Boomerang (20 page)

Which would be effective. If I was Baudelaire.

“So, tell me,” I say, working to get my mind off Ethan and Ms. Handsy giggling nearby. “Why’d you pick Boomerang instead of another dating site?”

Adam drilled into us that we’re not allowed to let on that we work for the company, so I have to be careful about interrogating my date. Still, I need to get
something
out of this evening—other than a headache and a case of contact chlamydia.

Robby snaps his fingers at our server, and I want to leap across the table and break them off at the knuckle. “I’ll take another one of these,” he tells her, circling the ice in his glass. “What about you, sweetheart?”

“God, yes,” I reply and down the rest of my drink in one gulp. “So, Boomerang?”

“Well, you know . . .” His eyes bounce around from my chest to his drink to a trio of girls crossing behind me to their table. He’s been doing
that
all night, too—this weird visual triangulation, as though he has to remain ever alert for a more interesting opportunity. Like when he receives an invitation to some nearby orgy. “The DTF doesn’t stand for ‘Desiring True Friends.’

“Got it.”

The server comes with a plate of pot stickers, and it dawns on me that we’ve only launched into the appetizer portion of the evening. A quiet groan of panic escapes me, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Go on, honey,” he says and pushes the tray over to me. “You look like a girl who can eat. Am I right?”

I freeze. “I . . . What?”

He gets a panicked look, and a blush creeps up his neck, turning his complexion from pumpkin to tomato soup. “Oh, Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not saying you’re fat. You’re not. You got some meat on you, sure. But it’s . . .” He swigs his vodka tonic, like he can swallow down his stupidity. “I mean you just look like you know how to, uh, enjoy things. Like you’re not one of those skinny salad-eating bitches.” Another gulp, and his volume dwindles like a wind-up doll running out of crank. “Not that it’s, uh, bad to . . . like . . . salads.”

Would it be wrong for me to put my head in my hands and start keening? I hear Ethan cough and look over at his table to see the red-haired Mother Teresa brandishing a ceramic spoon in one hand and giggling.

“Oh my
gawd
,” she says, brushing at his jacket. “Was that too hot? Did I burn you?”

Was she
feeding
him?

“Uh, no . . . Just shoved that spoon in a little deeper than I expected.” He casts a look in my direction, but it’s too dark in here to really read it.

“Oh, poor baby,” she exclaims, and winds an arm around his neck. Lifting the spoon once more, she says, “Let me try again. I won’t put it so far in.”

Robby snickers. “That’s what
he
said.”

I rise from the table like I’m levitating. “I will return shortly,” I say in a weird formal tone, like I’ve suddenly become a dowager countess. I’m pretty sure my synapses have misfired and that I’m about two minutes away from being able to smell colors.

Moving away from the table feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want to stand in the middle of the restaurant and pump my fists at the sky like Tim Robbins in
Shawshank Redemption
. Even better, I want to bypass the ladies room entirely and head straight for my car, but I’ve learned exactly nothing from Boomerang Client #1, other than the fact that he, alone among males of the species, enjoys sex.

A giant woodcarving of Buddha hangs over the main dining area. I feel like lighting some incense and praying to him for a kitchen fire or an alien attack on the city. Instead, I move through the dimly lit space, passing one happy couple after another. The place is all sumptuous red upholstery, carved gold panels, and soft, sexy lighting, making everyone look absolutely fantastic and blissfully in love.

In the restroom, I snap open my purse and fish out my cell phone, hoping with every bit of me that I’ll find a “rescue me” text from Ethan.

Nothing.

And no surprise. I have a close-up and personal view of how well things are going
there
. She’s all over him, and he’s eating it with a spoon. Literally.

Staring at my sallow complexion under the fluorescent lights, I make a pact with myself. If I make it through dinner without vomiting satay or drenching my date in White Russian, I can spend all day tomorrow in my pajamas, bingeing on
Dollhouse
reruns.

The door swings open, almost clocking me, and in walks Raylene Powers.

“Oh, gawd, sorry,” she says, and flashes a bajillion kilowatt smile at me. She has pageant teeth and perfect alabaster skin, though under the unforgiving lights, I can see she’s way older than twenty-four.

“No problem,” I tell her, and because I’m a glutton for punishment, I ask, “You having a good night?”

“Oh, I’m having the
best
time,” she says, moving into a stall and continuing to talk to me while she pees. “I got so lucky. You wouldn’t believe it!”

“Really?” I look around for something I can use to hang myself with but come up short. “How so?”

“I let my friends make a profile for me on some dating site. And my first time out, I get this absolute hottie. I can’t believe my luck!”

She keeps peeing, and I wonder if she has some kind of disorder.

“And he’s nice, too,” she adds. “A little quiet, but I think it’s because he’s into me.”

Finally, she flushes and comes out again. At the sink, she washes her hands meticulously, soaping up to her elbows like a surgeon. I hear her singing under her breath.

“Dr. Oz says to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice while you wash,” she informs me. Her eyes are a lively chocolate brown, but the whites glow a bit feverishly, like she’s just had a face-to-face encounter with God.

“Good to know.”

She eyes me. “You’re with that cute guy, right?”

“Me?”

