Rebound (11 page)

I
cue Persephone into a trot, hoping to move her into a canter, though that might be a bit much for today. This is only the second time she’s let me put a saddle on her and take her into the training ring in the backyard, so we’re both a little skittish. But I can tell by the way she keeps her tail high and her ears angled back toward me that she’s excited and alert to my signals.

“How’s it coming with Suede?” my father calls from his chaise on the back deck. Just like him to jump to a problem instead of appreciating the small triumph in front of him.

Persephone tosses her head, white mane flying, like she’s personally affronted that he’d mention another horse in front of her. I can feel the tension in her haunches, the stuttering rhythm to her gait. She’d love nothing better than to dump me into dirt, but I can’t let that happen. For her sake.

“He’s coming along, Dad,” I call. It’s true. It just might not be
quite
as true as I’d like.

“Joaquin says he’s having a hell of a time healing those abscesses. You know, I can’t pour money into that horse forever.”

“We just got him,” I remind my dad. “It won’t be forever.”

“No,” my father says. “It won’t.”

It feels like everything makes him impatient lately. Every evening, he grills me about Adam, about the other employees, about the new complex and the equipment being installed there. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I tell him everything I know. And every night he seems disappointed, like I’m not delivering on some promise I don’t remember having made.

Gathering up a little slack on the reins, I try to show Persephone who’s in control, but she’s not having it. I force her forward a few paces, but she stops suddenly, hindquarters dropping, and I know she’s about to rear.

“You’ve got spirit, P, I’ll give you that.” I pull my left rein to my hip. Persephone’s head follows, and she has no choice but to turn in a circle. She goes around three times, head jerking in protest, before she gets that I’m the one in charge. I hate playing the bully, but it’s the language we speak. And keeping her in line means keeping her here. Cared for and loved, with plentiful food, the best care, and acres of soft grass as her playground.

We play a bit more tug-of-war, but finally she settles down and moves into a smooth trot. It’s hard not to throw my arms around her powerful neck and give her a hug, but that’s not affection in horse terms. Instead, I pat her back and give the crest of her mane a gentle pinch, mirroring the way horses groom each other. I smile because there’s apology in the soulful, long-lashed eye that stares up at me.

“See, Dad?” I say, looking up at the deck.

But he’s already gone.

After my shower, I sit in front of my vanity in my towel and finally let myself think about the night ahead of me. My date. I smile a little to myself because I’m gaming the system, as my dad would say. I skipped all of Cookie’s choices and went right for the hottest-looking guy from the “men looking for men” section. Of course, it took a little cajoling, and a promise of a future date with Philippe, who was only too happy to provide a picture.

At least I’ll be relaxed tonight, for what feels like the first time in ages. And I’ll have done all three dates.

My mother knocks and then enters, dressed as she almost always is on a Saturday night—for an evening out. This time, she’s wearing a simple black sheath and a double strand of freshwater pearls, which tells me it’s nothing too formal.

“How’s Persephone doing, darling?” she asks. The endearment means she hasn’t started into the cocktails yet. Where some people—like me—get lubricated and loose, she gets more and more brittle the more she drinks. Sharper-tongued and pinched. Maybe her reserves come down when she’s drunk, and her unhappiness comes to the surface.

“Really great,” I say. I take my shoes off the tufted bench across from me and gesture for her to sit. “She just needs a little work.”

“And Suede?”

Funny that both parents have had the same questions for me today. Usually, they seem miles apart in every way.

“He’s good. We’re still having trouble with his hooves, but his teeth are good, and he’s gaining weight. I think we’ll be able to save him.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says, and I know she means it.

Staring into the mirror, I see the reflection of the two of us. She could be my older sister, thanks to good genes and some injectables. Her blond hair is lighter than mine—almost platinum, and her lower jaw is fuller, the only part of her to really show her age.
But she’s still so beautiful. Still has this amazing bearing—like a queen.

“Where are you off to tonight?” I ask.

“An art auction in support of the Children’s Hospital,” she says. “We already have early bids totaling a half-million dollars. I’m quite proud of some of the wallets I pried open this time around.”

“That’s wonderful, Mom.”

In this way, we’re all alike, we Quicks. When we want something, we’re dogged.

“I’m frankly surprised I got your father to come along,” she says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt. “He hates Venice Beach, especially anything on Abbot-Kinney. He thinks he’ll be infected by hippies.”

