JON

 

We fist bump before she walks up the stairs and onto the stage and she gives me that smile – the smile that says, "I got this, Jon. Watch me blow their minds."

That's my girl – India Louise Ward. Girl wonder at twenty-five years old. BS (Engineering) Stanford. MBA Stanford. My CTO – Chief Technology Officer. She's also my communications lead for the company. She's our public face, because why not put your best face forward and India is definitely Pacifica's best face.

She's fucking beautiful.

We’re at the TechCrunch Disrupt conference and India is the speaker, talking about our experiences as a startup and how we went from my parent's garage in Pacifica, CA to a hundred-million tech business in Palo Alto. I'd be up there instead of India but I love seeing the audience when they realize that besides being smoking hot, she's smart.

Really smart.

Super smart. You can see it in her eyes. They're hazel with flecks of green and violet behind thick lashes. There's just so much going on behind them, besides being pretty.

Not that I'm obsessed with her eyes, mind you. But I'm a man. I notice those things.

Back to India – you have to be whip-smart to be successful in this business and she's a fucking rocket scientist. She's one of the few women in a position of power in the aerospace industry.

Pride fills me as I watch her step up to the podium. There's polite applause, and the faces I can see in the crowd are all interested. They've heard about the girl wonder with the flaky name at Pacifica Technology, Inc. Now they can see her in person, and she's an eyeful.

India.

I mean, who the fuck names their daughter India?

Hippies, that's who. Her parents are old hippies, professors at Stanford, which explains India's brains. Her mom waited until she was forty to have children. Her father plays bongo drums, for fuck's sake. Her mother has all these crystals lying around their house and is into yoga and eastern religions and took India to Machu Picchu when she was eight. You'd think that being exposed to all that airy-fairy stuff would warp a young mind.

Not India's. She's a straight arrow. Workaholic. Capitalist straight down the line.

Her parents must be so torn. They're typical flaky humanities professors. As a result, India didn't go to regular schools. No, she went to Montessori. She went into Stanford's Education Program for Gifted Youth and was doing a fucking engineering degree when she was six-fucking-teen. India’s beautiful and she's probably one of the smartest people in the room.

Today, she’s wearing a knee-length navy skirt and a white silk blouse. Over top is a blazer that hides curves like you wouldn't believe. Her dark auburn hair is pulled back into a bun and she's wearing black-rimmed reading glasses and not much makeup.

It's her disguise, as she calls it. She puts forward a totally professional demeanor but underneath, she's as crazy and geeky as the rest of us.

Here's the other secret she's trying to hide: She's five-foot-five-inches of babelicious woman. You should see her in a bikini.

Scalding hot. I mean, burn your retinas hot. Curves that would make a man kill to grab onto them and pump hard.

I know that each and every one of the men in the audience – the straight ones, at least – want to bang her despite the disguise. Their puny brains get all mixed up when they see a beautiful woman like India. They can't keep two thoughts in their swelled heads because all the blood's drained down to their dicks.

They all want to fuck her. Every straight guy I meet wants to fuck her.

Unlike them, I don't want to fuck her. I mean, sure, I could fuck her if the opportunity arose because she's sex on legs and beautiful, but it never does. On purpose.

I need her to do her job.

We need each other to be totally professional.

We're practically best friends and have known each other since our freshman year at Stanford.

I was an Army Ranger just returned from Afghanistan and was on the GI Bill, attending college to study business. Six-foot-three of hard-muscled killer. She was this pretty little brainy girl with a big laugh doing her engineering degree, and she stole my heart – in a brotherly-sisterly way – and put me in my place when I got too wild.

We took the same intro English class and the friendship began over coffee, and then beer in the student pub. We did our MBAs the same year. Now we're business partners.

I rely on her to run the technology department of Pacifica so I can focus on the financial side of things.

We're business partners and more importantly, we're friends.

People joke and tell us we should just give up the pretense and fuck each other's brains out, but no.

We don't go there.

I know what people think – they think I'm in love with India.

I'm not.

We're best friends. People say a man can't be best friends with a woman, and especially not a beautiful woman like India, but we are the exception that proves the rule.

She's not into relationships either. She looks up to me like the big brother she lost in the war. What we have is unique, and I'm determined to not let anything get in the way of our beautiful friendship, or Pacifica's success.

I listen with half an ear as she wows them with our latest roll-out, knowing her presentation on our latest satellite like the back of her hand. This one's destined for the military and will help soldiers on the modern battlefield. The contracts we're busy negotiating are huge. Huge.

Looking out over the audience, I can see the moment she finally wins them over and they're actually listening, their tongues rolled back up into their mouths. Behind her on the huge screen is her presentation, showcasing our technology.

