Boomerang Page 2

  “Did she leave?” Isis asks.

  “Not yet, but she needs to.”

  “Ethan!”

  “Easy, Isis. We both need to leave. She has a job, and my internship starts today.”

  Isis snorts. “That sucks. You look like crap.”

  “Then I look better than I feel. J, I need some cash.” The words burn in my throat. I hate asking for money. “I have to chip in for a cab.”

  Jason shakes his head. “Sorry, bro. I’m out. You emptied my wallet last night.”

  “I did?”

  Isis laughs. “Don’t you remember? You and Mia were doing body shots.”

  Christ, body shots? Did I revert to being a freshman? “Never mind.”

  As I head back to the living room, I consider fishing through my sports bags for stray change, but I don’t have time and I still wouldn’t find enough to pay my way. There’s only one option left. It’s going to gut me, but screw it. It’s the only way.

  I find Mia standing by the front door, a sexy half-smile on her face, and my brain shorts out as I picture licking salt off her olive skin.

  “Did I just hear a vuvuzela?” she asks.

  “Yeah. My roommate thinks he’s funny. So, about that cab . . . Mind if I catch a ride with you?”

  Mia frowns, and I can tell she’s surprised. I’m surprised too. This isn’t how I expected this morning to play out. “Sure,” she says. “No problem.”

  “Cool. And uh . . . One other thing?” Fuck. I’m about to blow my chance of ever seeing this girl again—and I want to. If nothing else, to figure out what the hell we did last night. But I’m up against a wall. “You mind paying for it?”

  Chapter 3

  Mia

  Q: Are you a lone wolf, or do you run with a pack?

  The poor guy—Ethan—looks like he’s just requested a nail file to the eyeball. So he doesn’t like asking for favors. Interesting.

  “Yeah, no big deal,” I tell him. It takes all of my self-control not to reach out and touch him, straighten his red color-blocked tie or smooth the slight cowlick that rises over his straight, serious brow. Air molecules thicken between us, scintillating with that delicious energy of attraction.

  Or, okay, lust.

  It’s been so long since I’ve felt that, and I would love to just stay here, anchored in this moment. But I have no time.

  A car horn honks, punctuating my thought.

  “Guess our ride’s here,” I say.

  He leans in front of me to open the door, and I become intensely aware of both his height—he has about six inches on me, and I’m in four-inch heels—and of his scent: smoky and tantalizing, like a beach bonfire.

  Another flash comes to me: the inside of a cab, streetlights shading and then revealing his beautiful, serious face. He hauls me across the seat, pulling my leg over his, and bracing me with powerful hands against my back. Then the memory pinholes shut, leaving only the uptick of my pulse and the reminder that I really, really have places to go.

  I precede him onto a narrow balcony, blinking in the crystalline light that turns everything to shimmering green and gold. On the street below, a cab idles, and I head toward a rickety-looking aluminum staircase to make my way down.

  I’m aware of him behind me. The feeling of him—tangible and light at the same time, his quick certain footsteps shaking the entire staircase as we descend.

  Head in the game, Galliano. This is about becoming who I want to become. Finishing my film. Finding a way into the business on my own. This is most certainly not about a dude whose big move consists of hiding my underwear in an appliance.

  I slide into the cab first and give the address of the Boomerang offices.

  Ethan climbs in on the other side. “Olympic and Avenue of the Stars,” he tells the driver. “Probably close to where she’s headed.”

  The red-haired driver turns and gives us a look. “Yeah, real close.”

  I barely know that part of town, but at least that makes things easy.

  Ethan’s shirt swims on me, and the jersey fabric climbs my thighs. This is not good. Maybe there’s still time to gather my forces so I don’t stroll in looking like “Little Ms. Hot Pants,” as Nana would say.

  I call Skyler, who seems to answer before the phone even rings.

  “Oh, my God. Tell me everything. Right. Now.”

