“I’m not taking your bed tonight. I can call an Uber to take me back. Now that I know I have all this fire inside me, I can deal with—”
“Shut up, smart ass.” I laugh. “You’re taking it for two nights, minimum, unless I can talk you into staying for the whole break. My parents wouldn’t give a shit, seriously. They wanted more kids.”
“Oh, no.” She laughs. “I don’t do parents. Besides, you seriously think I don’t have plans for the holidays?”
Shit, I think and shake my head. “Offer stands if you have any time free. But the next two days, I’d love your company.”
She grabs the cocoa and takes a sip. “Mmm …”
Mmm … indeed, I think but don’t dare say.
“So, the Peace Corps, huh?”
She nods as she swallows. “So good.” She licks the cream from her lips, and I regret putting the cream on immediately.
So fucking hot.
“Why?” I ask, my voice coming out deeper. I clear my throat. “I mean, rumor has it you’re a genius. You could get in anywhere.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s … whatever.”
“It’s not whatever, Savvy; it’s kind of awesome.” And hot. Smart girls = hot.
“They want me in front of a computer.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “They want to program me so I can help them program everyone else. I see what it does to everyone. No, thank you.”
“So, be a doctor, a shrink, a teacher who doesn’t use computers.”
She smiles then immediately hides it with the cup. “Mind’s made up. As bad as women have it here, the Middle East is a shit show.”
“So, you’re joining the Peace Corps to fight?”
“It’s more than that. I can teach them how to plant and help provide for themselves, and empower them in the meantime.” She takes another sip then sets the mug down. “If the fact that they literally have to cover their faces so it doesn’t turn a man on, or show that she’s property of some barbaric, insolent, isn’t bad enough, the fact that FGM is still practiced is.”
“FGM?”
“Female genitalia mutilation. You know, the bean.”
“That’s straight-up horrible shit. I read an article that they do it here, too, and hide behind the religion.”
She looks a little shocked.
“You read current events, Savvy?”
“I read more than most, but I know what media can do to one’s brain.”
“Not for nothing, but I know damn well you’re too intelligent for that to happen.”
“Once my mind’s made up, it’s made up.”
Don’t I know it.
“Understood. And I can’t wait to hear what you learn when that lens widens.”
“This judgment coming from a wannabe lead singer for a boy band?” She shakes her head.
“Stop projecting. My fragile brain will subliminally absorb your message, and next thing you know, I’ll be doing synchronized dance moves with guys I pretend are my brothers for a tweens audience and cougar moms.”
Smiling, she lifts her mug. “Sex sells.”
“Again, I’m feeling objectified.”
She laughs. She laughs, and it’s a translucent sonnet wrapped in song. And now I’m a fucking poet … Get it together, Tricks. Stop wasting one-hundred-point SAT words. She likes girls, and she’s your friend.
“Okay, I give. What does Patrick Steel want to be when he grows up?”
“Gonna have to admit, hanging with you for the past hour or so pretty much narrowed down my list from twenty different things to two.”
She beckons me with her hand as she takes another sip of cocoa. Well, not me. My answer.
“Option one, a mercenary who travels the Middle East incognito, using either his social media following to raise enough money in a go fund something incredibly selfish that takes away from people who serious need it to survive or his trust fund to secretly stalk his friend, to protect her bean as she goes on her journey in the Peace Corps when she is actually incognito, too. Or—”
She covers her mouth so she doesn’t laugh.
“Or …” I can’t help but laugh, too, because hers is infectious. “Work for my parents under the title agent but really a glorified talent scout, to find all those people who—”
“Were picked on because they weren’t cool enough to hang? Who instead of banging the cheer captain, went home and finger-fucked his guitar or banged his drums like he wanted to bang the football captain’s girl? Who went to bed every night with headphones on, listening to his favorite songs, to escape the reality of an abusive or absent father? Who wasn’t good enough to hang with the “it”