PROFESSOR FEELGOOD

by Rayven, Leisa

  A few days ago, I would have licked that photo and relished the taste. Today, it makes me cringe away like Gwyneth Paltrow from junk food.

  “The thing is,” I say, rubbing my head again. “Sexiness is in the eye of the beholder, right? I mean, what I find sexy, you may not, and vice versa. For me, a man has to have an amazing personality to be sexy. He can have the best body in the world, and write prose that would make the angels weep, but if he’s an ass, then for me, that cancels everything else out.”

  Even as I say it, something inside me whispers, Liar.

  When I stop talking, I notice no one is looking at me. They’re all focused on a point over my left shoulder.

  I freeze. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Everyone nods, and I turn to see, Mr. Whip walking toward the conference room with Jake in tow.

  Great. He’s early, and there’s no way I can avoid him seeing me in this state without some David Copperfield-level trickery. Damn me for never having the foresight to invest in a smoke grenade.

  As Mr. Whip opens the door and beckons him inside, Jake’s eyes lock with mine. Then, confusion spreads over his face as he takes in the rest of me.

  Mr. Whip’s reaction is more sudden. The second he registers my appearance, his face drops. “Good Lord, Asha. What happened to you?”

  “She was mugged,” Serena says quietly. “They stole her phone. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  He seems taken aback. “Oh, dear. Are you all right?”

  “You were mugged?” Jake says, doing a decent job of faking concern. Amazing what he can pull out when he has an audience.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “However, someone did steal my phone. Other than that, I’m fine, Mr. Whip. Thanks for asking.”

  Jake frowns at me. “You don’t look fine.”

  “You really don’t,” Mr. Whip agrees.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say, ignoring the pounding behind my left eyeball. “I’m sure everyone’s looking forward to meeting our special guest. Perhaps we should begin with introductions.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Whip glances around the table, as if he’d forgotten about the small audience watching our exchange. “Everyone, please give a warm welcome to our Professor Feelgood, Jacob Stone.”

  Everyone applauds and waves, and I don’t miss the appraising looks Jake’s receiving from the group, Sidney included. Shawna in particular looks like she’s having a hot flash, and I’m not talking about in her face. I almost feel sorry for her. There’s nothing more disappointing than lusting over a man, only to find out he has the personality of an ill-tempered Wolverine.

  As if to prove my point, Jake reacts to the wave of warmth thrown at him with an awkward facial expression that I’m guessing wants to become a smile when it grows up. It’s accompanied by a muttered, “Hi.”

  Wow. Huge effort there.

  Not deterred by his aloofness, Serena comes over to shake his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Stone.”

  Jake gives her a nod. “Likewise. Call me Jake.”

  Mr. Whip gestures to me. “And of course as you’ve no doubt guessed, this is the young lady who’s responsible for bringing your talent to our attention, Asha Tate. It must be nice for you two to finally meet in person.”

  “Yes.” I plaster on a smile and grudgingly hold out my hand. “Welcome, Mr. Stone.”

  Man, it feels so wrong to show him respect. My teenage self is in a corner somewhere, rocking and whispering, “Ew,” over and over again.

  “Oh, come now, Miss Tate. Why so formal?” Jake wraps his fingers around mine then turns to Mr. Whip. “Didn’t you hear? Asha and I are old friends.”

  “You are?” Mr. Whip raises his eyebrows.

  Serena joins him in giving me a quizzical look. “Asha, I thought you two didn’t know each other.”

  “Uh …” What the hell is Jake doing? Maybe he didn’t get Jo’s text. Or maybe he did and just can’t resist the temptation to mess with me.

  Warning: Shark attack imminent.

  Jake lets me flounder for about three seconds before cracking out his wannabe-smile again.

  “All I meant is that Miss Tate and I have spoken on the phone so much, I feel like we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

  He’s still shaking my hand, and I hate how wet and clammy mine feels wrapped in his. I pull it back and let out a halfhearted laugh as Mr. Whip and Serena smile.

