Page 20 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Eighteen

Felix

By the time I turned onto Grandma’s street, the first drops of rain began to fall—fat, lazy splats that hit the windshield like punctuation marks to the thought I couldn’t stop repeating: You’ve really screwed this up, Felix.

The clouds hung low and heavy, the kind that made the world look gray and waterlogged before the real downpour began. I parked beside Grandma’s ancient Buick and sat there a second, listening to the rain pick up on the roof. It matched my mood perfectly—soft, steady, just this side of miserable.

The front door opened before I even knocked. “Felix!” Grandma stood framed in the doorway in her floral housecoat, her silver hair piled high like a frosted meringue. “You’re gonna get soaked! Get in here before you melt, sugar.”

“I won’t melt,” I said, stepping inside and wiping my glasses on my sleeve.

“You look like a man who needs soup and a stern talking-to,” she declared. Then, raising her voice, “Girls! Guess who’s here!”

I stepped inside, and Grandma ushered me into the dining room.

“Oh Lord, it’s the prodigal grandson,” smiled Betty—short, round, and perpetually in leopard print. She was sitting at the head of the dining table with a cigarette clamped between two fuchsia-tipped fingers. The table was scattered with pennies, beer bottles, and a mountain of playing cards.

Across from her sat Frieda, the self-proclaimed “hot one” of the trio, whose lipstick was always crooked and whose laugh could strip paint. Next to her was Lisa, the quiet one—at least until she had her third Coors Light. Then she got loud about everything from politics to her many ex-husbands.

“Evening, ladies,” I said, hanging up my jacket.

“Well, well,” Frieda purred, squinting at me over her bifocals. “Look who got handsome.”

“Frieda,” Grandma warned.

“What? I said handsome. That’s not obscene. Yet.”

Lisa snorted into her beer. “Give her time, Nessie. She’ll get there.”

Grandma—Vanessa to her poker crew—rolled her eyes and returned to her chair. “Sit, honey. We’re just finishing a hand.”

I did as told, though I knew better than to touch the deck. The last time I’d joined them for “just a friendly game,” I’d ended up losing twenty-three dollars, my dignity, and a promise to wash Frieda’s car for a month.

The rain deepened outside, soft against the roof, a steady percussion beneath the sound of shuffling cards and the women’s chatter. The dining room smelled of talcum powder, rose perfume, and cigarettes that had burned out in the ashtray hours ago.

“Lisa,” Betty barked, “you’re short two pennies in the pot.”

Lisa fished in her sweater pocket and flicked them across the table. “I’m short of a lot of things, Betty, but fucking pennies ain’t one of ’em.”

Grandma clicked her tongue. “Language.”

“Please,” Frieda muttered. “The day I censor myself is the day I’m in the ground. Which, given the way Betty drives, might be tomorrow.”

“Don’t tempt me, Freeds,” Betty shot back.

I grinned despite myself. I’d grown up around this table, listening to their running commentary on men, menopause, and Medicare. They’d taught me more about life than any school ever had—especially the part about when to fold and when to bluff.

But tonight, their laughter felt like background noise to the storm in my chest. I sat quietly, watching Grandma rake in the pot with a satisfied smirk. She didn’t gloat—she simply collected her winnings, like a queen accepting tribute.

Lisa leaned back in her chair. “Felix, sweetheart, do you want a beer? There are cold ones in the fridge.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

That earned me three suspicious looks.

“You sick?” Betty asked.

“No.”

“On medication?” Frieda added.

“Not that kind.”

Grandma set down her cards and studied me. “You’ve got that face.”

“What face?” I asked, though I already knew.

“The one you get right before a confession,” she said, folding her hands. “Go on then, spill it. The girls are good for advice. We’ve all ruined a few men in our time.”

“Oh, please,” Frieda said, fanning herself. “Some of us ruined several.”

“Frieda!”

“What? It’s true.”

I hesitated. I’d planned to talk to Grandma alone, maybe over coffee in the kitchen, away from the cigarette haze and poker chips. But there was no escaping this tribunal. They were already leaning forward like vultures smelling gossip.

