Noelle August - Boomerang

“But—”

“This is your show, Mia,” she says, and something flashes in her expression—so fast I’m pretty sure I’m imagining it. Something that looks like compassion. “Go.”

I get to my feet. “I’ll find some way to prop it up. Or maybe we can plug into a new supply if I can find one.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate not spending my entire night breaking my back down here. Now, go.”

I rush to find Ethan. He, Paolo, and Sadie race around the space, making small adjustments, tidying up the tables and putting the last touches on the rows and rows of premiums: shot glasses with the Boomerang logo and real foam boomerangs, which I suspect may become a menace in the jam-packed hall.

A massive crowd heads toward us, a tide of beautiful, likely inebriated, people. They surge through the space like water rushing through tributaries.

I pan over the throng, and right away, I spot Adam, tall and elegant in an aubergine suit. A posse of suited dudes stride along beside him, their expressions skeptical and blasé. We have our work cut out for us, it seems, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Ready, Curls?” asks Ethan, as he slips an arm around my waist.

I lean against him for just a second, buoying myself with his strength.

“Bring it,” I say.

Ethan

Q: Is winning important, or how you play the game?

Adam betrays nothing as he introduces Mia and me to the five men who could potentially make him a billionaire. Nor does he show any surprise at the radical transformation the Boomerang booth has made since he saw it yesterday. The guy’s poker face should be legendary.

Mia and I took a huge risk. It was my idea to load her images into my video game. Gone is the boring green field and flat blue sky. Now the boomerang hearts fly over images of people on dates, laughing, having fun—and falling in love, in Nana’s case. Occasionally, someone hits a bull’s-eye and the heart explodes, and it looks like fireworks rain down over a couple.

It’s fucking perfect. Like we planned it. We couldn’t have designed it any better.

As good as my idea was, Mia’s idea—to invert the booth walls so the images are everywhere—has taken our booth to a whole other level. With that little stroke of genius, she made Boomerang exclusive, as tough to get into as any premier club in Vegas, and it becomes more obvious by the second that the conference attendees love that. The show’s only been going for ten minutes, and already Rhett and Paolo have had to stand by the entrance to regulate the flow of traffic.

We’re practically standing room only, the whole place thrumming with awesome music, thanks to DJ Rasputin, and with the laughter and fun that tells me something incredible is happening here.

But Blackwood, of course, looks like he must have at the blackjack tables the other night: cool and controlled, and like he could give a shit that his company is making trade-show history.

“Ms. Galliano filmed these images herself,” he says, to a flushed, brick house of a man.

“They’re very good,” Brick House responds in a thick southern accent. “Talent runs in the family, I see.”

I’m not sure what surprises me more: the fact that Adam’s given these men a pregame briefing on Mia, or that Brick House is cultured enough to know Pearl’s work.

“Thank you,” Mia says. “The project’s been tremendously rewarding for both Ethan and me.”

I smile. “That’s true,” I say, nodding. “There are times I don’t even feel right calling what we do work.”

Adam’s gaze finds me and I think it cools with warning, but I don’t really care.

“The boomerang game,” says Mr. Inoue, an investor from Japan. “It was furnished by which game-maker?”

“Zeke Lee,” I answer. “He’s a developer at Naughty Dog, but he did this on the side for us.” The guy’s not even looking at me as I speak, he’s so locked into the boomerang zipping across the screens. “You want to try it?”

“Oh, yes,” he replies.

“Great. Follow me.” I take him to the playing pad and pull rank, cutting in front of the long line of people waiting for their turn. I help Mr. Inoue into the glove and give him a few pointers, then he’s off, flinging boomerangs like he was born in the outback. Inoue’s feel for the game is immediate, so I drop back and watch him laugh as he literally breaks hearts left and right.

Adam stands beside me, his arms crossed, that same neutral expression on his face.

“I don’t remember signing off on this,” he says.

“You didn’t,” I say, and feel Mia nudge closer to my side.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, but apparently that’s enough to unnerve me a little.

I don’t care what he says to me, but if he tries to drag Mia down, I will bury my fist in his pretty rich-boy face.

When Inoue steps off the playing pad, grinning like a kid, he comes over and asks me for Zeke’s number, and then congratulates Adam on a tremendous show.