  “Haha, it sure does.” I flash a subtle look to Jake as I wipe my hand on my skirt. “Anyway, please excuse me for a few minutes. While you do introductions, I’m going to clean myself up.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Whip says, giving my shoulder a sympathy pat. “We’ll keep Mr. Stone entertained until you get back.”

  “Great.”

  Without looking at Jake, I brush past him to the door then head out.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” With every step I take, my knee and hip twinge with pain. When I reach my desk, I rifle through the contents of my purse, desperate to find some painkillers. Glancing back to the conference room, I see everyone is on their feet, milling around Jake in animated excitement. He towers over them, and true to his normal demeanor in social situations, he looks as if he’d like to be anywhere else. He once told me his idea of purgatory would be making small talk with a bunch of strangers for eternity.

  In that case, welcome to hell, pal.

  After grabbing some Advil and my emergency makeup kit from my purse, I hobble to the ladies’ room. When I get inside and assess my appearance in the mirror, I see why everyone assumed I’d been attacked.

  “Oh, mothertrucker.” Not only is my face filthy, my mascara has run everywhere. and my lipstick has morphed into a messy crimson smear that covers half my face. Add to that the small patch of drying blood near my hairline, and my crime-victim image is complete.

  I cringe at myself. “You are so busted up, girl.”

  As I wring excess water from my hair, I imagine what sort of smartass remarks Jake will have for me when we’re alone. Or maybe he’ll just give me one of those incredulous stares that needs no words at all to make me feel like a pathetic loser. He specializes in those.

  After I squeeze as much water from my hair as possible, I grab my comb and drag it through the damp mess. In the process, I must hit whichever spot was bleeding earlier, because I get a sharp pain, followed by the unmistakable feeling of a thick, slow drip working its way down my scalp.

  “Oh, come on. Gross.”

  I halfheartedly dab at the sore spot as I pop out two Advil one-handed and swallow them down with a handful of water from the tap.

  After that, I spend a good thirty seconds scrubbing my face with my hands to remove both the grime and the bad mood that came with it. Of all the ways I imagined my first day as an editor going, this wasn’t one of them. I’d call it a day from hell, but even Satan would think this was several overcooked crap burgers too many.

  After turning off the faucet, I give my face one last swipe, push my hair away from my face, and straighten up. I almost scream when I see a huge figure looming behind me in the mirror.

  “Jake! Shit! What the hell?” How did he get in here so quietly? Is being a Ninja-Douche a thing?

  He pulls a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser and hands them to me. “Were you really mugged?”

  “I already told you I wasn’t.”

  “Then what happened to you?”

  I put my weight on the leg that isn’t throbbing and pat my face dry. “Rough crowd at the coffee cart. Now, please get out.”

  He moves forward. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He frowns as he gazes at a spot near my hairline. “You’re clearly not fine, genius. You’re bleeding.” He grabs a paper towel and presses it to my head.

  “Jacob, what are you––?”

  “Could you shut up for five seconds and hold still?” He steps forward and slides one hand around the back of my neck as he presses the wadded paper harder against my head. The action is so u
nexpected, and his proximity so alien, I instinctively try to move away, but the bathroom counter prevents my retreat.

  “Don’t move,” he orders, voice low. “We need pressure on the wound, not you being an idiot.”

  “Your face is an idiot,” I mumble. Please, painkillers, kick in. The sooner the better.

  “Oh, reverting to the old ‘your face’ insults? Are we nine again?”

  “Some insults never go out of style. ‘Your face’ works in any situation.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Your face is ridiculous. See?”

  He pulls the paper away from my head and gently parts my hair, looking for the damage.

  “So, if you weren’t mugged, how did this happen? Don’t tell me you just went ass-over-head of your own volition.”

  I try to keep my features impassive. “No comment.”

  He chuckles. “Damn, woman, you’re clumsy. I remember one time, you tripped over your own feet in the school cafeteria.”