I'm happier than ever. Stoked about the future. Going into business with India was my best idea ever, but if I'm honest with myself, there's this tiny smidgen of doubt in my mind about her. Lately, she's been distant – too busy for our usual chats, coffee breaks, and the occasional dinner out.

She seems preoccupied. I heard her talking about Manhattan and how she wants to move to the East Coast one day. Maybe open up another office there.

Manhattan is where her ex lives.

The jerk who broke her heart.

I thought she was over him, but I've heard a few of her girlfriends talk about how she hasn’t had a date since they split over a year ago. I was glad to see the back end of him. He wasn't good for her. I knew that from the time they met until he left her, breaking her heart in the process.

The music flares at the end of India's presentation, startling me back to the present, and there's a huge round of applause for her. She smiles and bows to the audience, then leaves the stage, her face lit up, her cheeks flushed.

She's fucking amazing.

We fist bump again. "You rocked it, girl," I say, a huge smile on my face as she steps behind the curtain, grabbing the bottle of water I have ready for her.

"I think I did," she says and opens the lid, drinking down half the bottle. "They seemed to like it."

"Listen to them," I respond. I take her by the shoulders and turn her around so she can see the audience through a crack in the curtain. I bend down so that my face is beside hers. "They loved you."

The audience is still clapping, because the presentation was a combination of technology and patriotism. It was stirring, talking about mission and performance and making the world a better place and rah rah USA.

When the applause dies down, I let go of her arms. "You deserve a cold beer."

"I deserve a fucking keg of beer," she replies, grinning up at me, a twinkle in her eyes.

That's my girl. Huge brain. Potty mouth.

I love her.

Not in that way, of course. In the brotherly, collegial, and proud CEO way.

"Let's go," she says and grabs hold of my arm, her fingers gripping my bicep. I flex it, because she's always kidding me about my workouts. I'm ripped. I work out daily – a habit I developed while in the service and I keep it up. No slacking off for me, even though I'm no longer in a combat zone.

"I'm starving," she says, gazing up at me with those eyes. "I want to stuff myself with a huge piece of steak to go along with that keg of beer."

"Your wish is my command, CTO of mine," I reply, but my mind substitutes I want you to stuff me with that huge piece of meat of yours, Jon…

I can't control that part of my mind.

Cut me some slack.

We walk out the side of the auditorium, my arm draped around her shoulder in a brotherly way. I'm no longer interested in the last speaker, so we leave the conference for a bar where we're meeting the rest of our team to talk about the conference and our latest contract. Then we'll go for dinner and I'll make sure she gets her big juicy steak.

Life is good.

Two hours later…

Life sucks.

What the fuck?

Marina Clark, India's best friend from Montessori, and from forever, is sitting with us and, as usual, she's frowning at me. She doesn't really like me. I don't know why, but she's always scowling at me like I've done something wrong. I check myself over. There's no food spilled on my crisp white shirt or silky blue tie. I run my fingers through my hair, which has a habit of falling into my eyes.

"What's your problem?"

She frowns. "You're working the poor girl to death."

"She's a big girl. She works herself hard. She's a winner."

Why Marina showed up at the bar, I'll never know. This celebration was meant for the team – not outsiders – even if she is India's best friend.

When India gets up to go to the bathroom, Marina leans closer to me.

"She's got a date tonight. Don't mess it up."

What?

"India has a date?"

I'm not the only one shocked by that announcement. The rest of my team members glance at me quickly, like they expect me to be mad. I frown when they lean forward, eager to hear the details. Marina fills us in on this guy she's matched India with.

As if India needs help finding men. Every man she meets would fuck her, but she's not that kind of girl.

Besides, she doesn't want a man right now. She's focused on her career. I know, because she told me that when we met at Stanford, back when I thought there might be something between us. She wants to make a hundred million dollars before she ever gets serious about a man.

She's pure ambition – like me. Like the rest of us at Pacifica.

"She's lonely," Marina says plainly.

That hits me like a truck and I'm lost for words for a moment.

"How can she be lonely?" I say when I recover. I tip my beer up and take a long pull on it. "She's too busy to be lonely. She said so herself. She's focused on her career. India says men are superfluous. Those were her words, Marina, not mine. Superfluous."

"You think she's going to admit to you that she's lonely?" Marina gives me this derisive snort and takes a sip of her own beer. "She comes home to an empty house and is so lonely that she sleeps on the couch with the television on because she hates being alone in her king-sized bed. True confession." Then she points at me, her eyes narrow. "Don't tell her I told you that. She'll kill me."

I frown and imagine India sleeping on her couch instead of her bed. I remember when she bought that bed – I helped her pick it out. I even imagined the two of us fucking our brains out on it, but that's just an idle male thought. I'm as red-blooded as the next guy. But that was it. I imagined it one time, maybe twice. Less than a dozen times, for sure.

It's not like I think of sleeping with India often. I'm way too busy running one of the most successful tech start-ups in the past five years.

