Jennifer and Rocket (The Princesses of Silicon Valley Book 6) (4 page)

I can’t believe Rocket grabbed my phone out of my hands and told Kelly I’m with him. What will she think? I don’t want the princesses to know about us. I don’t want to even think that there is an us. He’s a friend, the bad boy I hang with to show there’s more to me than playing croquet. My brain flashes to Carter, last year’s boyfriend, the one I met playing croquet. My college friend, Hita, referred to him as the trifecta, a lawyer with an MBA who worked at a VC—the financial firms who fund start-ups. Then again, Carter was rather judgmental, looking down at my career choice and anyone that didn’t match up to his high bar of achievement. Anyway, I’m hanging with Rocket. He’s my between-boyfriend amusement.

Right?

Obviously Rocket doesn’t have any issue being seen with me. He thinks telling Kelly we’re spending time together is funny. I thought guys were all relationship phobic. What’s with this guy?

Then he kissed me.

That wasn’t a little kiss. That kiss was hot, like steamy hot, like toe curling, panty-wetting hot. Why does a guy like Rocket have to be such an amazing kisser? Well, of course, why else would women date him? Of course, he’d know how to kiss. Damn, I didn’t know kissing could be this…steamy, and I’ve kissed a lot of guys.

The kiss. The kiss is way too confusing.

As I stand on the sidewalk paralyzed from the kiss, Rocket takes my hand and leads me along the pathway that borders the ocean. It’s a bright blue-sky day. Stopping to lean on the metal guardrail that lines the sidewalk, I look down the steep embankment. The ocean is littered with little blobs of black; all the surfers waiting to catch a wave. I break the silence by asking Rocket, “Did you ever surf?”

He chuckles to himself before answering, “Skateboarders and surfers, in my high school we were frenemies. I avoided surfing as a statement of differentiation. Once my friends and I had our driver’s license, we spent our weekends up in Mammoth snowboarding. One of my buddies had a house up there. We spent all our time trying to one-up each other by performing skateboarding tricks in the snow.” As he pulls himself out of his reverie he looks at me. “You’re from Oahu, did you surf?”

“Only a little; I was always a chicken. The waves really scare me. I prefer to play in water that is quiet and still, looking for shells or snorkeling. My brothers both rowed, outrigger mostly. There are a lot of rowing competitions where I grew up.”

After a while of quietly watching the surfers, Rocket asks, “Hey let's walk to the end of the wharf.”

He threads his fingers through mine; his warm hands feel good. We walk together along the road next to the cliff. At the end of the wharf, we lean with our forearms on the top of the railing and watch the sea lions basking, arguing, and barking at each other in the sun.

As we start walking back, he points while saying, “Hey, when was the last time you rode the Giant Dipper?”

“Giant Dipper?” I say in confusion. “Come on, this will be fun.” He points to the roller coaster down by the boardwalk.

“What?”

Rocket chuckles as he threads his fingers through mine…again. Then he starts tugging me along the dock toward the boardwalk. The closer we get, the bigger the roller coaster gets. It’s not one of those newfangled roller coasters. This one is old, and wood, and makes scary clanky noise as the cars roll around the loop and up and down the hills.

I pull against him as I start nervously laughing. “No way am I going on that. It looks like a death trap.”

He looks at me in surprise. “Jennifer, it’s almost a hundred years old. If it’s lasted that long without killing anyone, I think it'll make it another day.”

I feel excitement and fear surge through me.

“I know I’m a wimp. I guess I can do it.”

Rocket puts his arm around me and pulls me to him. “It'll be fun.”

Rocket stops at the ticket booth and buys some for us. As we stand in line, I hold tightly onto his hand.

He laughs, then puts his arm around my shoulder pulling me close. Speaking quietly into my ear he says, “Really? This old wimpy roller coaster scares you?”

I nod as I nervously laugh. I can’t believe it. I actually get into the car. On my own, with no gun to my head. Of course, my luck, it’s the first car in the train.

The train starts moving; it vibrates and clangs. I let out a little shriek.

Rocket leans over, takes my hand, and says, “It hasn’t even done anything yet.”