  I guess I must have given my roomies a heads-up that I wouldn’t be home last night. Sighing, I say, “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Screw that. What happened? Where are you? Was it delicious? Did he—”

  “Hey, Sky,” I interject, certain Ethan can hear her every word. “I need a favor.”

  She picks up on my tone immediately. “Is he there?” she asks. “Like right there, now? Aren’t you supposed to be at your new job?”

  “I’m on my way,” I take a deep breath to tamp down my exasperation. “I—um— overslept—”

  “I’m disappointed you slept at all.”

  “Sky, come on!”

  “Okay, okay. So, he’s there now?”

  “Yeah, we—uh—” I feel Ethan’s gaze on me and turn to meet it. He smiles in a way that seems both impossibly sweet and impossibly sexy at the same time. I smile back, wishing I had a portable cone of silence I could activate for privacy.

  But the privacy ship sailed sometime in the middle of the night. “We’re sharing a cab now. Anyway, listen, I—”

  “Facetime me,” Sky says.

  “What? No way. Can you please just focus? I need you to do something for me.”

  “Facetime me, and I will.”

  “You’ll do it anyway because you’re my best friend, remember?”

  “Do it.”

  “I will kill you.”

  “Facetiiiiiiime.”

  “Fine!” I swipe the icon on my screen, and Skyler’s face appears before me: all blond hair and smudged Cleopatra eyeliner. As usual, she’s got her hand wrapped around the neck of her cello and fingers the strings as we talk.

  “Show me!” she demands.

  My entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. “Why do you hate me?”

  “I love you with the fire of a thousand suns,” Sky says. “Now show me.”

  Oh, what the hell. I’m wearing last night’s clothes while sharing a cab with my one-night stand. Was I really going to use that last bit of self-respect?

  I turn the phone toward Ethan, who grins easily at the screen. The tips of his ears glow pink, though, and I’m oddly reassured to know he’s as embarrassed as I am.

  “Whoa,” says Skyler. “Hello to you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ethan, this is my former roommate, Skyler Canby,” I say. “Skyler, Ethan.”

  “Hey, Skyler.” He tips a two-fingered salute, and another memory unfurls. Ethan giving that same salute to the bartender at Duke’s, pushing the hem of his navy jacket out of the way as he sat in a high-backed stool next to me.

  “Celebrating?” he’d asked, and his eyes held a lively interest that made me straighten and turn to fully face him.

  “A little work and a little play,” I said.

  “Same here,” Ethan said, and we clinked glasses. “To work and to play, in almost equal measure.”

  Now, though, I have to put the play behind me and get to work.

  “Okay, listen,” I tell Skyler, as we turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “Can either you or Beth get to Century City in the next . . .” I check the phone for time. “Shoot. Like eighteen minutes? Is that even possible?”

  “Your lucky day. Beth’s got an audition at Fox. She’s probably been there since six, stalking the director.”

  “Call her for me, see if she’s got anything with her that I can change into. Even just a jacket.”

  “Okay, but no jacket. You can’t cover those boobs.”

  “Skyler!”

  “I second that,” Ethan murmurs.

  I turn to him, surprised. That smile again—sexy, a little shy. And those blue, blue eyes, so deep they’re almo
st black.

  “They’re, uh . . . a great asset,” he says. I get caught in his expression, direct and teasing, and I don’t know if it’s a memory or a fantasy, but I can feel his hands on me, his fingers smoothing away the strap of my dress . . .

  “The man speaks the truth,” Sky says. “Jackets make you look boxy.”

  I get a mental grip on myself. “Whatever. Just please and thanks.” Seriously, anything’s bound to be an improvement over my current ensemble.

  “Stop talking to me so I can take care of this. I’ll text to confirm.”

  “Thanks, doll.” I really do have the best friends on earth.

  “No worries,” says Skyler, who then treats me to a big, toothy grin. “Tell Ethan he’s a hot piece of ass.”

  He laughs beside me, and I shake my head in mortification.

  “I’m pretty sure he already knows.”

