Rebound (Boomerang #2)(5)

Even though I’m masked and costumed head-to-toe, I feel strangely naked. Or, I realize, incomplete. It occurs to me that it’s because my hands are empty. I’ve got my cell phone and a lipstick tucked into the sleek Catwoman utility belt hanging low across my hips, but I have no briefcase, no horse bridle or gym bag. And most of all, I have no hostess gift. I never show up without a gift. My mom taught me that.

I guess the prospect of this night had me more rattled than I let myself believe. But I can’t do anything about it now unless I want to go back outside and dig into the lush pathway landscaping to present the Gallianos with their own wildflowers.

Instead, I follow a blonde in a long gown with miniature dragons perched on her shoulders into the chaos of the party. We move through a short entryway into a massive living room, with towering windows that meet a high ceiling crossed by sleek ebony beams. The furniture is luxe, a combination of midcentury and art deco, and the walls are decorated with photographs, some I recognize from art appreciation classes in college and a few I assume to be Pearl Bertram’s: bold, impressionistic, and hugely riveting.

People fill the space, but I spot Ethan right away. Amazing after more than a year that I’m still so tuned into him, like I have some automatic sensor still calibrated to his frequency. He’s wearing an old-fashioned baseball uniform and stands in a cluster with some other people—a muscular guy in a loincloth and two petite girls in what look like red pajamas. Well, sexy Lycra pajamas with cute blue fur cuffs at the ankles.

He’s got his arm around a petite blonde, and it takes me a second to register that it’s his new girlfriend, Mia, dressed as Marilyn Monroe to what I now realize is his Joe DiMaggio. Every bit of her fills out the classic white halter dress. She looks amazing in the platinum wig, too, though I can see she’s having trouble containing her unruly dark hair, which she has to keep tucking back beneath the blond waves.

The music and conversation fade away as I watch them together. They’re each talking to other people, but they’re connected too, their bodies touching, his hand absently brushing the bare skin of her shoulder as he laughs at someone’s joke.

I know I should go to them, say hello and meet the others, who may be coworkers at Boomerang. But something keeps me riveted to my spot. Suddenly, I feel shy and stuck outside what seems to be Ethan’s contented little circle.

The way he stands, so aware of her, so grounded and firm, makes my throat tighten. The disastrous last few months of college rush back to me. Not only Ethan and the night I betrayed him but the crashing spiral that followed.

I breathe and push the memories away. Come on, Ali, I tell myself. This is a party. And you’re Catwoman. She doesn’t stand around, moping. She’s sleek and powerful and gets the job done. At least that’s what Philippe said when he sold me on the idea. And that’s my plan for tonight.

I’m grateful for my mask. Standing here, I could be anyone. Behind all of this leather, I’m anonymous, though of course, the whip, the high heels, and the gleaming form-fitting leather keep me from being inconspicuous. That’s all right. I don’t mind being looked at, and I don’t mind looking. What thrills me is the power to decide what I reveal of myself, and when.

A hulking gorilla sidles up to me and nudges me with a furry elbow.

“Drink?” he says from somewhere deep inside the costume and hands me a crystal glass filled with punch. It’s about the size of a small fishbowl with bits of fruit floating on top like belly-up goldfish.

“Sorry,” I tell him with a smile. “I don’t take drinks from primates I don’t know.”

“Well, let me grab you one from the bar,” says the gorilla. “You can watch the bartender pour.”

“I’m really okay.”

Across the room, Mia rises on tiptoes and pulls Ethan down for a long kiss. The people around them smile, look away politely, but they’re locked in their own little world, together.

I swallow and turn my attention back to the gorilla, who’s now attempting to pour the drink into his own mouth. It spills down the crevices of his rubber mask and onto the fur of his costume.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m hopeless.”

“Well, it’s probably tough to drink with all that costume in the way.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How about a straw?” I suggest. Ever the problem solver.

“Awesome thinking!” he exclaims, absently scratching his chest, gorilla-style. “You sure I can’t get you that drink? I mean, it’s a party. Even superheroes need a night off every now and then.”

Ethan laughs at something, the sound cutting through the party noise and pulling me to look again, to watch the two of them together while they laugh at one another’s jokes. Touch one another.

Suddenly, a drink seems like a good idea after all.

I bid farewell to my friend the primate and head to the bar.

The bartender gives me a smile as I approach. “What will it be, Catwoman?” she asks. On the counter rests a giant silver punch bowl, festooned with cobwebs.

“What’s the punch?”

“Something called Jungle Rum Blast,” she says. “Try it.” She dips in a ladle and gives me a heavy pour of the concoction.

I sniff. Fruity with the tang of bourbon in there, too. “What’s in it?”

“It’ll be quicker to tell you what’s not in it,” she replies with a grin. “Trust me; it’s fantastic.”