We enter a long dark tunnel, I scream and hold tight onto the bar and Rocket’s hand as we go through some drops and turns while still in the tunnel. We come out to the bright light of day. We’re at the base of the hill. We slowly climb to the top. I grab onto Rockets arm yelling at him, “Oh no, Oh no, we’re going to fall off.”

The train drops fast and far, then banks and turns fast, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs—the whole time. The train then rises up into a banked turn and goes through two hills followed by a turnaround. We then head over more small hills followed by some turnarounds. Finally, it enters the brake run. Of course I’ve screamed through the entire three-minute ride. When we stop, Rocket is laughing. Really hard. He helps me out of the car. The people behind us are laughing too.

One says, “Man, you have a good set of lungs.”

Rocket pulls me tight and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. “I think they heard you in Monterrey.”

“That was scary, real scary.”

“Haven’t you been on a roller coaster before?” he says in surprise.

I shake my head. “No way, those things are death traps.”

Rocket barks out a laugh and gives me a squeeze.

That was fun!

I pull into work on Monday with a smile on my face. I might not have made as much progress on my sculpture this weekend, but being with Jennifer on Saturday was great. During the week, we manage to maintain contact through texting.

There’s something about her.

I want more.

When my phone buzzes, I can’t wait to see what she has to say. As the weekend approaches, I start thinking of what we can do next. What I really want is to show her my work, but that will need to wait. I ask her out for dinner on Friday and she says yes.

***

On Friday, I wake up feeling excited. I can’t wait to see Jennifer. After my morning bike ride, I make sure to shave. I pull on a pair of jeans. They’re worn, but don’t have any holes. Then I look through my shirts. I haven’t purchased anything new in years. T-shirts can say a lot about a guy. The young kids at work all wear the company swag; the older guys buy their own clothes. I wear my cycling T-shirts to show that I’m an athlete, not some idiot geek. The only T-shirts I have that aren’t frayed are from work. Should I wear a new geeky work shirt, or should I wear a worn cycling shirt?

What’s with me?

Why am I spending too much time on ridiculous trivia?

I grab a work shirt and head out to my truck.

***

Jennifer lives in Mountain View. I’ve been to Castro Street, meeting up with some friends at the Bierhaus. We had a good burger and interesting beer. Parking at her place I text:
I’m downstairs
.

It takes a few minutes before I see her emerge, looking so pretty my chest constricts.

Is she really my date?

Her long, shiny hair is in a ponytail, which makes her look like a teenager. Her lips glisten from lip gloss; it takes monumental effort to raise my eyes to hers when I say, “Hi.”

As we drive to the restaurant, I’m glad I’m holding onto the steering wheel since it gives my hands something to do. I have this overwhelming desire to touch her. I’m not sure how long I can maintain my control.

Her apartment isn’t too far from downtown. After finding a parking spot, we start walking to the restaurant. I lace my fingers through hers.

A burst of electricity.

She gasps. She’s felt it, too.

The Bierhaus has a large outside patio with long tables imported from Germany. At the end of one table, we find two spots. The clientele is probably eighty percent guys. Typical, in Silicon Valley the male to female ratio is terribly skewed.

Jennifer raises her glass telling me, “My friends all like margaritas, but I prefer beer.” With a deep gulp, she closes her eyes and smiles. “After a week with kids this feels like liquid relaxation.”

“Is it getting easier?” I ask.

“You’ll need to ask me that next year. Right now, every week is a new adventure. With Common Core, even the experienced teachers are overwhelmed creating lesson plans. I’m hoping next year will be easier. The first thing I do after the school day is over is make notes on what I would have done differently. I wish I could play my day backward.”

“Don’t we all wish we knew at the beginning of the day what we know at the end.”

“I take it you’re still learning at work?”

I nod. “All the time. I’ve only been working as a programmer for a year. I might be older than the new kids, but I’m not more experienced, though I am a lot more mature.”

We talk about subjects other than family, which is a relief. She tells me, “I think Halloween is my favorite holiday. In college, a group of us all dressed as princesses our freshman year. You met some of the princesses at Moe’s. That’s how I got tight with Kelly. Did you know she was a princess? Merida.”