  “Yes, and I remember you laughing so loudly, everyone knew about it and joined in mocking me.”

  He glances down at me with a smirk. “If you thought that was my fault and wasn’t due to the spectacular leaping spread-eagle you attempted, then you’re not remembering it right.” He finishes his examination of my scalp and presses a fresh paper towel over the wound. “The good news is, you don’t need stitches. The bad news is, the injury isn’t severe enough to cause a major personality change. The worst you’ll get is a headache.”

  He’s not wrong about that. The dull pounding from earlier is becoming sharper with each passing minute, despite the painkillers.

  I send positive thoughts to the Advil in my stomach, willing them to dissolve faster. “You shouldn’t even be in here. It’s the ladies’ room.”

  “Well then, technically you shouldn’t be in here, either.”

  I ignore the jab. “You know you have a whole room of people waiting for you, right?”

  “I told them I needed to go to the bathroom, which is true. It just so happens I got sidetracked by you looking sad and pathetic.”

  He grabs some more paper towels and places them against the existing wad. “And I know you’re all about pleasing me these days, because I’m your star author and all, but I could have done without the roadkill impersonation.”

  When I frown up at him, he turns me and gestures to my reflection.

  “Dead emo raccoon,” he says. “Uncanny likeness.”

  Crap. By scrubbing at my face, all I’d done was smear my long-wear mascara and eyeliner everywhere. I look like something out of a Japanese horror movie.

  I drop my head in defeat before grabbing some towels and wiping around my eyes until they’re sore and puffy.

  “Much like you,” I say, weariness coloring my tone, “this day can officially go screw itself.”

  Jake chuckles, and I’m suddenly aware his chest is mere inches away from my face. He’s so big these days, he makes the space around me feel small, and his thick t-shirt is doing nothing to camouflage all his stupid muscles.

  You don’t find him sexy, I remind myself. Notsexy, notsexy, notsexy.

  Despite my new mantra, parts of me react to his closeness favorably. And when I say favorably, I mean with vicious and unwanted arousal.

  I throw the paper towel I’m gripping into the trashcan and close my eyes. If only there were a Snapchat filter that could make this grown-up, crazy-hot version of Jake seem gross and disgusting.

  God, technology, get with the program, please. You’re no help.

  Even with my eyes closed, his nearness is dizzying. The scent that infused his jacket last night is wafting over me, all citrusy and clean. I’m getting more uncomfortable with this whole situation by the second.

  “Hey.” He shakes me a little. “Look at me.” He cups my cheek and tilts my head up.

  “What?” I open my eyes, but focus on the dark scruff on his jaw.

  “Asha.” He bends down so he can look into my eyes, and the second our gazes lock, a whole mess of memories tangle together, trying to struggle to the surface. I get flashes of him as a boy, dabbing at my bloody knees after I fell playing basketball. Him pounding on Kelvin Stott for shoving me into a patch of mud at school. Him holding my hand every time we crossed the street to make sure I was safe.

  Protector Jake. It’s been a long time since he’s emerged. Part of me has really missed him. I’d forgotten how much I used to crave his comfort. So much so, I have to close my eyes again to block him out.

  “Hey, don’t fall asleep. You might have a concussion.”

  “I’m not sleeping. I’m just …”

  After everything that’s happened this morning, the thing I’m most distressed about is how Jake taking care of me and pressing his warm, lemon-scented hand to my head is making my throat tight and my eyes prickle. The world is officially backward today.

  “Jake … stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” I take a breath and push him away. “I can take care of myself.”

  He stares at me for a second, his jaw tense. I stare back, trying to appear stronger than I feel.

  Honestly, being around him is exhausting. And it’s not because of our constant enmity or verbal sparring matches, even though those are draining. It’s because we’re being crushed beneath the weight of all the things we’re not saying. All the topics of conversation that lead down paths that have been torn up and paved over.

  Jake stares for a few more seconds, then passes me a fresh paper towel. “If you say so.”