“Yes!” She gives me a wink and then leans into the mirror, like she’s staring into infinity. “That good-looking guy in the purple shirt. You’re with him?” She inserts a fingernail between her teeth, and says, “Got it! God, I think that was there since lunch!”

“Umm . . . Yeah, that’s my date.”

“Well, I hope your evening goes as well as mine is.”

“And I
completely
wish you the same.”

“Oh, I’ve got big plans for mine,” she says and drills me once more with a look of low-level mania. “I’m going to drag him home and screw his eyes out.” She flutters her fingers at me. “Ta!”

“Ta,” I say, as the door swings shut in my face.

Chapter 26

Ethan

Q: Surf, ski, or another word that starts with “S”?

W
hen our food arrives, Raylene launches into a discussion about her favorite vacation spots, Hawaii and the Desert, which I’ve learned is what people in Los Angeles call Palm Springs. Because LA is such a rainforest.

“We should go together!” she says, wiping every single bead of condensation off her water glass. “Either place. Or, oh my gawd—
both
! Not anytime soon, don’t worry. Just someday. No pressure. It’s only a suggestion, but wouldn’t it be
so
fun
?”

I take a moment to frame an answer that isn’t flat-out rude.

“Actually, I’m not much for the beach, Raylene. I grew up in Colorado, so mountains are more—”

“I bet you look amazing in swim trunks.” She sets the water glass back in its symmetrically optimal location and smiles at me, wrinkling her nose. “I thought I felt a six-pack earlier. Did I? Do you? Have one?”

The answer is yes. I’ve always had a strong stomach, but I will eat this entire plate of Chinese noodles—which I can’t even look at—before I admit that. “Well, Raylene, I—
whoa
!”

I jam myself against the end of the booth as she reaches for my abs.

“Oh, I’m only playing with you!” She laughs. She retracts her claws and shakes her head like I’m being ridiculous. “Some things are so much better if you wait for them. Anticipation is the best, don’t you think? Plus, I did feel a six-pack before when my elbow brushed against you, so I already know!”

As a psych major, I spent a whole quarter learning about the symptoms of shock. I’m definitely sweating. Can’t cool down. Shortness of breath? Check. Confusion, anxiety, agitation? Triple check.

Raylene picks up her fork. “Do you also have those lower stomach muscles that sweep down? You know those V-shaped ones? My girlfriend Mona calls them dick indicators. What a name, right?” She covers a smile behind her hand. “My
gawd
! I can’t believe I just said that, but I feel so comfortable around you! You’re so nice, Ethan. This food is so good. But you’re not eating very much. Isn’t this night the best?”

“Yeah, the food is really . . . fragrant.” The smell in here is going to kill me dead if Raylene doesn’t take me out first.

As Raylene takes a few bites, I steal another glance at Mia. She’s in professional mode, the expression on her face a little reserved, the intelligence in her eyes out in full, sparkling force. That means she’s not into the Robster, which is the only item in tonight’s
plus
column. But I hate the fact that he’s put away four drinks in the past hour—and that he’s still talking directly at her rack.

“Can you believe that, Ethan James?” Raylene says, scaling the walls of my mental fortress. “I mean, it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

I missed the moment I became Ethan James.

“I, uh . . .” My mind does a little rewind and playback, searching for what I’m supposed to have a hard time believing. “Wow. It really gets to be a hundred
and ten
degrees in the Desert? I can’t even imagine that kind of heat.”

Which is a fucking lie, because I’m pretty sure that’s my body temp right now.

Raylene nods slowly, a smile spreading over her lips. “That heat
exists
, Ethan James. I will prove it to you!”

I tug open the top button of my shirt and stare at my water glass, tempted to dump it over my head. Raylene has officially broken my soul.

It’s an asshole thing to do, but as soon as she finishes a few more bites, I ask for the check. A glance over at Mia’s table shows me that she and the Robster haven’t even gotten their main courses yet, but I can’t stay in this booth any longer. I will suffer permanent damage if I don’t leave now.

“Aren’t you eager?” Raylene says, doing her coy behind-the-shoulder smile. “Okay.”

“Sorry, Raylene. It’s just that I have work early tomorrow. But I had fun. Best night. And I’ll walk you to your car. Jesus, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

Raylene looks at the button I undid and says, “
Very
hot.”

“Okay, let’s go!” I push her out of the booth, sort of gently, and catch our waitress, who has our bill. I sign my name somewhere on the receipt before she can hand it to me, and then make a beeline for the front door.

I’m outside in two seconds flat.

A steady flow of teenagers weave around me, talking about a slasher movie they just saw, but I just stand there, breathing like I’m in the Alaskan tundra. At the edge of the world. Free again.

Raylene hooks her arm through mine. “I am having so much fun, Ethan James. So much! My car is this way. I found street parking, how lucky is that? Are you okay?”

She gets under my arm somehow as she talks. I can’t imagine it’s a very fun place to be as I’m approaching post-soccer match sweat.

“Yeah, yeah. Great.” It’s time to manage her expectations. “Listen, Raylene. I’m going to walk you to your car, and then I’m going to head home, okay?”

And for the first time, her deer in headlights eyes dim.

It catches me so off guard I almost trip on the curb.

“Okay. Yeah. That’s okay. But we had fun, right? This is it right here. Wow. What a night, don’t you think?”