“No way, I’d love to see Kelly dressed as a princess. Wearing one of those long sparkly skirts, she probably looked like she was in drag.”

Jennifer knits her eyebrows before saying, “Kelly’s not that bad.”

I counter, “She’s the most masculine straight chick I’ve ever met.”

“She has a feminine side.”

“I think it would have to be only a sliver. I've never seen a feminine side to that chick.”

Jennifer frowns before continuing. “Well anyway, I went as Mulan, though I’m the opposite of a warrior.” Giving me a serious look she explains, “Kelly’s a warrior, my other friends you met at Moe’s, Juliette and Isabelle, they’re little but they, too, are warriors. Those three have no fear; they’ll run headfirst into anything. Me, I’ve always been a chicken. When they’re running into battle, I’ll be the one hiding under the bed, then baking cookies so everyone has something nice to eat when they get home.”

Yeah, she’s sweet.

I think back to last Saturday. “I saw your bravery on the Giant Dipper.”

She gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Hey, that was scary.”

During the week, I get a text from Juliette asking me how my date with Rocket went. I knew Kelly would tell everyone. I’m not ready to talk about him since I enjoyed our time together, but there’s nothing to tell. Thinking about Rocket makes me smile. He’s one amazing kisser. You can have an amazingly hot kiss with some guy and it doesn’t mean anything, right? I text Juliette back the truth,
Fun, Fun, Fun
. Frankly, I can’t say any more than that, since that’s what it was—fun.

***

Rocket’s been texting me all week. I thought guys didn’t like to text. On Wednesday, he asked me out for dinner this Friday. I feel conflicted. I’ve never had this much fun with a guy. He’s easy to be around. It makes me wish he looked more presentable. He has a high tech job, but he lives in Boulder Creek. Only hippies and weirdos live in the mountains. Why can’t he be a lawyer or a banker? Why can’t he cut his hair and dress in nice clothes? Why does he have to have so many tattoos and the piercings? What’s with that?

But he is fun…and terribly sexy.

Damn.

***

On Friday, he picks me up for dinner. Surprisingly he’s wearing a company T-shirt, and it’s not even frayed. Though it’s short sleeve, so you can see all his tattoos…and his amazing arms. He’d look so much better if his hair was styled. He looks too hipster to be hanging out in the valley. All those types live in San Francisco or Santa Cruz. They’re always getting high and going to places like Burning Man. That’s not me.

Why would anyone even consider getting a tattoo?

As we drive to Castro Street for dinner, I worry that someone I know might see us. What would they think if they saw me with Rocket? Luckily, I don’t run into anyone. Dinner is fun. After a couple of beers, we both get restless. It’s only eight thirty. I wonder if Rocket’s planned anything next, or if he’ll drive me home. As we walk hand-in-hand back to his truck, I think of last week’s kiss.

It was amazing.

How do some guys know how to kiss so well?

As we reach his truck, I blurt out, “This is such a guy truck. How does anyone get in without looking like a total spaz?”

Rocket looks down at me from his seat, reaches over the console, grabs each of my hands in his, and pulls me quickly up inside the cab. Face to face we both stare at each other’s lips. I’m not sure who moves first. Lifting my arm to his shoulder for balance his lips feel soft and firm. He tastes good, like beer and man.

Our tongues dance.

My entire body quivers.

His hair feels soft and silky as I roll my fingers through it. He raises one hand to my face, running his fingers down my cheek, which leaves a trail of tingles. He moves in for another deep kiss. My entire body lights up—my groin pulses. Separating again, our foreheads connect. I listen to the rhythm of our breath. I wonder what it would be like to make love to him. In one swift move, he pulls me on his lap while moving his seat back. One of his arms is cradling me while his other arm grasps my waist. I cup his head with my free hand while we continue to kiss.

Our kiss starts off soft and light and gets deeper and firmer.

My chest constricts.

My jaw tingles.

The base of my brain buzzes

He pulls away. I rest my hand on his chest. I feel it reverberate from his deep moan. Running my hand along his strong jaw, he stares into my eyes. Neither of us says anything. He grasps my thigh as we kiss again. The kiss is soft and sweet, but gradually gets deeper as our tongues continue to meet.