I sighed. “It’s… complicated.”

“Always is,” Lisa said, nodding. “Start with the man’s name.”

My mouth went dry. “Thorne.”

“Ooh,” Frieda crooned. “That sounds sexy. Like something you’d snag your stockings on.”

“He’s a professor,” I blurted. “Philosophy.”

“Lord help us,” Betty muttered. “Another thinker. You sure know how to pick ’em.”

Grandma raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

I looked down at my hands. “I like him. A lot, but I’m not… I don’t know. I’m not the type I think he usually goes for.”

Lisa leaned in, elbows on the table. “And what type is that?”

“The confident kind. The ones who can walk into a room and own it.”

“Felix, honey,” Grandma said gently, “you’ve been hiding behind books since you were old enough to read them. That man’s not gonna find out how special you are unless you let him see you.”

Frieda snorted. “Let him see you naked. That’s what your grandmother means.”

“Frieda!”

“Vanessa, stop pretending you were a saint. You had that mailman on a leash for ten years.”

Grandma blushed. “He was widowed.”

“Yeah, and by the end of the affair, so was his second wife,” Betty muttered.

I groaned. “Oh, my God! Can we please stay on topic?”

“Sorry, sugar,” Frieda said, grinning. “Continue your tragic love story.”

I tried to find the right words. “It’s just… I don’t want to mess this up. He’s more experienced than I am. I’m awkward, quiet. I overthink everything, and I’m afraid I’ll blow it before it even begins.”

The women exchanged looks.

“Sweetheart,” Lisa said, “you’re not shy. You’re careful. There’s a difference.”

“And if he can’t appreciate that,” Betty added, tossing her cards aside, “then he’s dumber than a sack of hammers.”

Frieda nodded sagely. “Besides, the quiet ones are usually freaks in bed.”

“Frieda!” Grandma’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t talk like that in front of Felix.”

“What?” Frieda rolled her eyes. “He’s all grown up now, Vanessa. Anyhow, it’s true. If a man doesn’t talk much, he always uses his body to tell you how he feels. Like I said, the quiet ones are freaks under the sheets.”

“And on the dining room table, and in the shower, and in…” Lisa leered, and the laughter that followed loosened something in my chest. Even Grandma cracked a smile before swatting her with a dish towel.

Lisa ducked and wagged a finger. “Careful, Nessie. You swing that thing like a nun with a ruler.”

“Keep talkin’, and I’ll make you confess your sins,” Grandma said.

“Oh, honey, we’d be here till sunrise,” Lisa said, sipping her beer.

The room dissolved into another round of laughter, the kind that came from years of shared gossip, funerals, and bingo nights gone sideways. I couldn’t help smiling, even though my chest still felt like it was full of wet cement.

Betty stubbed out her cigarette in an old saucer and squinted at me. “You know, Felix, you’re too hard on yourself. You were always a sweet boy. Polite. Never got into trouble. I’d kill to have a grandson like that.”

Frieda nodded. “Same. Mine’s on his third divorce and thinks cryptocurrency is the next big thing. It’ll put him in the poorhouse, mark my words.”

“Mine’s a DJ,” Lisa said, grimacing. “At funerals.”

Betty slapped the table. “At funerals?”

“Don’t ask,” Lisa said. “He says it pays well.”

Grandma turned to me, still smiling but softer now. “See, sweetheart? You’re doing fine. You don’t need to be anyone else. Just be yourself. You can’t be anymore messed up than their grandkids.”

That one hit like a dart to the ribs. I shifted in my chair. “Myself,” I repeated. “Right. That’s the problem.”

Frieda frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “You’ve got a job, you’ve got all your teeth—half the men I know can’t say either of those things.”

Betty leaned forward, squinting. “What is it, then? You think you’re not exciting enough? Let me tell you something, kiddo. Excitement’s overrated. You want stable, not some drama-llama with abs and a trust fund.”

“He’s a professor,” I muttered.

“Even worse,” Frieda said. “Those ones talk during sex, and it’s not fun or filthy conversation. Hell, I love me a filthy fucker.”