I laugh. “He’s not that bad, mom.”

She frowns, and it’s like a tiny spell’s been broken. I don’t know what she’s looking for from me. Just sitting here with her makes me feel guilty and angry at them both. If they’re so unhappy, why stay together? I know that family is everything, but is family only about the papers you sign and the promises you make?

“Anyway,” I say, trying to move us into different territory. “I don’t think Venice Beach is overrun by hippies.”

“I’m sure not,” she murmurs. Then she gives me a smile that makes her eyes look even sadder. “You have such beautiful hair, Alison. Why don’t you wear it down tonight?”

I’m surprised. Usually, she wants me to tidy it up into a chignon or at least a ponytail. But I guess that’s when we’re going to more formal events—not a fake date with a guy who’s going to be looking around at every other guy in the room.

“It just takes so much work,” I tell her. “And I never know how I want to style it.”

“What are you going to wear?”

I gesture to the bed where Philippe has laid out a silvery-blue
dress with an asymmetrical neckline and a chunky leather belt. Over that, he’s left me a choice of a thigh-length leather duster or a camel cashmere throw.

“Depends on how much of a bad ass you want to be,” he told me and laid the leather duster closer to the dress with a wink.

“That’s a beautiful color for you,” my mother says. “Brings out your eyes.” She rises and comes to stand behind me. Lifting my still-wet hair, she brushes it over one shoulder, smoothing it with her hands. “Why don’t you curl it just a bit, and wear it over one shoulder, like this? The one left bare by the dress. I’ve seen girls doing it.”

I nod, and we both stare at my reflection for a second.

I feel a childlike impulse to ask her to brush my hair for me. But as I open my mouth, she says, “Well, I’ll leave you alone,” and I keep the words trapped inside me.

Instead, I nod, and for a moment we both stare at my reflection in the mirror.

“You’re a lovely girl,” she says, and bends down to kiss my head. “Have some fun tonight,” she adds. “It doesn’t have to be all work, every minute.”

“I’ll have fun. I promise.”

“Good,” she replies. And I want to tell her to do the same, that she should find something that makes her happy—even if it’s not my dad.

She leaves, shutting the door silently behind her. I stare back at the mirror and pick up my hair dryer. I think I’ll style my hair like she told me—keeping it in loose waves over one shoulder. Who knows? Maybe I’ll like it.

W
hen I get to The Ivy just after eight o’clock, I see Brooks, Julia, and Carla already seated at a table on the outside patio.

I’m here to meet them. My best friend, Brooks. My ex and occasional sex buddy, Julia. Her cousin, Carla. But as the hostess leads me to the table, my eyes scan for Alison. The Boomerang dates are always the subject of office gossip. Just took a little judicious eavesdropping—something I don’t usually bother with—to find out she’d be here.

I see her right away. She’s sitting at a table just past mine, laughing, her long curls shifting over her exposed shoulder, her hand resting on the stem of a martini glass.

I’ve almost reached my table, but I stop and allow myself a moment to look at her. She looks amazing in a blue dress, her skin smooth and flawless. The patio is dim, lit by string lights and candles,
but she has a brightness that’s undeniable. I’m drawn to her like she’s the sun. Like she has some gravitational pull over me.

I want her. I can’t kid myself anymore. I want her like I haven’t wanted anyone since Chloe. But I can’t go after her without blowing up my plans for Blackwood Films.

I still wanted to see her tonight, though.

Even if she is on a date with another guy.

Her date smiles at her from across the table. A slender guy in a sharp navy jacket with a trim five-o’clock shadow, he’s a dead ringer for Jake Gyllenhaal. Alison laughs again, tilting her head to the side. She looks relaxed, like she’s having fun, and like she might even like Jake.

“Adam!” Julia stands and moves right in for a kiss on the lips. “Hi, gorgie-gorge!”

“Hi, Jules,” I say, and wonder if it would be rude to draw the back of my hand over my mouth. I feel a slick coating of her lipstick on me—which is red like her hair. Not Chloe red. Julia’s hair is almost fire-truck red. I have the odd feeling that she’s just branded me.

“Sit, sit!” she says, pulling me into the chair next to her.

The table is small and Julia’s arm stays linked through mine even though I’m tense, definitely not loving it. Julia doesn’t seem to notice.

