Page 5 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Four

Felix

And the basement—my sanctuary—wasn’t a wine cellar or a rec room like the neighbors had. It was a laboratory. Cramped, cobbled together with secondhand equipment and university cast-offs, but functional. It gave me the illusion that I was more than just another lonely professor nobody noticed.

I carried the Tupperware Grandma had foisted on me into the kitchen and shoved it into the fridge. The kitchen itself was tiny, a narrow galley with cabinets painted mint green before I was born, a single window that let in the last weak light of evening.

But I didn’t linger. I took the stairs two at a time. My spare bedroom was no longer a guest room—it had been converted into my office. A simple desk with a desktop computer and a corkboard on the wall crowded with notes and formulas.

I flipped on the desk lamp, sat down, and woke the computer from its slumber.

The magazine article was still fresh in my mind, every formula sketched there burned into me.

I looked up the article online, and moments later it filled the screen.

At the bottom of the page, I found what I was looking for.

Dr. Adrian Hargreaves. Easton University. His contact info was right there in the byline.

I hovered over the keyboard, fingers itching to type out an email. That would be the sensible thing—polished, professional, polite. But sense had abandoned me. My pulse wouldn’t let me sit still, wouldn’t let me be rational. If I wrote an email, it might be days before he responded. Or never.

I picked up the phone.

My fingertips were slick on the buttons as I dialed. I told myself I’d just leave a voicemail, something short and respectful. Maybe he’d hear the urgency in my voice and call me back sooner.

On the third ring, he answered.

“Hargreaves.”

My throat closed. It was the man himself.

“Dr.—uh—Dr. Hargreaves?” I stammered. “This is Felix Sterling. I’m a professor at Virginia Commonwealth University. I—I just read your article in Chemical Horizons about the experimental treatment, and I was hoping we could—well, I wanted to discuss it with you.”

There was a pause at the other end, then a sigh, heavy and resigned. “It’s probably best left alone, Dr. Sterling.”

The words deflated me, but I clung to them, pushing. “But your work was incredible. If it weren’t for you, that woman would never have spoken again. You gave her something she’d lost forever. You gave her the best six months of her life.”

The line went quiet, and then, to my shock, I heard him weep. Soft at first, then a broken sound, raw and unguarded.

“You don’t understand,” he said finally, his voice cracking.

“I didn’t give her life. I took it away.

She’s twenty-eight years old, Dr. Sterling.

Twenty-eight. And she lives in a nursing facility now, unable to walk, unable to talk, unable to feed herself.

She stares at the wall all day because I thought I could play God.

And every time I close my eyes, I see her face. ”

I pressed the phone tighter against my ear. My heart ached with the weight of it, but I couldn’t let go of my hope. “But still—you found something. You proved it was possible. If you would share the details with me, maybe I could refine the formula. Maybe—”

“God help me,” Hargreaves whispered. And then, in a tone both weary and reluctant, he told me everything.

He spoke of a compound he’d engineered from a backbone of substituted tryptamines—psychedelic in nature, but heavily modified.

He’d linked them to dopamine agonists, creating a flood of neurotransmitter release that forced neural rewiring.

To keep the effect stable, he’d bound the structure to a synthetic polymerase inhibitor, preventing the brain from reverting too quickly.

For a time, it had worked brilliantly. The woman’s brain lit up like a city seen from above, networks reconnecting in ways no one had thought possible.

“But the system couldn’t hold,” he said. “The scaffolding collapsed under its own weight. Her neurons began to misfire, cascade failure after cascade failure. It wasn’t a cure. It was a death sentence disguised as hope.”

His voice broke again, and this time he didn’t attempt to hide it.

“Every pharmaceutical company I approached told me the same thing—too risky. Too unstable. Too dangerous. They wanted nothing to do with it. And they were right. I beg you, Dr. Sterling—let it go. Don’t make my mistake.

Don’t let your ambition destroy someone else’s life. ”

I closed my eyes. The heat that had been coursing through me since I read the article cooled to ash. If the giants of the industry had turned away, if even Hargreaves himself begged me to stop, then what was left?

My dreams felt childish suddenly. Foolish.

“Thank you for your time,” I breathed. “I appreciate your honesty.”

And then I hung up.

The silence that followed was suffocating. My little office seemed smaller, the bookshelves pressing in on me. I stood too quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and wandered down the hall until I found myself in the bathroom.

The light above the sink was too bright, and unkind. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, pale and gaunt, hair unkempt, glasses sliding down my nose. I pulled them off and set them on the counter. Without them, the world blurred into soft shapes and colors.

Grandma’s words echoed: You’re the spitting image of Leon, the handsomest man in the neighborhood.

I didn’t see it. Not at all. Dad had been a ballplayer, broad-shouldered and radiant, a man who could light up a room just by walking in. I was a pale imitation.

But maybe I was just blind to myself. Maybe all I needed was… confidence.

I leaned closer to the mirror, squinting. Maybe with a decent haircut, better clothes, a gym membership. Maybe if I stopped eating microwave dinners and took care of myself. Grandma couldn’t be completely wrong.

“You can do this,” I whispered. “Put yourself out there. Try.”

The thought terrified me. But what was the alternative? Spending the rest of my life alone in this old house, shuffling between school and Grandma’s house, invisible to the world?

I remembered Lorna, the drama instructor, telling me about that bar downtown—Badlands. My stomach fluttered with dread, but I clung to it like a lifeline.

I straightened, grabbed my glasses, and marched to my bedroom.

The closet was a graveyard of outdated shirts and worn blazers.

I picked through them, finally settling on a button-down that wasn’t too wrinkled and a pair of slacks that almost fit.

I dug out the cologne I’d bought five years ago and never used, dabbed a little on my neck, and tried to flatten my hair with water.

