Chapter 3

Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater, as part of his three-patent sale to Hayes-Harris, the venture capital company, became an employee there. He wasn’t a partner, but he was one of seven on the Executive Evaluation team. He sat in on presentations from individuals and companies looking for investment capital.

Hayes-Harris took small fliers and big risks, tiny positions and majority ownership. They provided money when they were interested. And money, expertise, guidance, even personnel, when they were really interested.

At 23, Bobsy was the youngest one authorized to vote yea or nay, but many of the revenue-seekers were even younger than he was. They brought their start-ups, launches, ideas, dreams, to Hayes-Harris.

And one of them, or more than one, could be the next Facebook, Uber, Google, Apple.

Bunny Carville, who was turning out to be not so much of a dumb bunny as I had originally thought, continued to translate BobsySpeak into English. English for Dummies, in my own tech-challenged case.

And she made no secret of how much sex she and Bobsy were having. I didn’t bring up mother issues that might be there because of their age differences. Not my business for one thing. Walker for another.

Some pride in Bunny’s voice, “Bobsy gets a 3% share of all new ventures they invest in. Plus a 7% end-of-year bonus from Hayes-Harris. Minimum. And $45,000 a month living expenses. Company benefits, of course.”

“Of course.” Fucker. Nerdy fucker.

I made a note to start inventing something. Three somethings.

In addition to underestimating Bunny, I had also blown my Bobsy Atwater assessment.

He gestured to his too-short mom jeans, “People see a nerd. Don’t really see me.”

Bunny grinned, “The glasses are fake, he’s 20-20.” Giggling, she’d been bursting to tell someone, anyone, “I shave his head, make it look like he’s going bald.”

So, another note to myself. Besides inventing something the world needs, stop being so fashion-snobby. Just because I look good in stuff, just because I’m married to Vanessa ... sigh, when will I ever learn, when will I ever learn?

So, old Bobsy isn’t as dumb as he looks. And old Winter isn’t as smart as she thinks. Both.

Fuck. I graduated college. On time too. And look what dropouts like Zuckerberg and Gates and, and ... fucking Bobsy are doing with their lives.

No, there’s no sense in beating myself up because I’ll never be a billionaire. But prejudging Bobsy on a self-smug dress code had been stupid. Whoever said you only have one chance to make a first impression was wrong. I was now seeing Bobsy through virgin eyes.

Okay, time for a new, improved Winter. Consider me the Winter Jennings 2.0 version. Better. Tougher. More decisive. Capable. Confident. Winter Jennings, private eye extraordinaire. Or ... very good. Okay, above average.

I’m Midwestern middle class -- economically, culturally, and just about every way I can think of. But Daddy instilled an elite ... something in me. Work ethic. And besides working my butt off, I take pride in excellence. In honest results.

Vanessa drew me in a different direction. Class. Demeanor. Self-expectation. Now I’ll always be that corn-fed Missouri girl, but, money-aside, I’m evolving into something more. What, I’m not exactly sure. But something. More.

Walker held his carryon in front of him as we went through the Four Seasons lobby to the elevator. It looked a bit awkward, but he found it preferable to showing the hotel world 8-inches of happy wood.

As we rode up, the tips of his ears were only pink, not red. A good sign.

In the room I said, “Go take care of it, honey, I’ll unpack.” No argument, another good sign.

A few minutes later I heard the shower turn off and I greeted my semi-tumescent son with a big, fluffy towel. As I used the towel to do what it was designed to do, Walker gave me pretend shock, “Winter, there’s only one bed in here!”

“The floor’s pretty big.”

As he pulled on fresh boxer briefs, I noted the little blonde pubic heart with approval. Pilar had taken over from Wendy and she was doing a good job. She had told Vanessa and me, in front of Walker, “I’m going to stay bald, when, you know...”

When her pubes begin to grow.

She said, “Walker likes me that way.” She often appeared to be acceding to his wishes. And maybe she was. Although I suspected that when she did, it was usually because it was what she wanted too. Strong willed, our Pilar.

Swans. That’s what Truman Capote called his glamorous socialite friends. The KC exemplar is Vanessa -- tall, regal, graceful. Aristocratic, not in lineage, but in bearing.

California, Silicon Valley anyway, is faster, smarter, techier (naturally) than I am. Fuck me in the ass, what am I doing out here? Midwestern Luddite. Okay, deep breath. Regather.

I’ve been out of my depth since I first met Bobsy in my office. Yet, I’m still Winter Fucking Jennings. Remember that. Blonde, boobs, brains. Focus on the positive. I’m blonder, boobier, brainier, well not brainier ... fuck!