“Frieda!” Grandma snapped.

The table howled again, and despite myself, I grinned—but it didn’t last. Their laughter faded into a dull hum while the storm in my head picked up again.

“Being myself hasn’t exactly worked out great,” I said. “I’m… well, I’m good at one thing. Chemistry. That’s it. I can’t charm people, I can’t dance, and I can barely talk to men I like without sounding like an idiot.”

Grandma reached across the table and patted my hand. “Felix, darling, don’t you ever say that about yourself. You’ve got plenty going for you.”

“Like what?” I asked.

She tilted her head. “Your mind. You think things through. You see patterns where other people see mess. That’s a strength, sugar. You just have to lean into it instead of running from it.”

The words hit differently this time. Lean into your strengths.

A spark ignited somewhere deep inside me—faint, but bright enough to burn through the fog.

They were right. The serum had worked.

It had transformed me into Jax—confident, magnetic, fearless. But it had faded too fast. Like Cinderella at midnight, minus the glass slippers and talking mice.

Maybe I just needed to make the formula more stable, so it lasted longer. Perhaps I’d been too conservative with the formula, trying to keep it from causing permanent brain damage. I’d modified it enough to make it safer, so now the trick was to make it last.

“Felix?” Grandma said, waving a hand in front of me. “You’re staring into space again. Lord, don’t tell me you’re mentally balancing chemical equations. Girls, he can stare off into space like this for hours.”

“Actually,” I said, jumping to my feet, “I’ve got to run.”

All four of them blinked up at me as I grabbed my coat.

“You all have no idea how helpful this has been,” I said, leaning down to kiss Grandma on the cheek. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Frieda smirked. “You’re not running off to do anything stupid, are you?”

“Define stupid,” I said, already halfway to the door.

“Anything involving nudity or police tape,” Lisa called after me.

“No promises!” I shouted over my shoulder.

* * *

Juniper burst into the lab like a storm wearing combat boots. The door slammed against the stopper, echoing off the tile walls.

She tossed her glitter-splattered backpack onto my desk and propped a hand on her hip. “Okay, Dr. Sterling, what’s so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow? I was in the middle of planning my next Pleasureware party.”

I didn’t look up right away. In front of me, the table held beakers and test tubes, all fizzing and hissing in precise, mesmerizing rhythm.

“This,” I said simply, gesturing toward the shimmering blue liquid burbling in a flask.

Juniper leaned over, eyes wide behind her cat-eye glasses. “Oh, my God. The serum?”

I nodded.

Her face lit up as if someone had plugged her directly into the wall. “Does this mean you’ll let me sell it? Because technically—technically—it’s not illegal if it’s not on the Controlled Substances Act list. We could make a fortune, Dr. Sterling.”

“Juniper.”

“I’ll even handle the branding! We’ll call it something sexy, like Confidence: The Elixir of Desire. We could market it to geeks terrified of Tinder and Grindr.”

“Juniper.”

“Or maybe Jaxxed—oh my God, that’s perfect! Double meaning, right? You get ‘jacked’ and you get ‘Jaxxed.’ I’m putting that on a T-shirt.”

“Juniper!”

She blinked, finally looking up at me.

I sighed, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “We’re not selling it. We’re perfecting it.”

Her shoulders slumped dramatically. “Ugh, you’re such a buzzkill.”

“I’m a scientist,” I said. “And you’re my assistant. So get your ass over here and help me perfect the serum before I lose my mind.”

She grumbled something, and then snapped on her gloves like she was about to perform surgery—or commit a felony. “All right, Doc. What’s the problem? If you ask me, it’s already perfect.”

“It works,” I said, staring into the swirling blue. “But not for long. I need it to hold. Permanently, or at least longer than a few hours.”

“Like Viagra but for personality?” she said.

“Please don’t put that on a business card.”

She peered at the flask, fascinated. “So what’s your plan?”

“Grab the stabilizer compound from the top shelf.” I snapped. “Tonight we’re making magic happen.”