s not hiding behind some kind of perfect facade. He freely admits his flaws and puts them on display for the whole world to see. There’d be less bullshit in the world if more people did that.

  I wonder if I could ever be brave enough to follow suit. Be my real, authentic self.

  “OMG, he didn’t say that!” cries a girl at the table next to mine, before she and her two friends devolve into a fit of giggles. “That’s amazing. You’re so lucky to have him.”

  I sip my drink as I watch the group. Everything is amplified with them, and their fake exaggeration grates on me. And yet, the thought of dealing with a man like the professor who oozes sincerity is making me break out in a cold sweat. What the hell does that say about me?

  I check my watch before going back to scanning the faces of the men circling the bar. I chose a table reasonably close to the front, so the professor could find me easily. After all, he’ll have to make first contact, because I have no idea what he looks like. Well, that’s not strictly true. I’ve ogled his pictures so often, I could probably pick his abs out of a lineup.

  The one thing I do know is that I’m looking for dark hair and a killer jawline covered in scruff. How dark, I have no idea, so every brown-haired guy who passes within my orbit is scrutinized so intensely, I’m certain I’m giving off desperate-stalker vibes.

  I check my watch again. Okay, now he’s twenty-five minutes late. This isn’t cool. Even if he has a good excuse, I’d at least expect a text.

  Or maybe he’s just bailed altogether.

  I grab my phone and type out,

  I press send and watch the screen, but he doesn’t reply.

  Crap.

  I drain the rest of my drink and sigh. To leave or not to leave? That is the question.

  I’m contemplating whether to give him the benefit of the doubt and move onto my second cocktail, when I see a guy walking toward me, squinting through the dim light.

  Okay, here we go. About time.

  I sit up straighter as he approaches.

  Dark hair? Check.

  Facial hair? Check.

  Hot body? Eh. Hard to tell considering he’s wearing a Matrix-style knee-length leather coat, but let’s go with maybe. The thick glasses are throwing me off, but still. The fact that he seems to recognize me indicates he’s my guy.

  “Wow,” he says, giving me an appraising look. “Your picture really didn’t do you justice. You’re so much hotter in person.”

  I’m thrown by his words, even though his tone is more surprised than flirty. It’s less ‘pick-up line’, and more ‘here are my thoughts without a verbal filter.’ Of course, he’s only seen my cheesy profile pic on the Whiplash website and a drowned rat on a grainy Facetime feed, so I guess I can give his comment a pass, especially since I do look decent tonight.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “It’s been one of those days.”

  His voice is higher than I remember. Or maybe it just sounds different in real life as opposed to the sexy darkness he exudes on the phone. He’s certainly more smiley than I’d anticipated from his angsty posts. In fact, my mental image of the good professor is nothing like the reality.

  “No problem,” I say as I offer my hand. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  He picks up my hand and presses his lips against the back of it. The action makes me cringe, but I endure it. Kind of a weird thing to do when meeting someone for the first time, especially in a business relationship. I have to believe he doesn’t intend it to be as creepy as it comes across. Even so, I can’t help the shudder that runs through my arm.

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure, m’lady. And I have no doubt that will be the first of many pleasures tonight.”

  I give him a confused smile and take my hand back.

  Jesus Christ. M’lady? Pleasure? What’s happening right now? How have I so completely misjudged this man?

  The guy is attractive, sure, but in a nerdy, somewhat awkward way. Considering he has no qualms about showing off his ripped, tattooed body, I’d expected him to be rougher; more confident. Maybe even a little arrogant.

  Instead, he looks nervous as he carefully slides onto the stool next to me. “So … uh, how are you?”

  “I’m well. You?”

  “Go
od, good.”

  There’s a brief pause, after which we both go to speak at the same time. Then we laugh, and he gestures for me to go first. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little relieved that meeting him in person has caused the crazy lust I felt while trawling his timeline to evaporate. Even though he’s not what I expected, having no real-life chemistry while we work together will help me stay objective. That’s a good thing for my blood pressure, not to mention my professionalism. And yet, another part of me is disappointed. How on earth did my mental image and the real man land so far apart? I think my hot-dude meter is busted.

  “So,” I say and clear my throat. “We should talk business.”

