Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(12)

“He’s probably eating bonbons at the hotel,” Teo mused to Caryl. “He’s got no reason to fight us on leaving.”

“Precisely,” said Caryl. “And I think meeting him would be an excellent introduction for Millie.”

“Where is he staying?” I asked.

“The SLS Beverly Hills,” said Teo.

I let out a low whistle.

“Teo, you will drive.”

I thought about my old Celica with an uneasy pang; Dad’s last gift to me. I honestly had no idea what had become of it. I chased the thought away quickly. When you’re Borderline and want to survive, you learn to shrink from guilt, because it can spiral out of control and leave you staring down a bottomless void. People throw around the term “self-loathing” without really knowing what it means. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

“Why don’t you drive?” I said to Caryl. “I haven’t seen Teo’s car, but I’m willing to bet Disney money yours is nicer.”

“As I said before,” said Caryl, “I’m consumed with larger--scale problems at the moment. I won’t be accompa-nying you.”

“Ah.” One syllable managed to leak my disappointment everywhere.

Caryl held my eyes for a moment without changing expression, but there was comfort in her silence. Or maybe I was just starting to fill in her blank expression with whatever I wanted.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how desperate I was for a friend, and I was about to be stuck in a car with Teo. Fantastic.

? ? ?

I was right about Teo’s car; it stank. Literally. It reeked of ciga-rette smoke, and I found out why about three and a half seconds after we got in. While I was trying to find a good place for my cane, he lunged for the pack of smokes in the glove compartment as though it were going to keep us from rolling into oncoming traffic.

Before he could even open the pack, my hand shot out as though of its own accord and clamped around his wrist. I hadn’t realized until just that moment how strongly I associated the sight and smell of cigarettes with those god-awful patio breaks at the hospital. Teo looked equal parts startled and annoyed, but he didn’t pull his arm away.

“Problem?” he said.

I let go of his wrist and couldn’t help but notice the thick ridges of scar tissue that slid under my fingertips. Lumpy, ugly, the kind that came from years of cutting the same place over and over again. And this was the reliable guy.

He was obviously waiting for an answer, and I didn’t want to get into it, so I spun some bullshit.

“My lungs had a bunch of ribs poked through them last year. They’re still weak; the carbon monoxide in cigarette smoke could kill me in, like, five minutes.”

For all I knew it was even true. I never listened to half the stuff my doctors told me.

“Fine,” he said curtly.

After tossing the pack back in the glove compartment, he turned the radio to JACK-FM, so I got to hear an aggressive mix of classic rock, eighties synth-pop, and punk all the way to the hotel. Since we were headed to Beverly Hills, I’d changed into a pair of jeans to camouflage my prosthetics and classed things up a bit with a shimmery tank top. My hope was that the shimmer would distract from the particularly obnoxious patchwork of scar tissue on my left arm.

The exterior of the SLS is deceptively sober: it’s a blocky white building with a metallic logo that looks a little like a chandelier. Once you reach the main entrance, all pretense of conservatism is promptly defenestrated. Horse statues with lampshade heads, geometric potted shrubbery, and paintings of dogs in Renaissance garb dare you to question them. It’s as though whoever furnished Residence Four was given a vanload of money and turned loose in a hotel.

“Don’t say anything, not one word, until we leave this building,” Teo hissed direly at me as though I had some history of embarrassing him. “Just watch. Learning’s optional but highly recommended.”

“The hell?” I muttered, but he silenced me with a glare and a quick jerk of his head in the direction of the elevator lobby. I rolled my eyes and followed, carrying my cane but trying my balance without it. The lobby was a recursive crimson purgatory of mirrors; I kept my eyes firmly on the carpet. When the elevator arrived, we took it to the fifth floor, where Teo hung a right, seeming confident of where he was going.

“Who is this guy exactly?” I asked him under my breath, aware of the way voices carry in hallways.

“I’m hoping he’ll be kind enough to tell you himself,” Teo said, stopping in front of a room at the end of the hall. “Now hush.” Despite the DO NOT DISTURB sign, he rapped his knuckles confidently against the door.





7


There was no answer.

“Hey,” I whispered. “What if we find his body in there or something?”

“I think standard procedure is to make a bad pun and put on sunglasses.” Teo knocked again—nothing.

“He’s out,” I said, tamping down my overactive imagination. “We should try back later.”

“Nope. We park right here till he comes back.”

“That could be hours.”

“Have you got a hot date or something?”

“Eventually I have to eat lunch. Or pee. And I don’t see you calmly sitting here until midnight either, Mr. Manic. For all we know he took a day trip to San Diego.”