Pathetic, maybe. But it was my best shot.

As I looked at myself one last time in the mirror, I forced a smile. “Tonight,” I told my reflection. “Tonight I’ll be someone new.”

And with that fragile hope burning in my chest, I stepped out into the night, toward Badlands.

* * *

Badlands was nothing like I imagined.

From the outside, it looked like a brick bunker, tucked into a corner downtown near a row of shuttered shops. A neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, the word BADLANDS in electric pink. Music thudded from inside—low, and bass-heavy.

My heart was hammering in sync with it as I stood on the sidewalk, hands jammed into the pockets of my slacks. For a second, I considered turning around, going home, reheating Grandma’s casserole and pretending I’d never left the house.

But then the door swung open, and two men stepped out, laughing. They were tall, broad-shouldered, easy smiles glowing under the streetlight. One of them had his arm slung casually around the other’s waist. They didn’t even notice me.

I swallowed hard and stepped inside.

The air hit me first—humid, tinged with sweat, alcohol, and the faint burn of cologne. Colored lights spun overhead, casting flashes of blue and green across a packed dance floor. Men filled every inch of the place, bodies pressed together, voices shouting over the music.

They were beautiful. All of them.

Toned, tanned, hair styled into sharp cuts or artful curls. Some wore shirts so tight they looked painted on. Others didn’t bother with shirts at all, muscles glistening in the pulsing light. They moved with confidence and ease, as if the entire room belonged to them.

And then there was me.

I tugged self-consciously at my button-down, already regretting the wrinkled fabric. My glasses kept sliding down my nose, fogging slightly in the humid air. No one looked at me. No one cared I was there. I might as well have been invisible.

I clenched my fists. You’re just as good as any of them, I told myself. I’m not a loser, and I am trying. That’s the first step.

I squared my shoulders and made my way to the bar.

It took me forever to squeeze through the throng, bodies brushing against mine, laughter spilling into my ears. When I finally found a gap at the counter, I stood awkwardly, waiting for the shirtless bartender to notice me.

He didn’t.

He moved back and forth, pouring drinks with effortless flair, flashing smiles at men who shouted his name.

His muscles rippled under the harsh light, a tattoo of wings stretching across his back.

He leaned close to listen to an order, his lips brushing a customer’s ear, and the man threw his head back and laughed.

I lifted my hand halfway, then dropped it. I didn’t want to be rude. Didn’t want to wave like I was hailing a taxi. So I stood there. And stood there. Minutes stretched out, the crowd pressing tighter behind me.

Finally, the bartender glanced my way. His eyes widened slightly, as if surprised to find me there. He hurried over, towel slung over one shoulder.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Story of my life.

“A—uh—a beer. Just a beer.”

He nodded, poured it quickly, and slid it across the counter. I handed him a crumpled ten, fumbling the change when he gave it back. I clutched the pint glass and drifted away, heart sinking.

The dance floor loomed ahead, a swirl of motion and light. Men danced together, hips grinding, arms wrapped around shoulders. Their laughter was sharp, intoxicating, and I longed—God, I longed—to be one of them. To have someone pull me close, to feel like I belonged.

Instead, I stood at the edge, watching. I told myself to move, to step forward, to at least try. But my feet stayed planted. My throat closed around the words I’d never say.

They’re no better than you, I whispered inside my head. They’re not.

But it was a lie I couldn’t swallow.

And then—I saw him.

Professor Thorne Carr.

He stood near the far side of the dance floor, drink in hand, surveying the crowd with his usual calm detachment. He looked even better here than in school, his jawline sharp, and his dark hair glinting under the lights.

My breath caught. I’d spent years stealing glances at him from across faculty meetings, listening to the rumble of his voice in the hall. To see him here, in my secret attempt at courage, felt like fate.

And he was alone.

Go. Talk to him. What’s the worst that can happen?

But my feet were glued to the floor.

I stared, frozen, willing myself to act. You have nothing to lose, I thought. Nothing.

And then, just as I drew a shaky breath, someone else moved first.

A man stepped up beside Thorne. Handsome, confident, his shirt open to reveal a chest like carved marble. He leaned in casually, kissed Thorne on the cheek, and Thorne smiled.

Something inside me cracked.

The smile I’d dreamed about, imagined turned my way—it belonged to someone else.

Tears blurred my vision. I turned away quickly, pushing through the crowd. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, the laughter slicing into me like knives. I shoved past men without apology, desperate to reach the door before anyone saw my humiliation.

Outside, the night air was cool, but it didn’t soothe me. My chest ached, and my throat burned.

I reached my car, fumbling for my keys with shaking hands. They slipped once, twice before I jammed them into the lock. I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and dropped my forehead onto the steering wheel, my glasses falling to the floorboard.

My breath came in shuddering gasps.

“I’m nothing. A fucking nobody.”

The tears came hot and fast, dripping onto my hands clenched tight around the wheel.

And then, between sobs, a thought surfaced. A bitter, desperate truth.

To hell with it.

I had nothing to lose.

Grandma was wrong. I wasn’t the spitting image of my father. I wasn’t handsome or charming or worth noticing. No haircut or new shirt or trip to the gym would change that.

But Hargreaves’s formula…

If he’d given a broken woman six months of life, even at the cost of her future, wasn’t that better than never living at all?

I swiped at my eyes, staring through the windshield at the blurry glow of the neon sign.

“I’m going to make it,” I whispered to myself. My voice was hoarse but steady. “I’m going to make Hargreave’s serum. I don’t care what it costs.”

Fear pricked at the edges of my mind—fear of what could go wrong, of ending up like that woman, hollow and broken. But fear was nothing new. I’d lived with it my whole life.

What I couldn’t live with anymore was being invisible.