Brooks and Carla—Julia’s cousin, an olive-skinned girl with a sleek black bob—break off what seems like an intense conversation to greet me.

“Ordered you a bottle of your favorite,” Brooks says, tipping his head to the open Roar Pinot Noir on the table.

“Good man.” Wine is the perfect choice. Maybe it’ll take the edge off. Or maybe it’ll get annoyed that I have to drink it with my left hand.

A waiter sweeps by, pouring me a glass, and I manage to get in the right frame of mind to make casual conversation, even though
what I really want to do is throw Julia off and tell Jake Gyllenhaal to head home.

“What are you working on these days, Brooksie?” Julia asks, taking a healthy sip of her drink. She thinks it’s hysterical to give people ridiculous nicknames.

Brooks and Julia know some of the same people, both being in the business, but Brooks’s stock is higher. He’s been working with the top producers and directors in the business for years at Lionsgate, while Julia’s still trying to land a speaking role in a feature.

He casually mentions a few projects he’s wrapping up before he comes over to Blackwood Films full-time. A few heads turn at nearby tables and Julia’s eyes light up, but Brooks is done talking work. He drops his arm on the back of Carla’s chair. “Adam, listen to this. Carla was just telling me she’s been a dog groomer, a singing bartender, a preschool teacher, a PhD candidate in—what was it?”

I’m not surprised he’s changing the subject. Unlike most film guys I know, Brooks doesn’t like getting his ass kissed. You actually have to impress the guy to win him over. And he’s interested in everything, which explains the chemistry I see sparking between him and Carla, who fights off a smile like she’s embarrassed at his attention but also loving it.

“Nineteenth-century German philosophers.” She smiles. “You know. Super sexy stuff.”

“Now she’s a war journalist,” Brooks says. “She just got back from Afghanistan. And, dude. She’s our age. We’re losers, Blackwood. We gotta step up our game.” He leans back in his chair. “Can you believe she’s done all that?”

I take a sip of my wine. “No,” I say. “I Kant.”

Carla and Brooks laugh but Julia lifts her menu. “I’m starving, you guys. I did two hours of Bikram today. It almost killed me.”

Brooks lifts his eyebrows. “Death by yoga.” He turns to Carla. “Bet you didn’t see that in the Graveyard of Empires.”

“I can’t say that I did.”

Our waiter arrives to tell us the specials. I listen, but I’m distracted by Julia, who hasn’t let go of me yet. She’s started to knead my forearm and I’m not sure what the purpose of that is. It feels like she’s prepping to draw blood.

I want to pull away, but Julia has a temper and I don’t want to cause a scene. Maybe I’m here to see Ali, but Julia’s here to see me. We’ve done this sort of thing a few times. A casual night. Dinner. Then back to my place. I understand her expectations.

While the waiter gives us a full detail of the grilled salmon, I glance at Ali’s table and catch her looking at me. Her eyebrows are drawn down a little in confusion, or maybe in irritation. My guess is she’s not happy about seeing me here.

Does she think I’m cramping her style? It’s looking like a love connection between her and ole’ Jake—who now holds one of her hands in his, pretending to carefully examine her bracelet. Like he cares. Like any guy fucking cares about a bracelet. Besides, it’s her earrings that are meaningful to her.

“Hey,” Brooks says, leaning my way and lowering his voice. “Isn’t that Alison Quick?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.” I remove my hand from Julia’s grip and stand. “Excuse me a minute.”

Julia blinks up at me with wide eyes. “What’s up, Scoobalicious?”

“Just saw someone from work. I’m going to go say hello.”

And maybe punch a guy I don’t even know.

M
y “date” Paul glances over my shoulder, and his eyes widen. “Oh, my biscuits and gravy,” he says in his honeyed Mississippi drawl. “Is that Adam Blackwood coming our way?”

I know it must be, so I take a long fortifying sip of my second ginger martini and turn. And there he is, approaching our table with an expression of feigned nonchalance that’s as transparent as air. Well, non-LA air.

“Try to pretend you want to have sex with me,” I whisper to Paul. “Or at least like you
don’t
want to have sex with him.”

“I’ll give it my best, darlin’,” he whispers back, as his eyes rake across Adam. “But that’s a tall order.”