Funny thing happened. Odd and interesting. Another venture capital company, Anderson Mothwitz, contacted me. Professor Google told me that AM is quite a bit larger than Hayes-Harris. The tech press out here told me that AM is far more influential.

There was a note at the front desk to call a Ms. Anderson. At Anderson Mothwitz. Hmm.

She got right to the point, “It’s your business, Ms. Jennings, but Robert Atwater is ... uninformed. Misinformed. I mean he’s a genius, sure. No question. But he gets these ... ideas. Preposterous. Almost paranoid. I hope you won’t let him suck you into his tortured world.”

Click.

Okay, time to pack up, head for home. Back to good ole KC.

Except. That was such a blunt instrument, Ms. Anderson. Do you really think that ... or was this a ploy to encourage me to dig deeper, work harder, be smarter? Or, more likely, I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Much more likely.

I put my Kansas City hacking team, no, my research team, Jessie and Jesse Sullivan, onto Anderson Mothwitz. And Ms. Anderson.

Martinis. I learned to love them when I lived in New York. The taste, well, I had to acquire that. But I adore how the drink looks in a smart martini glass. Classic. But even more, I love what the bartenders call the overflow in the sidecar they placed next to my glass. The Dividend.

“My baby is a rolling thunder My baby is a southbound train”

I had slipped into a barely-there little slip dress. Taking my son, for his first time, up to San Francisco for dinner. I straightened his tie, just a tad. Gave myself one last mirror-check.

Black, mid-thigh dress. Lacy, wispy, transparent, white panties under it. That was it, fabric-wise. Red, four-inch fuck-me heels that were just right for this particular dress.

I put my left arm through Walker’s right. Left boob, nipple perked, pressing into him. He swallowed.

Felicity was behind the wheel, no need for chauffeur door-opening. I waited until we were a couple of minutes from the venerable Sam’s Grill on Bush to adjust the left leg of my son’s slacks. I smiled in the dark at his familiar sigh.

I’m not sure why I was in such a chipper mood this weekend. No progress on the Atwater case. If I could even call it a case. But this evening I was feeling happy, pleased to have my handsome boy on my arm. And feeling, not just a little, naughty.

In the seafood restaurant, Walk was only pink, not red. And he was only semi, not full. For now.

We started with fried zucchini, crisp and salty and delicious. I had a martini for old time’s sake, for New York’s sake. Crisp and potent and ... potent. Late-bake sourdough, the dentist’s best friend. More per capita chipped teeth in San Francisco than any other city, I bet.

The waiter opened a bottle of white and I sniffed the tiny bit he poured. Nodded. The bottle went into a cloth-covered ice bucket.

Mock turtle soup. As good as the one in the Cape Cod Room at the Drake. There, no more turtle soup names to drop, I’ve exhausted my repertoire. Oh, except that I always add the sherry they provide to mine.

Walker’s eyes were drinking in the room, the laughing people, the formal waiters. And coming back to me, to my barely-there. I smiled, “Everything okay?”

He cleared his throat, leaned forward, “You’re the sexiest woman in the room.”

I whispered back, “MILF-sexy?”

“God, yes. Fuck, yes. Yes.”

“Sister-fuckable?”

Serious countenance, “If you really were my sister, Winter, I’d ... I would ... I wouldn’t be so shy.”

Interesting. Odd choice of words. Is that how he sees himself around me, shy?

I ordered Sam’s Cioppino while Walker went for sand dabs. No sense in being on the Pacific Coast and not eating seafood. We shared spinach and shoestring potatoes. Skipped dessert.

I didn’t toy with my son on the way back to the hotel. I didn’t want him to cum in the car. In his pants.

Walker put his arm around me and I leaned into him. Companionable. I could get used to having a driver.

In Kansas City I know the terrain pretty well. Know a lot of the players. Understand, mostly, the local dynamics. Out here, Silicon Valley, not so much.

Rather than working from my office, I had a hotel room.

Rather than my carefully cultivated, and somewhat trained, freelancers, I had the uncertain testimony of Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater. And, one step removed, Bunny Carville.

I’d been followed, at least three times, by a dark green SUV that the Sullivans told me was registered to a company, Fogarty-Rafferty in Sunnyvale. It was a subsidiary of the Harland Group of Wilmington, Delaware. Which was the largest institutional investor in several biotech companies.

A Ms. Anderson warned me off Atwater. Ms. Anderson, the daughter of the co-founder of Anderson Mothwitz. A venture capital firm which is also invested in the Harland Group’s tech division.