Boomerang (11 page)

“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—”

“And we’re
called
Boomerang. That’s already sporty. How about, ‘play hard, throw it back?’ ”

“Okay, that’s even worse.” I try to contain my hair so I can give him a solid glare, but it’s no use. “And what exactly is the ‘it’ in that little slogan?”

He grins. “You know.”

“No, sir, I do not. Because it
sounds
like you’re talking about lady parts. Like, ‘use them up and throw them away, boys.’ ”

“That’s crazy,” he protests. “It’s lady
and
gentleman parts. You’re free to throw
it
back, too.”

I laugh. “So, that’s the image we’re unveiling for our investors? Sex organs whipping through the air?”

“It’s genius. Give it time. You’ll warm up to it. Seriously, though, why not something sports related?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels shallow or . . . I don’t know. Not everyone thinks of it as a game.”

“But that’s what Blackwood’s selling, isn’t it? Recreation? It’s about having fun and then shaking it off at the end of the night, right? Live to score another day.”

A sudden coolness creeps into his tone, and I wonder if he’s thinking of that girl, whoever she was. The one who put him through two years of hell.

We pull off the highway and cruise along a few narrow residential roads. We’re quiet now as we pass through mottled opaque shadows cast by lacy tree canopies.

“What’s your idea for a theme?” he asks quietly.

“Well, of course I’d love to do a movie theme. Something funny, maybe. Like if Annie Wilkes had just used Boomerang, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so intense in
Misery
.”

“Right,” he says. “Or maybe Captain Ahab could have chased, um, a whale
and
a dolphin. Spread the love around.”

I laugh. “And you act like you only know about sports.”

“So, if I’m hearing you, Curls, you’re saying that it’s healthy to date a lot and that monogamy makes you dangerous. At least to writers and whales?”

I feel an itch of something—melancholy, maybe—but I give him a smile. “Something like that.”

The GPS guides us down a row of squat warehouse buildings to a sign in the shape of a thumbs-up with “INNING DISPLAYS” in 1970s bubble type. I stop a few feet from the door, which is coated with a peeling layer of UV tinting.

“See,” Ethan says, springing out before I’d taken the key—the valet key—from the ignition. “Inning Displays. It’s a sign. Sports theme, for the win.”

“It’s a sign that Cookie’s crazier than we thought.”

I get out and do my best to smooth the snarled cloud of my hair, then dab on a quick coat of lipstick and make sure everything else is more or less in place. I wonder if Ethan feels like I do sometimes. Like I’m playing at adulthood. At being confident in totally strange situations.

Inside the building, row after row of display vignettes stretch before us, each with a different type of booth and elaborate signage. A slouchy dude with ear gauges and bushy sideburns sits behind a circular reception desk and mumbles a greeting in our general vicinity.

“Candy will be right with you,” he tells us and gestures us to a plush leather sofa, which promptly swallows me whole. I struggle to sit up and hover at the edge.

After a few minutes, a towering blond woman comes clipping toward us, barking threats to others as she passes.

Ethan watches her, eyes wide. “No way. That . . . can’t be . . . ?”

“You don’t think—” But I can’t even make myself process the sight.

She reaches us, and we leap to our feet like soldiers caught sleeping on watch.

“So you’re from Boomerang?” She pumps my hand with mechanical precision and then moves on to Ethan.

“Yes, we’re—” he begins.

“You’re late,” she barks. “My sister told me you’d be here at eleven.” She executes a marching-band pivot and sprints away from us.

“Oh, God,” I whisper. “Cookie and Candy.” Never in the history of procreation have two less apt names been bestowed upon a set of human beings.

“You
do
realize you’re supposed to be following me, don’t you?” Candy fires over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize I needed to spell that out.”

“Sorry,” I say. “We’re coming.”

We hurry to catch up with her, drawing close enough to hear her mutter “dumbasses” under her breath.

Chapter 14

Ethan

Q: Cotton sheets or satin?

M
ia and I follow Candy past the lower budget booths to the primo setups in the back. We pass a booth for a suntan lotion company with a waterslide that lands in a clear-walled pool, a booth where the sides are made of rock wall, and then one with a fully stocked chef’s kitchen.

When we reach a bedroom set complete with shiny satin sheets and fake flowers on the bedside tables, I lean toward Mia and whisper in her ear, “What do you think? Our competition?”

“Mattress distributor, asswipe,” Candy says over her shoulder, then she stops and gestures to the booth on our right. “This is what Blackwood did last year.”

I take in the white furniture and recessed lighting. The long white counter with a bank of computer screens, where I’m guessing people tried out the Boomerang website and member interface. Above the counter, there’s a big purple Boomerang logo that’s backlit.

“Wow. It’s very . . .” It reminds me of a Virgin America airport terminal—style that’s been watered down to accommodate the masses—but I’m not sure how much I should say with Candy standing right here.

Mia’s mouth pulls into a grimace. “Blech? Uninspired?”

I nod. “Yeah. And predictable.”

“And
generic
. It’s almost
corporate
.” Mia says the words like they’re blasphemous, and I remember learning yesterday that her mother is an artist. A photographer. “And forgettable.”

“Yep,” I agree. “I can’t even remember what we’re looking at.”

Mia shakes her head, getting more and more worked up. “I mean, what’s the
message
of this?” She faces me. “Does anything about this make you want to have fun? Does it even remotely put you in a sexy mood?”

“No, but that bed does.”

Mia’s head whips to the mattress booth, her hair spilling over one shoulder. “Really? Even the cheesy satin sheets?”

“Hell, yeah. They look like a slippery good time to me.” The fact that we’re in a booth warehouse does nothing to deter my sexual imagination. I could
seriously
get down to some business on that bed with her. “What do you say, Curls? Should we throw some sex organs around?”

She breaks into a smile. “Well, when you make it sound so appealing.”

Candy’s hand snaps to her hip, the movement as sharp as a military salute. “What a lovely surprise,” she says. “I thought neither of you would understand a single thing about booth design. Turns out you’re both geniuses!”

She swivels on a heel and marches off, just like Cookie.

“Nice going, genius,” Mia mouths accusingly as we follow. She gives me a playful shove on the shoulder, so I push her back.

And so it begins again.

We did this earlier in the parking lot and my arms ended up around her. I’m not sure what the deal is exactly, but my body seems to jump at any opportunity to touch her. When she pushes me the next time, I make a quick move, lifting her easily over my shoulder.

Mia gives the tiniest squeak, her body tensing, and I freeze, waiting for Candy to turn around, but she doesn’t.

At this point a few things fire off in my head.

First and foremost is the fact that my hand is on Mia’s ass. She’s soft and curved in all the right places, and her weight feels amazing. Holding her feels amazing. I’m extremely tempted to make a break for the mattress booth and lay her out on all that satin.

Second is the concept of me flirting with the girl who could potentially take my job from me, which is a bit of a buzzkill.

And third is the security camera that hangs down from the ceiling. Whoever’s watching on the other end, Mia and I are making their day.

I take a few steps like I’m carrying her off to bed until she gives me a solid jab to the ribs. Then I set her down reluctantly.

Through the thin silk of her dress, I feel her shape slip through my fingers as she slides down the length of me—the curve of her waist, and the groove of her spine, the angles of her shoulder blades—before she finds her feet.

For a long moment, we’re pressed against each other and there’s no hiding the truth, the physical truth of how I react to her. I am hard as steel for her, but the expression on her face isn’t surprise. Mia knows she turns me on. What I see in her eyes is uncertainty. A kind of shadow pain.