Professor Feelgood (Page 21)

“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.”

He throws his jacket over mine, which lies on a spare stool, and makes a move to sit. On instinct, I hold out my hand to stop him. I don’t have time for Jacob Stone’s bullshit today.

“Don’t be a dick, Jake. I know it’s your natural state, but for once, try to resist. That seat is reserved.”