  Chapter 4

  Ethan

  Q: Do you plan dates, or do you like to be surprised?

  The cab moves down Wilshire at a crawl. I can’t stop my leg from jittering, even when it’s clear Mia notices. I want to swing the door open, throw off my jacket, and sprint to Century City. I know I could get there faster. I smile, thinking of my dad’s favorite comment when he comes to visit. Why is everyone in such a damn hurry here? But if you want to get somewhere, you accept it. Successful people live their lives in a damn hurry.

  “Do you work for ESPN or something?”

  Mia’s question surprises me. Then I remember she must have seen my weights and soccer gear.

  “No, I wish.” Earning a living from sports would be great. I came close to making that happen. Set a few records at UCLA. But a knee injury junior year ruled out pro soccer for me. After ACL surgery, it was never quite the same.

  “I’m starting a new job today,” I tell Mia, focusing on the future. “Marketing for an online business.” I can’t bring myself to say “internship.” I have a degree from a top university. You’d think I could find a way to get paid to work, but that’ll change soon enough. “What about you? Swimsuit model?”

  I don’t know why I’m flirting with her. I won’t ever see her again, and we’ve already hooked up. Not that I remember it. But she’s hot, and there’s something intriguing about her. She’s a little mystery, wrapped in my favorite dress shirt.

  “Well, of course.” She smiles and pats her hip. “With all this to work with, what else would I be?”

  She’s so comfortable with her body. Amazing after two years with Alison, who still wanted the lights off when we slept together. I don’t think Mia and I even started in bed. We ended up there though.

  “What else?” I say. “I don’t know. Vegas showgirl?”

  “Wow, thanks. That’s so progressive of you.”

  “Just my imagination speaking. So, what’s it really? What do you do?”

  Mia crosses her legs, and I manage to keep eye contact. “Well, actually, I’m still in school.”

  “School . . . great.” Please be eighteen. She has to be. “What year and where?”

  “I’m a sophomore at LA High.”

  I almost choke on my tongue. “You’re what?”

  She bursts into laughter. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Actually, I’m a senior at Occidental. Studying filmmaking. But I took on this position for my last semester to get some real-world experience.”

  “You’re a filmmaker? That’s cool. I love this one art house film. Star Wars? Maybe you haven’t heard of it. It’s an obscure title.”

  That’s all I can come up with to cover my lack of film knowledge. I don’t watch movies; I play soccer. When I’m not playing soccer, I read books about history, or biographies—subjects a girl like Mia would probably hate.

  She narrows her eyes like she’s deep in thought. “Star Wars, you say? It doesn’t ring a bell, but you know us film majors. If it’s not some grainy black-and-white transfer, dubbed into Slovak and then back into English, it’s so not worth the time.”

  She stretches her legs into my personal space. I can’t tell if she’s flirting or just at ease. Either way, I like it.

  “What about you?” she asks. “What excites you, other than toaster panties?”

  I laugh. “Hey. That wasn’t my doing.” Though, who knows? It actually might have been. I have a quick debate with myself about whether to tell her about my soccer career and decide against it. “I just graduated from UCLA in June. So, you know, marching bravely into my adult life and all that. First day on the job for me today.”

  “And we’re both starting out with hangovers. Sweet.”

  “But at least we’re both wearing underwear.”

  “At least there’s that.” Mia leans her head back against the seat and smiles. There’s nothing flirty about it. Nothing forced or fake. It’s just a really great smile.

  Suddenly we’re trapped in a staring contest. Her gaze is so direct and her green eyes are like prisms. They hold so much light inside them. There are questions and jokes and stories in her eyes. I know right then I want this again. To be looked at by her again.

  “Look, Mia, I know this isn’t how—”

  The cab jerks to a stop.

  “Eighteen dollars,” the cabby says.

  Mia reaches in her purse. “I’m paying for his fare, too. Can you add it?”

  “Sure thing, lady. Still eighteen dollars.”

  Mia and I lock eyes. I can’t believe this. We’ve come to the same place? There’s no way.

