Noelle August - Boomerang

“So’s he,” says Beth. “An awesome opportunity, I mean.” She finishes her rollers, then hops up on the counter and starts to paint her toenails.

“There are other guys.”

“When?” asks Sky, finally pulling up her shorts and flushing the toilet. She goes over to the sink, and Beth swings her feet out of the way so Sky can wash her hands. It’s pretty impressive choreography for a seven-by-nine space.

“When what?”

“When are there other guys?” She turns to me and leans back against the counter, arms folded. “You’re letting that tool Kyle turn you into Miss Havisham.”

I laugh. “I am not Miss Havisham. For one thing, I don’t have a moldy old wedding dress.”

“Laugh about it, but you’re still letting him get under your skin.”

I want to argue, but as usual, it’s like she’s read my mind. Not that I think it’s about Kyle. Not really. We were never a good fit because he didn’t have any passion. Not for me. Not for much of anything.

But there’s something else there, something that’s kept me in a holding pattern for the past year, something that keeps chafing at me, a subtle wearing of my desire to put myself out there again.

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.

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.