Professor Feelgood (Page 20)

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, <Hey, just letting you know I’m here, waiting for you. Everything okay?>

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?”

“Good, 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.