Page 12 of Double Apex

“Oh?”

“Like, ‘Don’t worry, li’l lady!’” she drawls in an American cowboy accent, “‘I’ll save you from the dreaded male gaze!’ It’s fucking absurd.”

I shake my head, perplexed. “Do women want this ‘male gaze,’ or don’t they? It seems you are always complaining about the problem.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence on me being thespokesperson for all womankind,” she says with sarcasm. “No, I don’t want men staring. What I resent ismendeciding I need to be hidden for my own protection in a separate gym. I can defend myself, thanks. If some douche-canoe is gawking, I’ll tell him, ‘Quit it or I’ll stick a fork in your eye.’”

“I’ll ask Javier in catering to hide the forks. And I know the slang use of ‘douche’—”

“You must hear it enough,” she mutters.

“—but why the addition of ‘canoe’? This is a small boat.”

“It’s a more colorful version of the same thing.”

“As for not needing the protection of men, I understand your resentment of condescension—”

She snorts. “Really?”

“—but I disagree. It should not be the responsibility of a woman to defend herself from men. The men need to do better.”

“It’s like you’retryingto miss my point. Is this a language thing?”

“I went to UK schools, and my English is excellent. How’s your Romanian?”

“Also, it’s pretty goddamned rich, having a narcissistic playboy attempt to teach me feminism. You’re a complete fucking sexist, and you know it.”

“I’m old-fashioned in some respects and quite progressive in others.”

“A week and a half ago, you introduced me to that bar bimbo as your boss’s daughter, ‘MissMorgan,’ not a goddamned engineer.”

“Did you say ‘bimbo’?” I scoff. “Which of us is sexist?”

She has the grace to look a little embarrassed.

“And thatwoman,” I continue, feeling a rush from the advantage of her error, much like on the track, “had just told me how intimidated she felt about her friends with degrees, herself having none. I introduced you that way to put her at ease, not diminish your accomplishments.”

The doors open at our floor. I hold them as we stare each other down.

With an indeterminate noise, she finally steps out. “Super cool,” she deadpans. “But you’re still missing my point. I don’t need rescuing. I prefer to confront things head-on.”

“Youareconfrontational. I wonder if you don’t look for reasons to be angry.”

She plants her hands over her face before giving me a brutal glare through the fingers.

“Stop that shit. Women don’t have tosearchfor reasons to be angry. It’s everywhere—a twenty-four-seven clown fuck. Why the hell would Iwantto be angry?”

“Because it sets your blood racing. But let me tell you this: if I drive angry, I don’t drive as well. I wonder if anger is the only type of passion you allow yourself.”

The pupils of her green eyes are pinpricks.

“You know what, Ardelean? Go fuck yourself.”

Her movements are stiff as she goes to the door of her suite and taps her phone to unlock it. The pneumatic hinge prevents her from slamming it, though she tries.

Back in my own room I feel remorse for my taunting. Ina way, I was giving her what she wanted—she is invested in a certain image of me. But her face comes to mind again, and I’m concerned there was not only pleasurable indignation there buthurt.

After a shower, I open my laptop and begin an email.

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