Page 1 of Interior Design for Demons
“Can a few years of good deeds make up for a lifetime of wickedness?”
The professor of my college philosophy class rakes the lecture room with her steel-gray eyes. Several students shift uncomfortably in their seats, but no one dares to respond. It’s the first session for “Philosophy 202: Introduction to Metaphysics,” but we’ve already learned to fear this woman and her savage sentences. Not five minutes ago she completely dismantled a nervous little blonde on my right, who is now shivering and sniffling into a tissue.
Is the professor’s question rhetorical, or does she expect an answer?
Her eyes latch onto me. Oh hell—I should have pretended to be studiously typing notes.
“Miss Labelle,” the professor says. “What do you think?”
“Um—” Why would she askme? Does she know about Dad? No, that’s not possible. I haven’t told anyone here about my father’s history. Well, except for my guidance counselor. And a couple people in the admissions office probably know. But other than that—
“Is ‘um’ your answer, Miss Labelle?” snaps the teacher.
“No ma’am.” I clear my throat. “I think the question is flawed. It assumes some kind of cosmic scale of justice that we can tilt to one side or another, when I think we all know we’re just highly evolved animals, running around the earth for a handful of decades before we turn into compost.”
“So are you saying that it doesn’t matter whether we do good or evil? That morality is a useless construct?”
“No, I think it’s worth doing good for our fellow humans, but—”
The professor steps toward me, her head jutting forward like a hound pointing at prey. “Why? Why are good deeds worth anything if there is no ‘cosmic justice’?”
As I open my mouth to answer, the bell rings. The blessed, blessed bell. Thank god—if there is such a thing.
“We’ll continue this discussion next time,” the professor announces, looking disappointed.
Drawing in a deep breath, I slap my laptop closed and slide it into my bag. Why the hell did I take this philosophy class anyway? I have enough to handle this year—my junior year in my interior design major. I’m taking an advanced History of Architecture and Design class that promises to be a huge sucking hole down which I’ll have to pour a ton of time and energy. I wish I could just skip it all and get to the fun parts—creating cool spaces for actual clients. I’m so sick of sitting in classes for most of the day and then trying to squeeze in the project work in the evenings. Hands-on learning is way better. But unfortunately the college I’m attending doesn’t seem to get that. And since this place is all I can afford, I’m pretty much stuck here.
“Grace Labelle?” A male voice nearby makes me look up from struggling with the zipper of my laptop bag.
Hotdamn.
This man is tall and lean, with coal-dark eyes and a mane of wavy golden hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He has a long straight nose, dramatic cheekbones, and a sharply cut jawline. His crisp dress shirt stretches across pecs that are clearly well-defined. As he extends his hand, his sleeve tightens around a bicep that I’d love to squeeze.
This man belongs in an ad for very sexy cologne.
“H-hi!” Oh god, I sound so stupid. I rise from my seat, but my legs are stiff from sitting in class for almost an hour and I wobble, nearly toppling over the chair in front of me.
“Whoa there.” The cologne god catches my arm, steadying me. His fingers are thick and strong against my bare skin. I can think of so many excellent uses for those fingers.
“I’m Rath Edwards. I’m the TA for this class.” There’s an amber gleam in his dark eyes, a kind of halo around his irises. “I thought I’d introduce myself—and apologize for the professor’s intensity. She likes to make people think about the deeper layers of their worldview. It’s like dissection for the soul.”
“It’s uncomfortable,” I admit. “But I get why she’s doing it. Lots of people just float through life without ever defining what they believe. I’ve had more opportunity than most to think through the ultimate consequences of good deeds and evil ones.” I bite my lip to keep more words from spilling out. What is the matter with me? Why do I suddenly want to tell Cologne God my life story? “Nice to meet you, Rath—Mr. Edwards.”
“Rath is fine.” He smiles brilliantly, and my heart quivers.
“Rath,” I breathe, scooping up my bag. “See you around.”
I squeeze past him, trying not to think about the heavenly cinnamon, vanilla, and cedar scent that seems to waft from his skin. He smells like a damn batch of fresh-baked cookies in a cozy mountain cabin. Frantically I mount the steps, hurrying past rows of seats until I reach the doors at the top of the lecture hall. One look backward shows me that Rath Edwards hasn’t moved. He’s standing by my vacated seat, watching me.
I give him a half-hearted wave and dodge through the lecture hall doors. My heart is thrumming as if I just got off the treadmill. What the hell is wrong with me? I nearly told this stranger about my dad, which is not at all like me. I’m usually so careful with that information.
Throughout the rest of the day, Cologne God and his thick, warm fingers keep popping up in my brain. By the time my last class is done, I’m feeling unsettled and very horny. I can’t remember the last time I took care of myself—I’ve been so busy moving into the dorm, flicking through piles of papers, trudging back and forth across campus to one office or another, reading email after email until my eyes itch, and creating logins for all the programs my teachers want me to use. I’ve barely eaten lately, and I usually fall asleep fretting over the state of my bank account or stressing about my to-do list for the next day. No time to take care of certain needs, and definitely no time to find a guy who could help me out with said needs.
I’ll go back to my crappy low-budget dorm room and grab something quick for dinner—I think I have some instant udon noodles. And then I’m going to enjoy five minutesalone. Hopefully my roommate Eve will be out. She’s usually out with her girlfriend at this time of day.
But when I shove open the door to our room, she’s there. With the girlfriend. They both look up from the laptop they’re sharing, and the look they give me is anything but cordial.
“Hey...” I drag out the word, trying to identify the weird negative energy in the room. Did I do something to piss Eve off? Say something inconsiderate, maybe, or use something of hers?
