Boomerang

by Noelle August

The pebbled glass of the bathroom window flames orange as the sun crosses to this side of our building. I better get moving.

  “You know what it is,” I say, just realizing it myself. “It’s the whole situation. I don’t want to have to fight for anything. I don’t want to have to sneak around or prove I’m worth breaking rules for, you know? I want someone who just wants me, without question. And I want to want him back. And just go for it.”

  I don’t say the rest of it, that I want the kind of love that feels like an arrow snapping from a bow—sharp, inevitable, soaring. It’s too early for poetry, and the conversation’s already making me feel dumb and teary.

  I want this job. I want to make my film. And I don’t want anyone who doesn’t know whether or not he wants me.

  Simple, right?

  When I arrive at Boomerang twenty minutes early, I find Ethan’s chair still empty and extend a smug congratulations to myself for beating him to work. I tuck away my purse, switch on my tablet, and sit there, staring at the space he’ll soon occupy and reminding myself to treat him like a colleague, nothing more.

  I turn in my chair, and something in the movement brings a sliver of memory back to me: swiveling on my barstool, my leg brushing Ethan’s, a swooping feeling in the pit of my stomach. I taste sambuca on my lips and feel myself leaning in toward him, my hand on his thigh, my face turned up to his, and a kiss, light and warm, right there in a bar full of people.

  I have a flash of pulling back and of him looking down at me with those blue, blue eyes, those long dark eyelashes, his face alive with surprise and amusement.

  So, I made the first move.

  Go, me.

  “Now, there’s the hustle I like to see.”

  I look up to find Adam Blackwood leaning against the long kitchen counter. He’s all starched luxury and twinkle, his gray suit tailored to elegant perfection. How can someone so young, just a year older than me, look like he sprang from the womb in Armani?

  “Thanks.” Damn, I don’t want to let that memory go, but—reluctantly—I do. “I, um, couldn’t wait to get to work.”

  Smooth, Mia.

  “Excellent!” He punctuates the comment with a clap. “We’re gathered in the conference room. Want to join us?”

  So much for being the early bird. “Absolutely.”

  “Great. Grab your tablet, and meet me in there. I’m off to round up the usual suspects.”

  He walks off, and I gather my things and head past his office to the conference room. Its walls are an opaque moss-colored concrete, and a glossy chrome boomerang serves as a door handle.

  I pull open the door and find myself face-to-face with a room full of people.

  And a wall-sized vista of a deconstructed pinup girl—an abstract mandala of dark hair and tawny flesh, red high heels, cherries, and sailor hats. It’s more a pattern than a portrait, but I recognize the artist and the subject.

  Because it’s my mom’s work.

  And the pinup girl? That’s me.

  Chapter 12

  Ethan

  Q: Follower or leader?

  Thanks for coming, everyone.” Adam takes a seat at the head of the conference table. His smile is so genuine, you could almost believe he doesn’t pay us, his marketing team, to be at his beck and call.

  Actually, he doesn’t pay me to be at his beck and call, but that’s going to change.

  Day two on the non-job, and I feel a hundred percent better than yesterday. I got some sleep, I have cash in my wallet, and with Isis moving in, I might be able to stretch the money dad sent until late August, when the internship is up. Another plus was learning that Rhett lives in Brentwood, only five minutes from my apartment. I now have a ride to and from work every day, so goodbye road bike. So what if Rhett makes my ears bleed?

  Things are starting to fall into place. I have a plan and it’s going to work. Land this job, pay off some student loans, apply to law school. And this whole situation with Mia is going to smooth over.

  I glance to my right, taking a quick shot of her profile. Green eyes. Wild, dark hair that corkscrews everywhere, slender chin and nose. She’s prettier than I remember, and I remember her being really pretty, but that’s irrelevant now. She’s not going to faze me. She’s not going to keep me from achieving my goals. Her scent—violets, I’m almost sure—isn’t even that distracting.

  “I brought you here to talk about DateCon,” Adam continues, “the largest trade show convention in our industry, which is coming up in Vegas on . . .” He glances at the agenda in front of him. “When is it this year, Cookie?”