Adam’s wearing dark jeans and a midnight blue sweater that looks soft and touchable. And does amazing things for his broad shoulders and long, elegant torso.

As he comes closer, the amber light from the nearby space heaters shadows and brightens his face, making him look brooding one second and opaque the next. He smiles, and his whole face softens. I feel the usual prickle of attraction, a fluttering in my belly like I’m about to deliver a speech before a massive audience. Or take off my clothes before a much smaller one.

We say our hellos, and I introduce him to Paul, who, to his credit, affects a look of only mild interest and gives Adam a curt handshake. Then he settles his arm along the back of my chair in a possessive manner that makes me smile.

Adam sees, and his own lips turn down a bit. “You two look like you’re having fun,” he says. “So I won’t keep you. I just wanted to stop by for a second and say hi.”

I take another long sip of my drink, grateful for its sedating effects. “I’m surprised to see you, actually.” I look over at his table and spot Brooks, who’s sitting next to a gorgeous brunette with a sleek asymmetrical bob. Beside her slouches a redhead, with one of those long, large-featured faces just made for film and a hostile look in her eyes.

Adam nods. “I know. I just wanted to make sure everything was . . . going okay.”

I’m brought back to my first Boomerang date—my disastrous reunion with Ethan. Now that all seems so far away—like something that happened years, rather than months, ago.

Paul’s arm moves to my shoulder, and he squeezes me close to him. He’s definitely earning that date with Philippe.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise she won’t end up in the trunk of my car.”

I’m mid-sip, and that makes me choke down the spiced liquid. It sears my throat, and the laughing makes me light-headed, makes the table float for just a moment. I do love this feeling of drifting in my own skin, warm and buoyant.

A waiter approaches, and I tap the rim of my glass, signaling for another. Then I drain the rest of my martini.

“That’s right,” I say. “I’m more of a strapped-to-the-roof kind of girl.”

Paul laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. But Adam’s lips sharpen into a thin line, and his posture stiffens.

“Maybe you should go a little easy, Alison.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. And I’m better than fine. I think of Persephone, trotting along the beach, and the word “unfettered” comes to mind. “Maybe you should go back to
your
date. She looks like she wants to poke your eyes out with a swizzle stick.”

“She’ll be fine,” Adam says. “I’m not worried about
Julia
.”

“Well, maybe you should be,” I tell him. “Seriously, Adam, she looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm.” I drop my hand onto Paul’s knee, not because I’m trying to play at an attraction between us but because my mind keeps telling me to reach out and touch Adam, to at least brush my fingers across the soft sheen of his fitted sweater. “Anyway, we’re fine here, aren’t we?”

Brooks rises from the other table and heads across the patio toward us. He’s pulled back his hair into a sleek ponytail, but he still looks rugged and rough-edged, so different from Adam’s polish and grace.

He greets me with a big grin, shakes Paul’s hand and then claps Adam on the shoulder. “I’m heading to the can,” he proclaims. “You better get back to the table before there’s a meltdown.”

Adam’s jaw flexes minutely, but that’s the only indication he gives of his annoyance. “All right, man. Thanks.”

Brooks passes through the open doors into the restaurant, and Adam looks back down at me, his gray eyes light and dark at once. Warm and cold like the night. Like the way I feel.

Then he shifts his attention to Paul. “Put her in a taxi, all right?” It’s definitely not a question.

Paul nods. “I’ll make sure she gets home in one piece.”

Adam hesitates, like he wants to say more. And I wait, because I want him to say more, too, though I’m not sure what I want to hear.

“Okay, great,” he says. “Goodnight.”

I watch him return to the table and engage in some kind of whispered exchange with Julia, who gestures like she’s conducting an orchestra and spits what seems like a nonstop string of words at him. I’m glad I can’t hear them though I’m burning with curiosity, too.

“Someone is in
trouble,
” Paul sing-songs.

“Most definitely.”

The waiter delivers another round, and Paul and I clink glasses. Some far-off part of me weighs in with disapproval—both at the drinking and at the way I treated Adam. But it’s easy to shrink that part to the tiniest dot. Another sip makes it disappear completely.

Paul and I finish our meal, sharing plates of chicken enchiladas and lobster macaroni and cheese, which taste like absolute heaven to me now. We chat a little bit about our work, and Paul talks my ear off about his job as an environmental activist. His passion gives me a giddy feeling, it’s so infectious.