  He nods and pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Of course. You’re a busy woman. Let’s get down to it.” He glances around before sliding the envelope over to me. “I think you’ll find it’s all there. And just to clarify …” He leans over and whispers, “I’ve included the extra two-hundred we discussed for the … uh …” He winks. “… optional extras. Speaking of which …” He eyes my empty glass. “Shouldn’t you be drinking more? I mean, that’s a thing, right? You need to fill up your bladder so you can, you know … shower me with your ––”

  “Oh, my God,” I say, leaning back so far I almost fall off my stool. “What the hell, dude?! Who do you think I am?”

  He blinks in confusion. “Is this a test? You’re Mistress Trinity, of course, and I’m your worthless servant.” His face lights up. “Oh, wait, is this part of your plan? Did you want to punish me here? Because I haven’t done public humiliation yet, but I’m very open to it.” He whispers. “I even have my own collar and leash.”

  “Holy shit.” As embarrassment and disbelief duke it out to see who can make me blush more, I look around to make sure there aren’t some snickering frat boys in a corner, laughing at my expense. A quick scan of the room suggests I’m alone in this bubble of mortification. Well, not entirely alone. Submissive Neo is looking at me expectantly, awaiting further instructions.

  “Look …” I slide his envelope back over to him and vaguely wonder how much cash would make it feel that thick. Obviously, I’m in the wrong line of work. “I think there’s been a mistake …”

  His face falls. “Oh, God. I’ve screwed it up already, haven’t I? Come on too strong. Been too weird. Please, just tell me what I did wrong. I can do better.” He leans forward again, excitement lighting him up. “I’m such a bad boy, mistress, but you can train me. Punish me as hard as you like. I can take it. Please take me home with you. Make me your slave.”

  He kneels on the floor in front of me and bows in submission, and even though my head is on a swivel as I try to find someone else to witness this zaniness, not one person nearby is even batting an eyelid. In NYC, I guess everyone’s so jaded by constant weird shenanigans, a groveling Keanu-Reeves-look-alike is almost boring.

  “Please get up,” I say, tugging on his sleeve. “I’m sure you’d make someone a wonderful slave, but I’m not who you think I am. Come on, now.” I’m startled when a woman appears beside me. She’s wearing a leather bustier over black skinny jeans and stiletto boots, and her red hair is pulled back into an immaculate ponytail that’s so tight, it looks painful.

  “Um, hey there,” she says, giving me an apologetic smile before turning to Neo. “I think this one belongs to me.”

  Neo glances up in surprise, and then frowns at me before beaming with adoration at the other woman.

  “Mistress!”

  I flinch when she slaps him hard across the face.

  “How dare you offer yourself to another!” She glares at him before subtly taking the envelope from the table. “You’re going to regret your transgression, you pathetic toad.”

  Neo lets out a low groan. “Oh, yes, mistress. Please, make me regret it.”

  She slaps him again. “Get your ass outside and wait for me, worm. I’ll deal with you shortly.”

  Neo beams like a kid on a sugar high before scrambling to his feet and pushing through the crowd.

  Yep, just a regular Tuesday night in the East Village.

  After he’s gone, the woman turns to me with a gentle smile. “Sorry about that. Men, right? One redhead is obviously interchangeable with another. I really need to start wearing a pink carnation or something.”

  “This has happened before?”

  “Oh, yeah. All the time. I told him I’d be at the back of the bar, and really, the leather should have been a dead giveaway, right? But nope. Oh, well. At least I don’t have to invent a reason to punish him. Poor baby isn’t going to be able to sit down tomorrow.”

  She smiles as she shoves the envelope into the top of her boot. Then she pulls a bottle of water from her purse and downs half of it in three giant swallows. When she’s done, she looks at me sheepishly.

  “Gotta keep those liquids up, am I right? Anyway, better get moving. His penis isn’t going to cage itself. Your glasses are super cute, by the way. Have a great night!”

  “Uh, thanks. You, too.”

  She grins. “Oh, I will.”

  She strides out of the bar like a badass bitch as I gesture for the nearest waitress to bring me another drink. At least tonight hasn’t been boring. Wait until I tell Eden and Joanna about this. They may very well piss themselves just as much as the Mistress.