  “Third week in August at the Mirage. Like always,” Cookie adds, in a voice that sounds like frostbite.

  Her whole look is sort of arctic. The pale blue shirt she’s wearing has a jagged collar that looks almost as sharp as her spiked hair, and her makeup is all thick layers of silver. She looks like one of the capitol freaks from The Hunger Games.

  “Yes, August. That’s right,” Adam says. “So that gives us eight weeks to prepare for what I want to be our best show yet. To that end, I’m doubling your budget this year, Cookie. I want a new booth. I want a party—and when I say party, I mean the best party at the show. I want every single attendee at DateCon to be talking about one online dating service: Boomerang.”

  “Is that all?” Cookie asks.

  I don’t know how she gets away with the things that come out of her mouth. Maybe Adam’s hooking up with her? But when I weigh his easygoing attitude against Cookie’s iciness, I can’t see it. Besides, Adam strikes me as the type who practices what he preaches.

  “No, there’s more,” Adam says. “I’m inviting our investors to the show. We’ll hold our annual meeting there this year, and, it’s too early to make any promises yet, but I’m looking at taking Blackwood Entertainment public next year, so it’s imperative that everything goes off perfectly. I want you guys to blow the investors away.”

  He pauses and casts a relaxed look around the table that has ten times more impact than Cookie’s icy stare. Adam expects excellence—which makes me want to give it to him.

  “Okay,” he says, “Cookie’s going to run point on this, so—”

  Rhett pushes open the conference room door. “Sorry, Adam, but I need you.”

  “Be right there.” Adam stands and smiles. “This is a big deal, guys. Boomerang is on the cusp of breaking out and showing some real market dominance. And when it does, every one of us stands to benefit. I need all of you to put your minds to this show and give me your best.”

  When he leaves, Cookie takes over.

  “Sadie, you’re on party planning. Don’t fuck it up, okay, sweetie? Logistics and scheduling with the venue and conference goes to you, Paolo. Do a good job and I’ll consider putting in a good word for you with the INS. Investor travel arrangements and pampering is with you, Vanessa. You’re good at kissing ass. This is your chance to be great at it. And booth redesign goes to the toads, Mia and Ethan. That’s it. Now get to work.”

  The staff parts like cue balls after a killer break, disappearing through doors, but Mia and I are slower. I’m stuck replaying what Cookie said in my head to see if it makes any more sense.

  Then Mia pushes up from her chair. “Cookie, do you have a minute?”

  Cookie’s hand hovers over the boomerang door handle. When her head turns slowly to Mia, I tense with the urge to throw myself in the line of fire to protect her.

  “I can do the booth design myself,” Mia says, “I mean—all the other tasks went to only one person.”

  She’s taken the words out of my mouth; I was going to track Cookie down to say the same thing. I want a chance to shine. How the hell am I supposed to prove I deserve this job if Mia and I are working joint assignments?

  Cookie takes a second to pull on a set of brass knuckles and throw down a quick shot of venom. “You are not a person. You are an intern, a toad, and so is he.” She shoots me a glare. “Together, on your very best day, the two of you might equal one capable employee.�
�

  Jesus Christ.

  “Go see Rhett for a company credit card,” she adds. “The booth company is out in the valley. Winning Displays. I’m going to assume the two of you are smart enough to find it on your own. I want plans and a budget by morning. Get out there and make this booth happen.”

  “No problem,” Mia says. “We’ll take care of everything.”

  I have to give to her. The girl is good. Solid under pressure.

  Cookie snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

  I don’t know if it’s the attitude she’s giving Mia, or just plain stupidity that gets into me, but something snaps inside me.

  “Hey, Cookie. Hold up a second.” Reaching into my messenger bag, I pull out a plastic lunch bag. “My roommate baked these last night. I thought you might like them.” I hold the bag out. “For you.”

  She looks at me like I just offered her a serving of crap instead of chocolate chip cookies. Then she yanks open the door and marches out.

  “Do you have a death wish?” Mia says under her breath as we head for Rhett’s office.