  Someone lays on the horn behind us.

  The cabby curses and pulls closer to the curb. “Twenty-one hundred Avenue of the Stars. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Right,” we blurt at the same time.

  “Okay. Wow,” Mia says. She shoves some bills at him, and we get out of the cab.

  The office building rises up in front of us, a smooth wall of smoke-tinted glass that jets to the sky. It blew me away when I came here for my interview. I remember thinking this was the place that would start my future, but I’m not thinking that right now. I’m trying to figure out the present.

  Mia and I walk through the doors and join a cluster of people waiting at the bank of elevators.

  We haven’t said a word to each other since we left the cab.

  We haven’t looked at each other.

  I don’t even know if we’re standing together, or just in the same vicinity.

  I shift my shoulders, telling myself that it’s the suit that feels strange and constricting.

  The elevator arrives and the doors part. I hold the door, letting a dozen people flood past me. Then I step inside and reach for the button for the seventeenth floor, but it’s already lit.

  Mia stands lost behind a wall of dark suits. The urge to shove toward her comes over me. That seems desperate, though it also feels awkward not to stand with her. But then it’s too late. The doors slide closed and I’m trapped in the front, staring at the seam between the steel panels.

  We hit the seventh floor, and four people step out.

  It’s not until the doors close again that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  Mia’s still on the elevator.

  Twelfth floor. Two people leave.

  Fourteenth. Three more.

  I glance at the elevator controls. Only one floor is still lit.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Mia is still a few feet behind me. I can’t tell, but I think she’s smiling. I want to ask her at least one of the questions charging through my brain, but doors slide open to the glass-walled Boomerang lobby, and we both step out.

  Chapter 5

  Mia

  Q: Dress like a wreck, or dress for success?

  My brain decides it’s an excellent time to go on strike, leaving me with zero resources to puzzle through the fact that I, a) woke up next to this lovely male-type person after engaging in activities I tragically can’t recall; b) ended up in a cab with him, which; c) took us to the exact same destination; until d) we found ourselves stepping out on t
he same floor. A floor that houses one business and one business only: Boomerang.

  My new place of employment.

  And apparently his too.

  “So, this job of yours?” I say. A corkscrew of hair drops into my line of vision as if to underscore my rattled state.

  “Internship,” he replies, and the word comes out heavy, like a confession.

  “For Boomerang.”

  He nods, and his hands busy themselves with the knot of his tie, reminding me of my own less-than-professional attire. I’m itching to get to my cell phone, to find out if Beth’s made it yet. “You too, huh?”

  I’m too shell-shocked to frame a reply, so I just nod like a dummy and start what feels like one of those weird dream-walks through a space that seems to shrink and expand with each step.

  I joked about never having seen Star Wars, but looking down a long expanse of gleaming bamboo floors, “The Imperial March” sounds in my head. The place is more Ridley Scott than George Lucas, though, with its curving white walls and recessed purple lighting. The cubicles have low smoked-glass walls and funky half-circle workstations. As Skyler would say, it looks like someone drank a feng shui cocktail and puked the decor.

  We pass a few cubicles occupied by girls in thick black glasses with asymmetrical haircuts and guys in skinny jeans with various configurations of facial hair. Hipster Central, it seems, though Adam Blackwood, Boomerang’s founder and president, looks like the love child of Ryan Gosling and . . . well, Ryan Gosling.

  “I’m supposed to . . .” Quickly, Ethan amends, “I guess we’re supposed to check in with HR, fill out some paperwork, surrender our firstborn. That sort of thing.”

  “Crap, I already surrendered my firstborn at the last job. Do you have a spare?”

  He grins at me. “How would I have a spare firstborn?”

  “Oh, fine, you’re going to drag logic into the conversation?”

  A towering blond woman in an emerald-green suit with lapels sharp enough to slice cheese stalks toward us, her expression set somewhere between rabid and murderous.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” she shrieks as she comes alongside us and casts a tundra-cold glance in my direction.