“You said you were a student,” I say. You’re talking to a woman, and you’re not naked, sweating, lying in bed with her. Is something wrong? I push the questions away. They prove too deep. “A student of what?”
“Gender theory.”
She gets more interesting by the second. “Gender theory?” I say. “I have to admit, I don’t know very much about that. Is it interesting?”
“It is,” she says, and a strange look flits across her eyes. It lasts for only a second, but I notice it. And what’s more, she notices me notice it. “It’s just…”
“Yes?” I say, my voice strong, willing her to go on. “It’s just… what, Red?”
“Don’t worry,” she laughs, but her laugh is hollow.
It’s just that you don’t know if you want to be the princess or the strong independent woman, is that it? It’s just that you can’t decide if you want to be submissive arm candy or a spinster scholar. It’s just that you wish you could be both.
“Fine. So what’re you working on, Miss Gender Theory? Will it take the world by storm and turn all men like me into woman-worshipping eunuchs?”
“That isn’t what feminism is about,” she snaps. “We’re not trying to turn men into eunuchs, for God’s sake. I hate when people say that.”
“A man needs to be a hunter,” I say. “A man needs to hunt his woman. If that is turned into something ‘wrong’ then yeah, we’re eunuchs. If, one day, I’m not allowed to chase a woman like you down the street, what am I?”
“A gentleman?” she offers, with a wicked grin.
“A gentleman!” I chuckle. “The day I’m a gentleman is the day LA floats up to the moon, Red. I’ve never been a gentleman, and I don’t plan to start now. Anyway, isn’t a gentleman part of the p… What do you call it, again?”
“The patriarchy,” she mutters.
“Yeah, isn’t that part of the patriarchy, too?”
“I guess so,” she agrees.
“I swear to God, all these feminists want to turn relationships into some kind of business deal. Instead of flirting with you back there in the coffee shop, I should’ve walked very timidly and respectfully over to you and submitted a goddamn application asking if I may have the honor of speaking with you.”
She laughs, and then covers her mouth with her hand. “That’s not funny,” she says through her fingers.
“Says the woman who’s cupping her hand over her mouth.” I smile. “Yeah, must be the least funny thing you’ve heard all year.”
When she purses her lips, I immediately imagine how those lips would look during sex, how she would pout, pout, pout in pleasure.
“So you’re going to be Doctor Chase, then? How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“So you’ll be a twenty-four-year-old doctor?”
“A Ph.D. doctor, anyway. And—maybe.” She sighs, her chest slumping, and for the first time since I picked her up, she goes somewhere else. Her mind floats away from the dockyard, and something else takes her thoughts.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You care?”
“I care,” I sigh, hardly able to believe it. I really do.
“I had the brilliant idea of asking my professor if I could submit a video game – a small one, but a functional, working one – as my dissertation instead of a traditional essay. She agreed, and I’ve been working on it really, really hard. My fingers are almost as callused as yours, Maddox.” She stops after saying my name, wets her lips, goes on, “The game’s about powerful women. It’s meant to empower women, change the way they’re seen in video games.”
I let out a laugh.
“What?” she growls. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, but I’m still laughing.
“What?” she demands.
“It’s just… you’re a walking contradiction, Red. I’ve never met a woman who’ll come on a ride with me, no idea what’s going to happen, smile and flirt while I check out her body, and then tell me she’s doing something to try and change the way women are seen… it’s crazy.”
The familiar blush colors her cheeks. “Maybe, but it doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “Because I won’t be able to finish the game. There’s a—I guess you could call it a quirk in the code. It’s driving me nuts. The game won’t even function anymore.”
Nice way to skip over everything I just said, I think, admiring her. She didn’t deny it; she didn’t confirm it. Is it because she doesn’t want to tell me who she really is, or because she doesn’t know herself?
“You need help, then,” I say.
She looks at me matter-of-factly. “Of course I need help.”
“Then you’re in luck,” I say. This fate stuff again. What’re the chances? Seriously, what are the chances? One thousand to one? One hundred thousand? One million?
“How’s that?” she says.
“Because I know an expert programmer. And I know what women need. I’ll just tell him to fix the snag for you and make sure that the game shows women how they’re meant to be shown in video games. No problem.”
She laughs shortly, rolling her eyes. “You know what women need,” she mutters. “Of course you do.”
“I do,” I say. “I can read you accurately enough, can’t I?”
“No,” she says, but her voice is weak. “You can’t read me at all.”
“So you don’t want my programmer friend to help?”
“I didn’t say that. No, no, I’d love to meet the programmer.”
“Great,” I say.
Then, because this woman has had a strange effect on me, I place my hand on her shoulder and look into her reddish eyes. “Don’t worry,” I say, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll get this fixed for you.”