  “I wanted to see what she’d do.”

  “How the Cookie crumbles?” she says.

  “Exactly. I was thinking that if she hurt me, maybe I’d get an offer of permanent employment as part of a settlement. You know, with fun things like benefits and paychecks.”

  “Hmm. Using guerrilla tactics, is it?”

  “Can you blame me?” I say.

  “No. I thought she was going to eviscerate me on the spot.”

  “I thought she was going to gouge my eyes out and feed them to the crows.”

  Mia stops just outside of Rhett’s door. She rolls up onto her tiptoes and draws close, staring deep into my eyes. “Well, you’re in luck. Looks like they’re still there.”

  What’s still there is my attraction to her. My pulse picks up, and I can’t look away. I see the same richness in her eyes as I did yesterday, in the cab, and my mind fills with questions. I want to know more about her film and her family. I want to tell her my toaster oven misses her thong.

  Someone comes down the hall and Mia settles back onto her heels, but I’m still locked in.

  Come on, Vance. Break eye contact. You can do this.

  I manage it, and my gaze drops to her sexy, lopsided smile, and then moves lower, and I’m picturing her the way she looked at my apartment. Naked.

  Awesome, Ethan. Big improvement.

  Behind me, I hear Rhett’s office door swing open. I turn just as Adam steps out.

  “Hey, Ethan!” Rhett calls from his desk. “I was just telling Adam that we’re coaching together.”

  Mia shifts at my side. “You guys knew each other?” she asks me. “Before Boomerang?”

  “No—we didn’t.” I know how this must look to her, like I’m brown-nosing. Maybe I am brown-nosing, but only because I need Rhett as my chauffeur.

  “I hear you’re very good.” Adam leans against the doorjamb, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Four years at UCLA. Rhett told me about your records there. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks. It was a good run.” I resist the urge to see Mia’s reaction. This is on the verge of getting embarrassing. I have no problem bragging for sport, but doing it to impress your boss is low. Coach Williams’ voice pops into my head. When it comes to showing your strengths, eyes over ears: don’t tell them you’re good, show them. It’s become my strategy, too.

  “Do you still play?” Adam asks me.

  “Just a pickup game on Saturdays with some of the guys who stayed local and whoever else jumps in.”

  “Hey,” Rhett says. “You’re letting me play this weekend. Right, E?”

  I fight the urge to throttle him. Only my closest friends call me “E,” and I don’t want Rhett playing soccer with me this weekend. But with Adam here, my options for shutting him out are zero.

  “Sure, Rhett.”

  “I used to play a little myself,” Adam says. “Center mid.”

  Unlike Rhett, Adam’s too cool to invite himself on Saturday, but I see a spark in his eyes that tells me his competitive spirit just kindled.

  He wants to play.

  Now I’m the one who’s impressed. Guys who think they can hang with collegiate level players are either ballsy as hell, or idiots. Between Adam and Rhett, looks like both camps are covered.

  “You’re welcome to join, Adam. Anytime.”

  “Thanks,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder as he leaves. “Count me in for Saturday.”

  Chapter 13

  Mia

  Q: How well do you handle pressure?

  I spend a long, long elevator ride down to the parking lot, mentally rehearsing and then rejecting a series of withering comments I’m dying to make. Like, “How’s that view from inside Adam Blackwood’s butt?” and “Did you and Rhett fondle each other’s balls?”

  But I keep my lips clamped and my eyes on the elevator control panel. For one thing, Ethan looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and beat Rhett with it, which tells me he’s not exactly wooing the guy. For another, I’m not mad at Ethan, but at the whole let’s-hoist-some-brews-after-a-sweaty-game-of-soccer-boys-club vibe of their little exchange. I’ve got the athletic grace of a puppy on Ritalin, so there’s no way I’m meeting Adam on that level. Which means I have to find another arena, something I own.

  That brings me back to the portrait in the conference room. Which I happen to know sold at auction for probably a decade’s worth of paychecks from this place. So Adam’s serious about collecting. And he likes my mother’s work.

