Rebound (Boomerang #2)(35)


“We’re building Boomerang into something really special,” Adam says. “I know we can do the same with this. The website has taught us how hungry people are for experiences, for entertainment. Even”—his eyes drift in my direction, and I hold my breath—“connection.”

“And stories connect us,” Mia murmurs, as though she’s taken the thought right from Adam’s mind. I feel a pang of envy that they’re so in sync and that they share this, share a passion.

“Exactly.” Adam nods. “I want to add something fun and worthy and smart to the world of film. Lots of things. I think we can do that and make a bucket of money at the same time.”

“Amen,” Paolo says.

“Hear, hear, boss,” Rhett booms. “We’re going to take over the world.”

Hoots and whistles follow, and then Brooks connects a hard drive to his laptop and, after a moment, a good-looking guy appears on the flat screen. He’s got earrings in both ears, a chiseled brooding face, and a full sleeve of sepia tattoos, spilling out of a sleeveless t-shirt.

“Oh, yum,” Pippa breathes.

“Slate for me,” says a voice off-screen that I recognize as Brooks’s.

The guy gives the camera an incredulous look. “Why the f*ck would I slave for you?”

“Slate, you dumbass. Say your name.”

“Oh, well, Christ, why didn’t you say that?” He looks into the camera, and it’s all smolder and self-assurance. “Grey Blackwood,” he says, then fans out his hands in a showgirl gesture and gives the camera a cheesy grin. “Super star!”

Mia turns to Adam. “Is that your—”

Adam rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Yep, my younger brother, ladies and gentlemen.”

“He sure has star quality,” Paolo says.

“Yeah,” says Brooks. “If you’re making a prison documentary.”

“Are you kidding?” Sadie says. “I’m sorry, Adam, but your brother is a hottie with a capital ‘hot.’”

“Is he auditioning?” Mia asks.

“No,” Brooks says. “He was just helping me get the light right and reading with some of the actors. Moving on.” He taps at the computer, and we move through the next person. A nervous blond girl fumbles even her name, and the rest of her audition is of the same caliber.

“Poor thing,” says Mia.

“Well, it’s not like someone dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night to audition,” Paolo says. “Her name should be the easy part.”

“Next,” says Adam.

I’ve been on-screen a couple of times—interviewed at various galas and other events. I never thought much of how I looked other than that the camera seemed to flatten me out somehow, rob me of life and dimension. But it’s amazing to see how different the auditions are, how not just the personalities come across but the life behind those personalities.

A beautiful African-American girl comes onto the screen.

“Who is that?” murmurs Philippe. Like I said, open to anything.

“Hi, there,” the girl says into the camera. Her ease and presence are undeniable. The camera sharpens the high planes of her cheekbones, makes her black eyes look even more exotic and luminous. “I’m Beth Pierce.”

“She’s one of my best friends,” Mia tells the room. “So, um . . . totally let that sway your opinion.”

But Mia doesn’t have to say that. From the minute Beth starts her line-reading, she’s head and shoulders above the others.

“Wow, Mia, she’s really good,” says Paolo.

Mia’s eyes shine with pride. “I know. She’s a star.”

“I agree,” says Adam. “What do you think, Brooks?”

“Definitely top three,” the producer replies, and to Mia he adds, “But don’t tell her that yet.”

She nods, but I can see her excitement’s not likely to be contained.

Sitting here with the others, present for what might be the launch of someone’s dream, I feel a sharp rush of gratitude. I get what makes Adam so fired up about this. I get what it’s like to be in on the first stages of something great. In this moment, with all of these people, I want so desperately for Adam to have everything he wants. I just hope, more than ever, that I don’t discover anything that gets in the way of that dream.





Chapter 20



Adam


On Fridays, Grey and I usually get the weekend started with a few beers on my back deck as we watch the sun set over the Pacific.

Most of the homes on my street are the vacation residences of people who never take vacations, so the beach is almost always quiet. There’s only one person out there now. Linda, my next-door neighbor and an Illinois state lottery winner, picks her way along the sand as she tosses a tennis ball to Lucky, her Labrador retriever.

After the long hours and hustle of a workweek, the quiet’s a nice contrast, but it won’t last long. Tonight is poker here at the house.

“Drink up,” Grey says, handing me a High Tide IPA. “Ethan just texted me. They’re coming up on Zuma.”

My conscience prickles. I know I shouldn’t let Grey drink, but a part of me knows he needs every opportunity he can get to blow off steam. This thing with Mom hurt him bad. I know it’s tearing him up inside. A night of beers and cards is a temporary Band-Aid, but it’s about as much as he’s open to right now. And it’s better than him being out all night at clubs.

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