Boomerang (42 page)

Ethan

Q: Do you chase dreams, or do you actually catch them?

W
hy don’t you hop in the shower?” I say. “I’ll meet you in there.”

Mia sits up, naked and gorgeous, and gives me a wry smile. “Shower? Why do I need to shower?”

I have to laugh because her hair is
gigantic
. “I thought maybe, uh . . .” I make a motion encompassing the black mountain of curls around her head. “I’m not quite sure how to describe what’s going on here. I don’t think Diana Ross or Bride of Frankenstein even come close, to be honest.”

Mia play-punches me. “It’s your doing.” Then she pats her hair, feeling the dimensions of the awesomeness that surrounds her head. “Wow. This
is
impressive. I think I’m going to call this style
The Hat Trick
.”

“You know what a hat trick means?”

“Sure do,” she says, scooting off the bed. She stops at the door and looks back, grinning. “More importantly, I know how it
feels
.”

Well, that settles that. I can die a happy man.

My work here is done.

Except it isn’t.

I grab my cell phone from the nightstand and type two quick text messages—one to Beth and one to Matt—then I send a message to Rhett.

Ethan:
Hey man. Booth status?

It’s 7 a.m. but he replies right away.

Rhett:
Questionable. We’re trying.

That doesn’t sound good. My side of the display is working, but a knot settles in my stomach. Mia’s side obviously still isn’t.

Ethan:
Keep trying.

Rhett:
Will do. Mia status?

I’m tempted to type
very satisfied
, but I know that’s not what he means.

Ethan:
Holding up.

I let him know we’ll be back by eleven, then I head to the bathroom, catch a glimpse of Mia in the shower, and realize I should’ve told Rhett noon.

But what the hell. They can wait.

In the shower, I wrap my arms around her and hold her. She’s relaxed and tired, and I can tell yesterday drained her. I kiss her, playing with her soft lips, my hands exploring her body. I want to make her feel good again, but she shakes her head.

“Maybe a little later?” she says. “Sore.”

“Sorry. Not sorry,” I say. She laughs, and I trap the sound with another kiss and tell her, “I have some healing techniques . . . Tonight, Curls. Or sooner, if we don’t get out of this shower.”

Her smile grows wider. “Okay, tonight. Counting on it.”

She’s so sleek and beautiful this way. I can’t resist her. I take her face in my hands and look into her green eyes. “Mia . . . we did this thing all wrong, at work and on dates that weren’t even ours, but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change where we are. You’re mine now.”

It sounds possessive and psychotic, but that’s not how it feels. How it feels is like I want to become a human force field around her. Like I want to give her anything I can—
everything,
to keep her happy and safe. The truth isn’t so much that she’s mine as it is that I’m hers.

Mia shakes her head and smiles. “I already was yours, Ethan. The minute you put my panties in the toaster oven, I knew you were the one.”

“Yeah? I’ll admit that was an inspired move.”

The shower starts to run cold, so I shut off the water and wrap a towel around her. Mia looks up at the sound of a cabinet slamming in the kitchen.

“Someone’s here.” She stares at the door, and then gasps as a loud laugh explodes from the other side. “Is that . . .
Beth
?”

“Sounds like Sky to me, but you would know.”

Mia darts away from me, opens the door and bolts into the living room.

I grab another towel, wrap it around my waist, and follow her.

The chatter in the apartment stops. For a second, we all just stand there. Me and Mia, half-naked. Skyler, at the kitchen table. Isis, about to crack an egg against a mixing bowl on the counter. Beth, by the couch—which is covered in dresses and pants and shoes. Jason in the middle of everything like a startled animal that doesn’t know where to flee.

“What is this?” Mia tugs her towel higher. “What are you guys doing here?”

Skyler lifts a coffee carrier from the kitchen table. “I brought lattes.”

Beth spreads her hands like she’s presenting the couch. “The usual for me. A fabulous assortment of clothes for you.”

“I’m making pancakes,” Isis chirps from the kitchen.

Jason shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting in an embarrassed smile. “I just live here.”

Mia looks at me, a question in her eyes.

“Seemed like the right time to call in the troops,” I say. And I’m rewarded with a perfect smile before she’s shuttled into my bedroom amid a barrage of condolences and questions.

“Damn,” Jason says, when it’s just him and me. “They’re like a category five hurricane.”

But at the moment, I’m too grateful that he’s here—that they all are—to joke. “Thanks, J.”

“Not necessary. It’s not every Monday I get to drive a Bugatti to Malibu.”

Jason’s running Adam’s car home for me this afternoon.

“I meant for letting us have the place last night, and for looking out for her grandma.”

“Like I said, no thanks necessary.”

“Okay.” I turn around and stop, realizing I have no access to my room, and therefore my clothing.

“That sucks.” Jason says behind me. But it doesn’t. I love that Mia’s in there, surrounded by her friends—old and new.

Jason sits at the table. “Pull up a chair, buddy. Here. Have a Skinny-Mocha-Chai-whatever-the fuck-this-is.”

I sit and take the coffee.

“So,” he says. “It appears you violated the code of conduct established by your employer.”