Adam shakes his hand and smiles, charming and accommodating, but when Inoue leaves, he turns to me and Mia, his mood unreadable again.

“I’m calling a meeting in my suite tonight for all employees—and interns. I’ll see you both there.”

Then he’s gone, the crowd parting before him as he moves through the booth.

“Jesus,” I say. The guy’s truly in his own category.

“A bit more like Moses at the moment,” Mia says. Then her hand slips into mine and squeezes. “We did it.”

I look at her and smile, squeezing back. “Go team.”

Mia

Q: Real life, or fairy tale ending?

We’re about to step out of the elevator to Adam’s penthouse suite when Ethan wraps his arms around me from behind, holding me there.

“Hang on a second,” he says, pulling me against him and lifting my hair to kiss the back of my neck.

The door slides shut, and now it’s just the two of us, reflected over and over in the mirrored wall panels.

“I guess if we never go into that hotel room, we can never be fired.” I turn and lace my arms around his neck, drawing him down for a long, teasing kiss. “Is that the game plan, Coach?”

“Something like that.”

I smooth down his collar and straighten his tie, remembering how badly I wanted to do it on our first day together, to give in to my need to touch him.

“We did good work today, Ethan,” I tell him. “No matter what, we made that booth a success. Adam got five thousand hits to the site. In one night. That’s crazy. Four hundred people signed up for accounts.”

He smiles and kisses me again. “God, you’re sexy when you spout statistics.”

“And you’re sexy when you breathe.”

He laughs, but then his expression grows earnest. “Really, I just wanted to say that it’s all going to be fine. I’ve got your back.”

For a long moment, I look into his light-filled blue eyes and see a fathomless well of goodness and loyalty there. I snuggle in close and kiss his jaw, brushing my lips over the five o’clock shadow. “And I’ve got yours.” I reach around and pat his butt. “Now, let’s go get canned.”

By the time we enter, the whole gang has gathered in the penthouse, except for Adam—and it’s like being greeted by a hanging jury. Paolo slouches on the arm of a chocolate-brown sectional and rotates his cocktail nervously, making the ice clink. It’s the loudest noise in the room.

“Awesome job tonight, kids,” he says, and gives Cookie a challenging look before she even has an opportunity to form a facial expression.

Pippa, Sadie, and Rhett all murmur their agreement. Cookie looks down at her drink like she wants to strangle it to death.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really, thank you all for everything. You saved our asses.”

At least for tonight, if not for good.

“Well, Jesus Christ,” Cookie blurts. “Sit down.”

Ethan strides over to the mahogany dining table, pre-set with linen napkins, cut-crystal goblets, and gold-embossed plates, in the event of a spontaneous soiree. Behind the table, floor-to-fifteen-foot-ceiling windows reveal an amazing view of the strip, with the light atop the Luxor slicing through a starless black sky.

He brings over two chairs, and I sit, but he remains standing behind his. I know without him saying a word that the anxiety he’s giving off has everything to do with me and nothing to do with himself. I’m gripped with the irrational fear that he might just tackle Adam to the deep-pile carpet the minute he steps through the door.

But then Adam comes from one of the bedrooms, looking relaxed and affable in jeans and a burgundy dress shirt. The man really loves his jewel tones.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, as though our attendance wasn’t fully mandatory. “I see you’ve helped yourself to the bar, Paolo. Anyone else?”

He plays bartender for a bit, but Ethan and I decline. My stomach’s churning, and I feel flushed and shaky. I know some of it is just exhaustion and the residual effects of rushing home for Nana, worrying about her, worrying about this day. Now that I’ve left the safe haven of Ethan’s bed, it’s all crashing in on me.

I shift in my seat and remind myself that whatever happens here, I’ll be fine. I’ve gotten something so much better than a job. It feels almost greedy to want anything more. But I do want it. Or I want Ethan to have it. I just don’t want it to go to anyone else.

It takes Adam an excruciatingly long time to fix a few cocktails, and it’s all I can do not to lose my mind when he starts to muddle mint for a mojito. He caps the club soda and comes back to the group. Handing the drink to Cookie, he settles in next to her and crosses his legs.