  I check my phone again, and a jab of disappointment hits me when I see there’s still nothing from the professor.

  Damn.

  Getting stood up is humiliating at the best of times, but it’s even worse when it’s someone you’re really looking forward to meeting. Obviously, he had somewhere more important to be tonight. I just hope this level of unreliability isn’t indicative of what’s to come.

  “Well, well, well,” a deep voice behind me says. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or did little Asha Tate grow up to be a kinky sex freak?”

  The voice sends a shiver down my spine, and when the man walks into my line of view, I frown in confusion. He’s familiar, but also not. As I scrutinize him, a prickle of recognition sparks in the corner of my brain. But then my gaze travels to his short beard and how tall and broad he is, and the name floating in my brain turns pale with disbelief. It’s a face I know as well as my own, but not in this form; and certainly not in this body. It’s the face of someone I’ve both loved and hated, and sincerely hoped I’d never see again.

  With recognition comes a blast of anger.

  “Jacob.” My voice is so tight, his name sounds like an accusation

  His hands are in his pockets, shoulders bunched, eyes wary. He looks mildly amused by my discomfort, as well as annoyed to be in my presence, which was pretty much the status quo for us all through high school. With the way tonight has gone, I shouldn’t be surprised I’d randomly run into the guy who made my entire high school experience a living hell, and yet …

  “Hello, Asha. Or would you prefer me to call you Mistress these days?”

  “That depends. If I get to inflict physical pain on you, then call me whatever you like.”

  He tilts his head. “Are we talking normal pain? Or sexy lingerie-and-stilettos type pain? Because I’d consider the second one for the laughs alone. However, if we’re taking just a regular old ass-kicking, then I’m pretty sure I could take you.”

  As usual, he stares at me with such off-putting intensity, I feel a familiar simmer of anxiety start up. The last time I saw Jake, he was slamming out of my house, cursing my name while I called him a selfish asshole. Back then, he was tall and lanky, with long hair and a shitty attitude for days. Now, he may look wildly different from the teenage douchebag I used to know, but the tension he inspires hasn’t changed. If I didn’t think it showed weakness, I’d rush into the bathroom and allow my stomach the violent purging it’s begging for.

  “So,” he says, scanning me from top to toe with his usual piercing gaze. “You look … different. Grown up.” He points to my face. “You need glasses now, Grandma?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” I take the glasses
off and put them on the table as I swipe a hand across the cold sweat that’s prickling the back of my neck. “They’re for my job. Camouflage.”

  “Right.” He nods. “So, fake. Some things never change.”

  I ignore the barb. I’ve had plenty of practice. “Well, you have. Graduated from peach fuzz to big boy facial hair, I see.”

  “It’s laziness. Shaving is a burden.”

  “Uh huh. That’s fascinating.” I give him my best bored expression. He counters it with a condescending smirk. Asshole.

  “Well,” I say, not giving him the satisfaction of showing how he’s affecting me. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but we both know that would be a lie.”

  His lips curl more. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s enough to make me even more irritated. “I was about to say the same thing. How long has it been? Six years-ish?”

  “About that, and yet also not long enough. For the record, I’m really not in the mood for you to tell me to go screw myself tonight, so if that’s what you were planning …”

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but the night is young and you seem like you’re angling for a fight. Let’s just see what happens.”

  I can still remember how betrayed I felt after our final argument. Right before it, part of me held out hope that we could perhaps get past the years of mutual animosity and at least be civil to each other, but he made it clear he wasn’t interested. That was the moment I buried the last stubborn remnants of affection I’d felt for him and plastered a giant ‘FU’ on his mental portrait.

  Jacob’s living proof that assholes gotta asshole.

  “Anyway,” I say, “this has been appropriately excruciating, so now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m waiting for someone.”

  I may have given up hope that the professor will show up at this point, but I’m hoping my dismissive tone will give Jake the hint that our conversation is done. It’s amazing how seeing him again makes the past six years seem like they never happened. He needs to get the hell away from me, so I can stop feeling like an angst-ridden teenager all over again.

  “Aw, come on, now,” Jake says as he flags down a waitress. “Surely you have more time for an old friend than that. And since you practically begged me, I’d love to have a drink. Thanks.”