“What’s that?” I turn my head, staring at her rigid profile.
“That guy. Paul. Calling me a whore because I only wanted to hook-up with him.” She breathes a laugh. “Seriously? It’s a fucking double standard. Just because I’m a woman who loves sex I’m automatically labeled a whore? What about men?”
I open the passenger door for her and she climbs inside, securing her seatbelt.
“Men can fuck anything with a pulse and women will actually find that attractive. The whole player vibe. It’s hot. It gets them so much ass,” she continues after I get in on the driver’s side. “But if a woman enjoys sex and goes out to get laid, she’s a whore. Why? What the hell is the difference?”
I run a hand through my hair after starting up the car. My fingers quickly dial down the volume on the stereo. I only want to hear her.
“Well?” She angles her body in the seat, waiting for my response.
I rub my jaw. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to answer that question, Brooke.”
“Why not? You’re a man.”
“Yeah, but I’m not running around sticking my cock into everything with a pulse.” I catch her smile as I glance over before pulling out onto the street. “I think you’re right, though. You should be able to do what or who you want.”
“Exactly.”
“He was wrong . . . saying that to you. I’m sorry that happened.”
I’m sorry I didn’t knock him on his arse before he said it a second time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brooke watching me as I drive us into the city.
“Were you going to punch him? You looked ready to punch him.”
“I felt ready to punch him.” My hand curls around the wheel.
“Have you ever hit anyone? You don’t really seem like the violent type. Yoga master who uses organic toothpaste. You probably recycle too.”
I turn my head. She shrugs impassively, twirling the ends of her hair around her finger.
“Well, I’m usually not threatening to toss people through windows,” I chuckle. “But, I did get into a few brawls when I was younger. Nothing major. Some neighborhood kids pissed me off and I went after them.”
“Majahhh. I love how you say certain words.”
I give her a quick wink.
“Why did you go after those kids?” she asks, her voice lifting to a mischievous pitch.
Even in the dark, I know this little devil is smiling.
“Did they steal your koala?”
I gape at her. Her quiet laugh fills the car. “Is that what you Americans think? That we keep those nasty little buggers as pets? They’ll claw your eyes out the second you get close enough.”
“Would they? But they’re so cuddly looking.” She hugs herself. “And so, so cute.”
“Cute. Right. Real bloody cute. I had one nearly take my head off when I was trying to pet it at the zoo once. I was only eight. That mangy bastard scarred me for life.”
“Oh, so it’s just your opinion that they’d make horrible pets,” Brooke chuckles again. “Look at you. Giving those sweet things a bad name over here. I bet you were just a little wanker and pissed him off.”
She smiles, all big and clever, clearly pleased with herself for using that word correctly.
I relax against my seat. It feels good talking to her like this. Easy, unhurried conversation. The delightful sound of her laugh. Her sweet dimpled face against the backdrop of the city.
I want this drive to last all night.
“Was there a bunch of you? Maybe the cute, gentle, completely innocent and non-threatening koala didn’t like crowds.”
We stop at a red-light. I shrug, looking over at her.