But speaking of her bed, it's hugely ostentatious with four thick posts of dark wood. Silk gray coverlet and throw pillows. In her huge master suite with the marble tile and expensive fixtures and the sliding doors that lead to her own personal deck overlooking the ocean.

She doesn't like sleeping in that bed?

I love that bed.

"She sleeps on the fucking couch?" I say, still dumbfounded at the prospect that India's lonely and wants a date.

Marina nods. "Sad, right? So I've found this guy for her. I mean, he's right up her alley brains-wise. He teaches at Stanford, like her parents. He has a PhD from Harvard in Humanities. Philosophy."

"Philosophy?" I snort and make a face of disgust. "What the fuck is that?"

"You know – ‘what is the good life?’ That kind of shit." She shrugs. "His name came up among my subscribers as a match. I figured he was smart enough for her. Plus, her family is big in the whole humanities thing. He's coming tonight." She glances at her watch. "Any time now, in fact. I'm sure India's nervous. She's probably in the bathroom throwing up." She wags her eyebrows in this most annoying way.

"Throwing up? What the fuck are you talking about? Why would India throw up because she's meeting a pencil-necked professor of philosophy?"

"He's not a pencil-neck. He's really handsome, in a professorial sort of way. She's shy, Jon," Marina says, and that's the second time tonight I'm struck dumb by something she says. "You should know that. God, what have you been doing all this time? Ignoring India? See, that's what I mean by ‘you work her too hard.’ You don’t even know her."

"I know her better than almost anyone else."

I lean back, my blood pressure rising, my anger at Marina's meddling choking me for a moment. I sit steaming, unable to respond.

My India – shy? Nervous enough to meet some man that she'd throw up? I don’t really even know her?

"This wasn't supposed to be a public event, Marina. This was meant to be a celebration for the team."

"India needs a man," she replies, shrugging like it's nothing. "I found her one."

"She doesn't need a man. She needs to focus on our business. On Pacifica. We have a big meeting coming up, at the fucking Pentagon. I don't want her to be distracted by some flake from the Philosophy Department."

"No, no," she says and punches my arm. "She needs some, Jon. She's been out of circulation for way too long. You're always going on about how important sex is for human well-being. Isn't that right?"

I sit and glower at Marina for throwing my words back at me, but she doesn't seem to notice the hate I'm sending her way.

"Oh, here he comes," Marina says and sits up straighter. "Be nice."

Be nice. Like I'm not nice.

Into the bar walks this tall fucker with dark hair and eyes, and a fucking goatee. He's wearing a tweed blazer with actual fucking leather patches on his elbows. And jeans. He must be forty if he's a day.

Old, in other words. There's actual gray in his hair at the sides.

"Him?" I say under my breath, giving Marina a glare. "He's an old man. Couldn’t you find someone a bit closer to her age?"

"I did a really careful review of him, his values, his goals, his beliefs. They're a great match."

"I didn't know the app was ready…" I harrumph and lean back in my chair, taking a big drink from my bottle of beer. "I can tell just by looking at him he's not right for her."

"The soft launch is next month. We hard launch later, but I wanted to use India as a test subject. I've signed up about a thousand people to use as test matches. Most from Stanford and SFU. He ticks all her boxes."

I watch the dickhead professor of philosophy approach our table. I don't know who this fucker is, but he's not the kind of man for India. That much I do know just by looking at him. How could he be? I can tell by the way he looks and dresses and walks that he's a stuffy old man. How could India be with someone like him?

"He's too old for her."

"Shush," Marina says and turns to the guy as he walks up to the table, all smiles. "Thomas! You made it. India's in the bathroom but should be right back."

"I did make it," Thomas says, his voice deep. "My flight from Boston was late but I managed to get an Uber driver who actually knows the fastest routes. I was giving a guest lecture at my old alma mater and we were late getting finished – I got swarmed by students wanting to talk after the lecture. I missed my flight but was able to get on the next plane out. Barely made it."

He gives us all a smile, his teeth white over his goatee.

I hate him.

Marina introduces him as Doctor Thomas McAllister. Professor of analytic philosophy at Stanford.

He's not a fucking doctor. He's a professor. Doctors actually do important work in society, unlike professors of philosophy. I should know – my father was a doctor. I hate the way people call professors Doctor like they're something special.

"Pleased to meet you," I manage and shake the guy's hand, squeezing extra firmly. "So, tell me, what does a professor of analytic philosophy do? I mean, when you're not giving lectures."

"We think about how to think. It's meta," he says, smiling like he's made a joke.

I don't know what the hell he means, thinking about how to think. What kind of lame-ass job is that?

"Cool," I say, shrugging. "I already know how to think. Now I just make shit. Shit that helps the good old USA win wars."

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms, and smile at him.

Score one for the Viking.