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Most girls I knew back then would have run shrieking into the house, tattling to her mom or her dad or anyone she could find in an effort to get us to quit pounding on each other.
But Rocky just stood there, eating her Doritos with orange-stained fingertips and watching us fight, a small smile playing at the tiny corner of her mouth.
I want to know so badly what kind of woman that girl turned into.
What I’ve seen so far lives up to the hype and then some.
“So, what about favorite shows?” I ask, striving to find an easy way to delve further into the inner workings of her clever mind. And even though I haven’t a fucking clue what’s actually on television these days, I figure it’s worth the shot if it gets her talking. “Give me the good stuff. The real guilty pleasure, afraid to tell other people kind of stuff.”
She quirks a cute, questioning brow, and I have no problem explaining further.
“What people are willing to watch on constant repeat tells so much about them.” I toss a secret smirk in her direction. “I have to know if we’re compatible.”
“Holy hell.” She throws back her head and laughs. It’s a loud, free, gorgeous fucking laugh, and I’m one hundred percent down to keep this woman laughing like that for the rest of the night. Hell, if I have to don a clown suit and tap-dance across the bar, I’ll do it. “What kind of shows are you even talking about?” she asks, meeting my eyes. “Like Saved by the Bell?”
Saved by the Bell? Is that the show that used to have the hot cheerleader chick?
Fuck if I know, but I’m pretty certain that show is old enough to be the grandmother of anything that’s currently rolling on TV.
“How about something a little more current? Don’t you ever just sit at home and watch reruns of Project Runway for hours on end?”
Truthfully, I’ve never watched Project Runway, but I’ve heard Thatch gab about that fucking show enough at our poker night turned book club turned back to poker night to have an idea of the overall details.
“Um…no, I’ve never seen it,” she answers with a curious tilt of her head. “Should I?”
“Well, I hear Tim Gunn is the best in the biz.” Per Thatcher Kelly, everyone and their mother loves Tim Gunn. Me, on the other hand? I don’t have a clue who he is or what he does.
“You hear? You don’t watch it yourself?” An amused giggle escapes her pretty little mouth, and it’s music to my ears. Instantly, I smile.
“Nah. I’ve never seen it.”
She crinkles her nose. “What do you mean, you’ve never seen it?”
“That I’ve never had occasion to watch it.”
“Then why are you giving me a hard time?” she nearly shouts between another round of giggles.
“Because you should. And so should I.” I wink. “Why don’t we pick a day to do nothing but sit around and let Project Runway episodes roll right from one into another?”
She quirks one eyebrow. “Do you even know what that show is actually about?”
“No, but that’s why this is perfect. You’ve never seen it, and I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m getting myself into.”
Rocky snorts. “Sitting around all day isn’t really something that happens in my world.”
“Busy lady, huh?”
She takes a gulp of her drink and nods before biting her lip. “You could say that.”
“What are you up to?” I ask. “I’ve barely asked you anything about yourself. Tell me something.” Tell me anything.
She balks for a minute before finally turning to face me with serious, piercing eyes. “I’m kind of…living a double life.”
“Secret Agent Rocky Weaver?” I ask with a laugh.
She nods, and a playful smile starts to slip across her lips. “Very top-secret stuff. I spend a ton of time pretending to be someone I’m not, moving in circles I otherwise wouldn’t. Just the other day, I was in a car chase where I had to outmaneuver a group of guys.”
“Okay, okay. So, you don’t want to tell me personal details. I can handle that.” I chuckle and raise up both hands in acquiescence. “How about you tell me something that’s completely unimportant about yourself, then? Something no one knows but is insignificant in its detail.”
“Something no one knows?” She stares at me for a long moment, running her fingertips across the surface of the bar.
“It can be anything,” I encourage, and a little, secret smile kisses her mouth.
“Well…” She pauses, but eventually continues. “I…uh…I wrote vulgar letters to my grandmother as a kid, complaining about my parents, and hid them under my bed.”
“Vulgar?” I ask, and she nods. “How explicit are we talking?”
“Like…unedited rap songs, I guess?” She shrugs, and that smile of hers turns shy. “I called my dad a pussy in one of them,” she admits softly, and I can’t stop myself from throwing back my head and howling with laughter.