We separate for a breath. His voice is gravely as he says, “Let me take you home.”

Looking into his eyes, I wonder what he’s thinking. My college experiences come back hauntingly strong. Except for one notable lapse last year, I don’t hookup anymore. This is our third date, is it too soon to sleep with him? Is that what I want?

Damn.

I want him…but not really…I lean in for another deep amazing kiss.

Yes, really.

Finally, I move off his lap and back to my seat. Softly, I tell him, “That was some nice kiss.”

Quirking his lips into a smile, he slowly nods. We drive back to my place in silence.

As he idles in front of my door, he says, “Will you come up to my place tomorrow? We can take a hike, I can show you my art.”

I was so busy debating if I should let him in, I’m shocked he doesn’t try to come up now. This is confusing. That kiss was hot, but he doesn’t want more? I want more.

This is only a small departure from finding the man of my dreams. It’s what I need. He’s my walk on the wild side before I find the perfect man.

“Text me your address,” I say. My voice comes out shaky and raspy.

“I’ve got some things to do in the morning. My driveway isn’t paved. I’ll meet you at the Boulder Creek coffee shop. How’s two?”

I nod. “Two works.” I open the door of the truck. Looking back over to him I say, “tomorrow.” I jump down and run to my front door. Before going in, I give him a flirty smile and a little wave.

**

After lunch, I head up the windy road to Boulder Creek. Does he really drive this road every day? I park at the only coffee shop in town. As I open my car door, I see Rocket walking toward me. He has that slim hip, broad shoulder build that looks good.

My breath hitches.

My body buzzes.

My face feels hot.

Why does he have to look so good?

Why does he have to be so much fun?

He offers me his hand as he helps me out of my car. Semi jokingly, I say, “I have no problem getting out of my car, it’s your truck that’s hard to get in and out of.”

With a sexy half-smile, he leads me by the hand over to the passenger side door of his truck. Opening the passenger door, he leans down, cups the side of my head, and our lips lock.

I gasp.

His lips are soft. He smells amazingly masculine.

How did he learn how to kiss like this?

My brain short-circuits as my toes curl and my body buzzes…from a kiss. My finger grazes along the stubble of his beard. I hate it when guys don’t shave.

Why does an unshaven face make him look even sexier?

Why have I lost all will power?

Releasing the kiss, he grabs me by the waist and lifts me into the seat as if I don’t weigh anything. Those muscles of his are not just for show.

He gets in on the driver's side and gives me a satisfied smile. “It’s only about ten minutes to my place.”

I nod. My nervous system is in overdrive from that kiss. I sit quietly, unable to form words, recovering from all my conflicted feelings as he drives up a narrow, winding road.

As I watch the rural scenery go by, I ask him, “Is Rocket your given name?”

This amuses him; he gives me a small smile. I feel like he’s sizing me up, figuring out if his secrets are worth sharing. What I find surprising is that I want to know.

“My parents have always been alternative, but they actually gave me a traditional name. It’s Richard, after an uncle that was killed in Viet Nam. My dad started calling me Rocket when I was crawling. I don’t think I would look up if someone addressed me as Richard.”

“Sounds like you were a holy terror as a kid.”

“My mom said as a preschooler I could destroy any home within a few moments. My dad called me the ‘nuclear bomb,' which eventually evolved into Rocket.”

We pass very few homes, only big trees and mailboxes. We take a left onto a small paved road with an older single-story house on each corner, and a discombobulated assortment of mailboxes in front. About a hundred yards down the paving stops and the road becomes gravel. We pass a couple mobile homes, which look well past their prime. I’m starting to think this is a rather sketchy neighborhood as I question my decision to come here. Rocket turns onto a rutted dirt road, driving up and around a hill settled between redwood trees. The backside of the hill flattens out, opening up to a clearing. The trees wind around a large metal barn with piles of metal scrap organized along one side. On the same side of the building as the piles of metal, around fifty feet away, is an old Winnebago that looks like it was in a head on collision, it’s missing it’s tires and is now propped up on blocks. There is a picnic table and grill out in front. Rocket parks in front of the Winnebago. A brown lab comes racing over to the car. After greeting the dog, Rocket jumps out of the truck and comes over to my side.