  I press the towel to my head, and when I pull it away, there’s barely any blood at all. Thank God.

  “See?” I say, showing him. “My super-human healing has kicked in. You can go back to the meeting.” And vacate this tiny, enclosed space where I can’t get away from you or the confronting things you make me feel.

  I turn back to the mirror to finish my facial fix-it job, unsurprised when he doesn’t leave.

  “One of the reasons I came to find you,” he says, “was to talk about the text Joanna sent. You want to pretend we don’t know each other?”

  I open my small makeup bag and apply concealer to my puffy face. “No, but I think it would be for the best. Our history isn’t relevant. And honestly, with me campaigning so hard for you, and then you having it written into your contract that I have to be your editor … it would look bad.”

  “Okay. I see that.”

  I look at him in the mirror. “This whole process has already been full of drama. I don’t want any more.” His mouth twitches at that, so I clarify, “If Serena and Mr. Whip found out you catfished me, it would throw this whole deal into doubt.”

  He takes a step forward. “Catfishing means I misrepresented myself. I didn’t.”

  “Not exactly true. The professor seemed to be someone unique and amazing when in fact he was just … well … you.”

  In the mirror, I see him lean back against the stall and cross his arms over his chest. “Ever consider that I’ve always been unique and amazing, and you’ve just failed to realize it?”

  “No. But then again, I never believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny due to a lack of evidence, so …”

  I’m used to Jake looking at me with disdain and scorn, but right now, his expression is unfamiliar. If I had to take a guess, I’d peg it as a mixture between smug and patient.

  “In that case …” He reaches down to grab something from the floor then places a crumpled paper bag onto the counter next to me. “Merry Christmas from the Grinch.”

  I frown at the package. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  With a distrustful look, I pick up the bag and carefully pull it open. Knowing Jake, it’s probably a dead rat. Or maybe a rattlesnake.

  When I see what’s inside, the pounding in my head doubles. I look over at Jake, perplexed and more than a little surprised. “How did you …?” I reach into the bag and pull out my beloved Burberry coat. I thoug
ht I’d never see it again. “Jake … I––”

  He shifts his weight, seeming uncomfortable with my impending gratitude. That’s understandable. We’re more used to living in a state of constant adversarial angst than exchanging normal human pleasantries.

  “Don’t go all soppy on me, princess. I ended up going back to that bar last night to meet someone, so I picked it up. There’s nothing more to it. If you froze to death in the coming weeks because you didn’t have a coat, I wouldn’t have an editor, and that would be inconvenient. So, it was more for me than for you.”

  He picks up the collection of soggy and bloody paper towels from the counter and scrunches them into a giant wad. “And you might want to use that coat to cover up before going back into the meeting. Your shirt is totally transparent.” He tosses the towels into the trash.

  He turns to leave, but I touch his arm.

  “Jake, wait.” He looks at my hand, then turns back to me. “Part of the meeting today will be an in-depth interview about your life. It’s standard practice for our publicity manager.”

  He shifts his weight, and it’s clear how uncomfortable he is already. “Is it mandatory?”

  “Nothing’s mandatory. Just thought you should know.” He returned my coat. The least I can do is warn him about Sid.

  He gives a tight nod, then without looking at me again, pulls open the door and stalks out.

  As soon as the door closes behind him, my tension level drops fifty points and I slump back against the bench. Why the hell does everything with him have to be so difficult? I know there was a time when we were as easy as breathing, but it was a hundred years ago, and I can’t remember how it felt.

  I hold up my coat, still gobsmacked he got it back for me. Then, I touch the warm patch on the back of my neck where his hand was. Caring-Jake always melted my heart, but then Cruel-Jake came along and replaced him, and honestly, now I only remember how to deal with the second guy. If the first guy starts showing up again, things around here are going to get messy, fast.

  Pushing errant memories back we’re they belong, I check my reflection. I thought my shirt might have gotten more opaque as it dried, but nope. My bra is definitely the star of this ensemble.