  It gives me a pang of conscience to consider using this knowledge as leverage, but I file it away—for emergencies only, of course. I want to do this on my own, without hopping on the Pearl Bertram express train. There’s no challenge in it otherwise. And more than that, zero satisfaction if I win.

  When I win.

  The elevator doors whoosh open, and we step into the sultry parking garage. The odors of baking asphalt and oil waft over me, a scent I weirdly love.

  “So, what are we looking for?” I ask, sizing up the rows and rows of Lexuses and BMWs. I imagine Blackwood in something zippy, like an Aston Martin or a Bugatti. He seems like a guy who likes to go fast. But for a company car? I’m clueless.

  Ethan’s hair stirs in the breeze, revealing a tiny half-moon-shaped scar over his left eyebrow. Something about it seems boyish and endearing. But his blank expression tells me he has no idea.

  He digs into his pants pocket for the key—a valet key, which he holds in a flat palm for my inspection.

  “Wow, a valet key. I’m touched by Cookie’s trust in us,” I say, taking it. “Well, we know it’s a Toyota.”

  “Thank God no one in LA drives one of those.”

  “Right. Thank God.”

  We stand there for a moment, looking out at row after row of cars, which stretch out toward the shadowy recesses at the far end of the cavernous garage.

  I give voice to the unthinkable: “Should we go back up and ask?”

  “Yeah, I definitely think we should do that,” he says and sweeps an arm toward the elevator door. “After you.”

  “Why do I think you’re going to shove me in and barricade it behind me?”

  “You cut me, Curls. You really do.”

  I look up at him, into those blue eyes—electric and fathomless at the same time, slight creases turning them up at the outside corners. The shadows of the garage sharpen the planes of his face, making him look older and more ridiculously gorgeous—like a glimpse of the man he’ll be in ten years.

  “Somehow, I think you’ll live,” I tell him. Turning back to the rows of cars, I say, “Can’t we just, you know, go around sticking our key in all the Toyotas.”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind leaving next Tuesday.” He surprises me by grabbing my hand and tugging me back toward the elevator. “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

  I dig in my heels playfully and tug back. “Oh, God, don’t make me face that
. . . that beast again! She’s got a vicious streak a mile wide. I can’t—I won’t!”

  “Where’s your grit, dude?” Ethan teases, giving another tug that launches me against him. Then we’re scuffling and laughing. And he’s so close to me, I feel his warmth, the coiled energy of his muscles.

  I try to grab the key back from him, but he holds it about a mile above my head.

  “Come on, Curls,” Ethan taunts. “Try and get it.”

  “You’re going down.” I make a suicide leap and nab it, but as I spin away, he grabs me around the waist, catching me in a firm grip.

  I try to wriggle from his grasp, but I’m weak from laughing so hard. “Let me go, you jerk, or I’ll feed your bones to that monstrous Yeti.”

  The elevator door opens to reveal Cookie, her eyes beaming roughly one thousand kilowatts of pure hate in our direction.

  “Red Solara, dumbasses,” she says, and the doors snap closed in front of her with magical swiftness, as if evil has a special velocity.

  Ethan lets me drive, which comes as a surprise because no guy has ever let me drive. We put the top down and enjoy the golden clarity of the Los Angeles afternoon, the stirring of palm trees. It smells like tar and honeysuckle outside, and my hair pulls free of its braid and whips around my face. I know I’ll be terrifying to behold by the time we reach our destination, but I don’t care. The sun warms my skin; the 405 is miraculously clear; and we’re moving toward an actual destination.

  I holler over the roar of the engine and the fluttering of my blouse flapping in the wind, “What are you thinking for a theme?”

  “Theme?” Ethan sits with his eyes closed, face turned up to the sunlight. His smile holds such contentment that I feel almost guilty bringing up actual work.

  “Yes, for the booth. For the show. What do we want the design to be?”

  He sits up and squints at me, shading his eyes. “How about something sports themed? You know, ‘Have fun. Score big.’ ”

  “Ew.”

  “Come on,” he insists. “We’re not eHarmony. It’s not about lifelong commitments. Nothing wrong with some fun.”

  “I know, but—”