Idiotic fucking office policies. They almost cost me Mia.

“Might have done that last night,” I answer. “Might have done that this morning, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason says, with zero surprise. “And this professional”—he waves his hand in the air, searching for the right word—“
transgression . . .”

“There was nothing wrong about it. Nothing.”

“I hear you, brother. I do. It’s about freaking time you two did the deed, but my question is this: you’ve got another week or so on the job—sorry, internship. Are you going to hide what’s going on between you from Blackwood?”

“Too late for that,” I say, remembering how I wrapped Mia in my arms in front of Adam yesterday. He’s no idiot. He knows what’s going on.

Jason takes a sip of coffee. “You don’t seem too worried about it.”

“I am for her.”

“What are you for you?”

“Good. Real good,” I say. Then I tell him about my conversation with Matt in Colorado. About the sports psychology graduate program. And about how I’m going to apply.

I only just decided to go for it this morning. Or maybe it was at some point in the night, holding Mia, but as I talk to Jason, I hear someone who’s sure. Someone who has an unshakable confidence about the path he’s chosen to walk. Grad school always felt right. I just had to find the angle that fits me.

“I just texted Matt,” I say, finishing. “I’m going to get in touch with his contact. Get that ball rolling as soon as possible.”

Jason sits back and studies me. There’s a smile in his eyes. This feels right to him too, but he shakes his head. “Psychology, huh?”

I smile. “Yup.”

“You know what?” he says, crossing his arms. “I’m going to be
pissed
if you become a doctor before I do.”

An hour later, after Mia checks in with her parents and learns that Nana’s condition is stable, we leave for Vegas. Sky and Beth drop us at the airport in time to catch the 10 a.m. flight, which gets us back to the hotel just before noon. As we walk through the casino to the exhibit floor, I feel Mia’s dread mounting with every step.

During the flight, we brainstormed ways to work around the corrupted file containing the footage she’s been shooting for the past weeks. We even made a list of people who might be able to help. Zeke, my gaming contact. Gayle, our IT expert, who was supposedly flying in this morning. And, in an act of supreme selflessness, I even suggested Brian.

“The point, Curls, is that it’s not over yet,” I told her.

She forced a smile but the reality was unavoidable: we didn’t have much time.

And now, as we flash our badges at the security guards by the door, we have even less time. In only six hours, thousands of people will flood into this hall—along with Adam Blackwood and his cadre of top-tier investors.

“Oh, God,” Mia says as our booth comes into view.

My side is lit up, the bright green playing field beneath a blue sky. I can’t see who’s using the game, but the boomerang whizzes across the sky and smashes into a heart, which explodes in a shower of probably red sparks.

It looks badass even from a distance, but I can’t appreciate it. The walls on Mia’s side are plain white—and they shouldn’t be.

When we get to the booth, Mia is swarmed by Paolo, Sadie, and Pippa. They all talk at once, and it’s like the chaos at my apartment this morning, except frantic and stressed.

“We were up all night,” Pippa says. “We kept going over everything and coming up with nothing.”

Sadie holds up a USB drive. “We got new files with your images, but they aren’t compatible with this system.”

“Is your grandma okay?” Paolo says.

I want to tell everyone to shut the hell up, but this is Mia’s gig.

Her silence eventually gets through to them, and they stand down, looking guilty for having bombarded her.

“Thanks,” she says. “Thanks for . . . doing all of this.”

All of this
looks like nothing to my eyes, though I’m sure they spent the past twenty-four hours trying.

Mia looks up at me. I notice she’s gone a little pale, but her voice is calm when she says, “We’ll use your side, Ethan. We’ll just send everyone that way. The game is great, and—”

“No,” I say. “No way.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. You worked too hard for this.” I won’t let her fail. Physically, I
can’t
let that happen. I step closer and brush a curl away from her eyes. “We’ll fix it, Mia. Together.”

I can tell she wants to believe me, but she says, “In six hours?”

“Hell, yeah.” I pop a kiss on her forehead, then I pull my suit jacket off and toss it on a café table. “Enough of this competition bullshit. Let’s do this.”

Chapter 55

Mia

Q: Happy behind the scenes, or strictly limelight?

F
ifteen minutes before the doors to the convention officially open, I’m hunched over a toilet bowl, trying to keep down the chicken quesadilla I split with Sadie and not ruin the dress or expensive Gucci belt provided by my team of stylists back in LA. As it is, they’d be mortified by the condition of my hair. We’re at Defcon Five, and the needle’s tipping toward red.

But flop sweat will do that to a person, as will hauling equipment around on a humid convention floor, made even sultrier by the hyperventilations of hundreds of anxious vendors. Luckily, we have a small forest of neon-draped palms to suck up all the extra CO2.

I take a few deep breaths, get up, and stagger over to the sink. Next to me stands a girl in a felt rocket ship costume, festooned with hearts and the words “Love Launcher” scrolling by on an LCD belt cinching her waist.

“What do you think?” she asks, smirking at me in the mirror as she dabs on bronze gloss. “Too subtle?”

“Oh, I think our audience is sophisticated enough to appreciate it.”