When it’s my turn, I find I can’t talk about my father’s investment company or Boomerang or Adam. So, instead, I talk about Suede, about finding just the right caretaker for her and about Persephone and our first successful ride along the beach.

“Oh my God,” Paul breathes. “I’m terrified of horses.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. “Next to an LA County Commissioner, a horse is a kitten.”

“True.”

Our conversation turns to Philippe, and of course I make him sound like the absolute best thing since Kate Spade clutches, which he is. I promise a date soon, in payment for this evening.

“No need to repay me,” he says, and leans in to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “I’ve had an awesome time.”

He insists on paying the bill, and we weave our way toward the street, passing Adam’s table. I feel his eyes on me as Paul hooks his arm around my waist, shoring me up. A cab is a great idea.

Paul and I stand on the street for what feels like hours, watching cars crisscross the busy road—but no taxi.

“Why don’t you go on?” I tell him. “I’ll grab my cell phone from my car and call someone for a ride.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I promise, I’ll be fine.”

He nods and gives me another kiss on the cheek and a long hug. It feels amazing to be touched by someone, and I find myself holding on for a second. But I’m also so aware of how close all my feelings are to the edge, of how unseemly it would be to peel aside a gay man’s jacket and burrow in like a mole.

We part ways, and I wander down Alden toward my car. The ground tilts a bit, and I stop for a second, pressing a hand to my eyes to try to stave off my dizzy feeling.

“You have great taste,” says a voice right beside me.

I turn to find Adam standing on the curb, hands thrust into his pockets, smiling at me.

“What?”

He motions to the sleek, smoke-colored sports car a foot or so away. “That’s mine.”

I straighten up, taking in the car’s aerodynamic lines. It is exactly the car that Adam should have—powerful, sexy, and in a color that matches his eyes.

“I thought you were getting a cab.”

“I am,” I tell him. “I thought you were placating your date.”

“That ship has sailed, sorry to say.” But he doesn’t look sorry at all.

“Where’d everyone else go?”

“I sent them with Brooks. They’re fine. Let me drive you.”

Not one part of me feels like launching even a token protest, so I just say, “That would be great, thanks.”

The car alarm chirps, and he leans down and opens the passenger door.

I fold onto the seat. The inside of the car smells like leather and like Adam’s cologne. Again, the scent of him hollows my stomach. I want to curl into it, but I buckle my seat belt and focus on keeping my hands to myself, instead.

We discover we’re both in Malibu, which seems impossible and perfect at the same time. I imagine Adam walking along the surf at sunset, water drenching the hem of his pants, breeze blowing his shirt against his lean frame.

God, he better get me home.

We wind along the side streets, zipping around traffic. Adam lives on the beach north of Point Dume, while I’m up on the canyon side, with all the ranch properties. We compare notes on our favorite restaurants and the best coffee spots. I hear us talking, and we sound so normal. But I don’t feel normal. I feel drugged, swimming in the feeling of just being close to him.

I sense something gathering inside Adam, a tension in his forearms, his face. His focus hones as the road starts to clear. When there’s nothing but winding open asphalt ahead of us, he looks at me. “You ready?”

The next thing I know, my back thuds against the seat.

Zero to sixty in less than three seconds feels like taking off in a rocket.

The car cuts left and right as we weave along the coast at a speed that I didn’t think was possible, the ocean blurring on my left, the canyon walls on my right. It’s a thrill, a thousand times more exhilarating than any rollercoaster ride. I squeal with the pleasure of it and then laugh because I’ve never been the squealing type.

I glance at Adam. He’s so zoned in, so lost in what he’s doing.
Watching him, I feel like I’m seeing something deeply revealing, almost intimate, and the sight lights every part of me.

He decelerates after a few more seconds and looks at me. “Highway Patrol always sets up around the next bend,” he says. The intensity leaves his eyes, and he smiles. “So what did you think?”

“I think I’ve never had so much fun in a car.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?” he asks, grinning. “Never?”

My face heats as I remember.

I
have
had more fun in a car.
A lot
more fun.

I don’t answer, because there’s no need. I know we’re both thinking about it, both remembering our bodies together, the perfection of our hands and lips on each other. I smile to myself, because even though we can’t have that again, we can have this—this wild, exhilarating ride.