He smiles up at me as he rubs the dog’s head. “This is my partner in crime, Hartley.”

Rocket grabs my waist and swings me out of his truck. I can’t help the squeal that flows out of my mouth. That’s when Hartley turns her attention to me as she tries to jump up and lick my face.

Rocket casually grabs my hand and walks me toward the metal building with Hartley following us. The front has two doors that slide on hinges. They’re locked with a big chain and padlock. Rocket unlocks the padlock and unwinds the chain. Grabbing the large handle, he pulls the door open causing a loud metal on metal squeaking noise.

Standing at the opening and looking around, it appears to be a machine shop. Rocket turns on the lights. The inside is raw. The building has a metal frame, three walls of corrugated metal, with the fourth wall being mostly the door. It has a corrugated metal roof lined on the inside with insulation and a cement floor. There are some pulleys connected to the roof along with industrial lighting and a couple big fans. Along one wall is a lot of sorted and stacked metal. The back has some shelving, a refrigerator, a large industrial sink, and a long counter with machines on top. Stacked in one corner are a bunch of bikes with snowboards behind them. On the right side is some sort of fireplace.

On the left side of the large room, freely standing is a large rectangle that must be seven feet tall and three feet wide. It looks like someone ripped out a piece of a brook and magically mounted it vertically in the middle of the barn. As I approach the structure, I’m compelled to touch it. It’s not water, it’s metal, but the play of dark and light, shiny and dull makes it look like it’s a free standing rolling brook. Stepping away then walking back over and touching it my brain tries to rectify the optical illusion.

Rocket stands to my side, with his arms crossed over his chest and an inscrutable look on his face while watching my reaction.

“This is what you were talking about? It looks like one thing from far away and something totally different up close?”

He nods.

“What about the negative space and shadow? You said you like playing with those elements, too.”

Rocket grabs some light poles of different heights and moves them to where he has placed taped Xs on the floor. Plugging them in, he turns the light poles on then turns the barn lights off. I jump back and gasp. It looks like someone’s hiding behind the sculpture.

Rocket smiles as he grabs my hand and leads me over to the sculpture. The shadow kind of spooks me out so I grab onto his arm. The lights hit the sculpture in just the right way, making the sculpture’s shadow look like there’s a person behind it. Without the lights hitting it at the right angle, you don’t see the person’s shadow. Walking around the sculpture, you don’t notice the different pieces of metal that cast the shadow as being anything other than an abstract element at the back.

Leaning into him I ask, “Why did you do that?”

“Unexpected?”

“Definitely not what I expected. Though it kind of creeps me out.”

“I don’t know if my statement makes my art less or more marketable.”

“What kind of statement?”

“We’re in a drought. The news is full of battles over water access. Everyone thinks their need is the most important, and there are a lot of people with illegal wells. It’s a hot conversation.”

Thinking about what he said, I can see it, the stream with the water thief hanging behind it. Regarding the piece's marketability, I respond, “I’ve never been in the market for art; I have no idea what art buyers are looking for. I think most people don’t know about art, they buy what looks right in their space or they look to the critics if they see it as an investment.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a big part of it. It’s hard making a living as an artist.”

“Is that why you went back to school?”

He nods, finally telling me, “Welding was a skill I had. Wyoming was interesting for a while. But it wasn’t my goal. I dreamed of being an artist. I figure this way I can do both.”

“Both?”

“My programming job is visually intensive. I work in a team that builds 3-D modeling software. My sculpting knowledge and proficiency with CAD software comes in handy. On the weekends, I get to work on my art.” He shrugs before explaining, “It would be nice if I could sell my work. My dream is to eventually be self-sufficient.”

I think about our conversation two weeks ago, when Rocket talked about the New York movement after WWII. “You should do what talks to you. From what I could see by the show we went to at the de Young, when talented artist create what they like, others can feel their energy.”

“Or I’ll have my property filled with metal only I find compelling.”