Professor Feelgood (Page 38)

<Hey, sis! Are you still okay to meet me this afternoon to style me for tonight? I need your hair and makeup skills.>

As one of the organizers of the Romance Central event tonight, Eden wants to do Max proud by looking her best. However, her idea of formal makeup consists of mascara and lip gloss, so I’ve offered to do her face.

<No problem. See you at your office around 5.>

I put the phone away and sigh. I’m glad to have an excuse to swing by her office. I’ve been meaning to do it for a week, but the whole Jake thing has distracted me.

By the time I’m standing in front of the building I think is Jake’s, I’ve officially landed in an area that’s too dilapidated to be cool, even for the most passionate poverty-chic Brooklyn hipsters.

I take a breath before I head up the stairs and push into the tiny lobby. Not locked, and no hint of a doorman? Color me shocked. The building in which Eden and I live might be dated and not in the best condition, but it looks like the Versailles compared to this place.

I climb up six flights of stairs then knock on what I hope is Jake’s door.

There’s no response.

As I stand in the filthy hallway, I check the address Jake scrawled yesterday to make sure I have the right place. Unfortunately, I do. I bang on the door for a second time. It echoes down the hall and through the entire stairwell. I’m not sure, but I think I hear the faint scratch of rats somewhere below me.

“Dear Goddess,” I whisper. “If you get me out of here without me getting murdered or catching some form of bubonic plague, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

I adjust my heavy laptop bag as I look around warily. The entire place looks like it should be condemned. Several of the doors are boarded up, and I have no doubt this is the former residence of a plucky horde of serial killers. Or crack addicts. Or crack-addicted serial killers who trained rats to kill people and then eat the evidence.

Yep, just keep thinking like that, Ash. What you need right now is more fear.

I knock again, and still, no one answers. Is this another one of Jake’s stupid jokes? Send Asha to an abandoned building, and laugh when she gets murdered? Hilarious!

I hit the door with more gusto. “Stone! If you’re in there, you’d better open up. I’m too young and pretty to be rodent food!”

I hear a faint noise on the other side of the door and then shuffling steps getting closer.

Oh, God. It’s not Jake at all. It’s going to be the love child of Hannibal Lecter and Leatherface, isn’t it? He’ll chainsaw me, and then I’ll be served up as taco meat to unsuspecting diners.

I hold my breath when I hear latches being freed then take a tentative step back as the door swings open. My breath rushes out of me in relief when I see Jake’s blinking, barely awake face. Then I become completely breathless when I notice he’s naked except for a pair of black sweat pants that are barely hanging onto his hips.

Sweet mercy.

Yes, I’ve seen his body in Professor Feelgood photos. And yes, his shoulders and arms were in close proximity to my filth-covered body yesterday. But now that I’m exposed to the full force of his naked torso mere inches away, I despise how fast my blood pounds in response.

Oh, Lord, help me look away. Do not let me stare at his ripped bod. Nothing good will come of it.

I drag my gaze up to his face to remind myself that it’s Jake, the Annoying.

“Sorry, lady,” he says, while stifling a yawn. “But you’ve got the wrong apartment. I didn’t order a screaming shrew wake-up call.” He goes to shut the door, but I put my hand on it and push.

“Funny, because I didn’t order an ill-tempered jerkwad, and yet, here you are. You couldn’t set an alarm?”

“Could have. Forgot to.”

“At least tell me you’re not hungover.”

“Nope. In fact, I think I’m still a little drunk.”

I look at him in disgust. “Good to see you have your priorities straight. Can I assume that you bailed on me yesterday so you could socialize with women of questionable taste?”

He leans one arm against the doorframe and rubs his head, thus turning his thick, dark hair into a chaotic mess. “You know me, Tate. Total party animal. Dancing ‘til dawn with my extensive harem is my mission in life.”

I resist laughing. I don’t know anyone less likely of having a good time than Jake. The only school dance he ever attended was senior prom, and even then, he ruined the entire night for everyone he encountered.

Ah, good times.

“So, are you going to invite me in?” I ask. “Or do you expect me to pole vault over your giant landmass of a body to get inside?”

He takes a halfhearted step to the side. “Sorry. I forgot vampires can’t enter without being invited. Come in, Succubus. Mi casa, and all that.”

As I walk past him into the apartment, I promptly stop short. I’m not sure what I was expecting based on the crappy state of the building, but it wasn’t this. The apartment is huge, but it’s been completely gutted. There are no interior walls, just bare wood framing denoting where the bedrooms and kitchen would be. It’s bizarre. Like an apartment version of a skeleton. No skin or muscles, just bare bones.

There’s only one real room, and that’s a small, dated bathroom near the door. The rest of the space looks like someone ran out of money halfway through renovations and then Jake moved in.

“Wow. I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Jake yawns and closes the door as I look around. Beneath a huge bank of windows, there’s a sitting area with two shabby couches, an easy chair, and a coffee table that looks like it literally fell off the back of a truck. A few yards away is a queen-sized bed in a beat-up wooden frame that seems way too small for someone of Jake’s size. On the floor beside it are a collection of boxes and baskets. The only other area of note is what I assume to be the former kitchen. Now it’s empty, except for a table, a single burner hotplate, a small collection of cups, plates, and pans, and the kind of tiny bar fridge they have in cheap motel rooms.

I’ve heard of Spartan living before, but this is extreme.

“You should really have a word with the homeowners’ association,” I say. “Are they aware someone stole your walls?”

Jake brushes past me on his way toward the ‘kitchen’. “Stow your judgment, princess. Not all of us need to live in castles.”

“No argument there, but do you have to live in a demolition site?”

“The rent is reasonable, and I have plenty of room to practice my swing dancing. What more could a guy want?” When he gets to the table, he fills a small saucepan with water from a gallon bottle. “I’d offer you coffee, but I know you don’t drink it.”

“I do, actually.”

He turns to me with a doubtful expression. “Since when?”

“Since senior year. Four cups a day, every day.”

“But you hate it.”

His assumption that he still knows anything about me grates on my nerves. “Just because I once said I hated coffee when I was eleven, doesn’t mean I don’t like it now. I know this will be a radical concept to you, Jake, but people change.”

He turns back to set the saucepan and mutters, “Yeah. Some more than others.” He grabs two cups. “So, how do you have it?”

I walk over to the couch and put my computer bag on the table. “Weak, white, four sugars.”