Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(49)

“You don’t have to leave it. I actually want to hear. Do you think I’m going to judge you or something?”

For some reason, I really didn’t. I probably should have felt weirder talking about this stuff to a complete stranger, but it had been a long time since I’d had anyone but a stranger to talk to, and this particular stranger had a wry, haunted vibe that was kind of working for me.

“I slept with one of my professors,” I said, looking at my hands. “It didn’t end well.”

He slurped at his drink and didn’t say anything for a while. Finally he said, “You’re not going to do anything like that again, right?”

“Sleep with an authority figure? No promises.”

“I meant, try to end your life.”

“No,” I said more soberly. “I won’t be doing that again.”

“You understand why I ask, right? I mean, if life looked hard to you back then . . .” He gestured unashamedly to my legs.

I could have been offended, but in truth I was surprised no one else had said that to my face. I traced figure eights on the table with my fingertip, then sighed. “Here’s the thing, Brian. From across the room, I’ll admit death looks like a real babe. But I’ve been close enough to see what’s under her makeup, and no thanks. Really.”

“All right,” he said.

“Will that help you sleep better?”

“I’m a long way from sleeping well. But it’s good to hear.”

“What would it take to help you sleep?”

He didn’t respond, just lifted his gaze from his drink. I instantly regretted my innuendo; his eyes were empty pits of misery. Even without a direct rebuke, I got the message that whatever was keeping him up nights was something that I should have treated with more respect.

An apology rushed into my throat, but as always, my Border-line allergy to contrition made it stick there. So I just looked back at him, hoping I was as easy to read as he was.

“I wish I could tell you,” he finally said.

“Why can’t you?”

“You’ve said you’re a friend of Berenbaum’s, and I can’t—”

He broke off as my phone rang. I fumbled in my backpack, hurrying to answer. “This is Millie.”

“Millie,” said Inaya West. “Who the hell are you?”





23


“Hold on just one second,” I said to the movie star, “and I’ll explain everything.” I mouthed, “Be right back!” to Clay and tried to get back up on my crutches, which was awkward with the phone in my hand. Clay did a little half lurch forward before changing his mind and leaning back again. I appreciated the vote of confidence, and sure enough, I managed to get up and out to the sidewalk without face-planting on the tile.

“I’m so sorry,” I said once I was out of Clay’s earshot. “I was in a coffee shop, and I wanted to make sure I could hear you. I’m Millie Roper; I’ve been working with David Berenbaum.” Best to keep things as generic as possible and let her lead the conversation. The fewer lies I had to remember, the better. “There seems to be some weirdness going on with John Riven lately, and I’m trying to sort it all out.”

“Do you know how I can get in touch with him?” she asked. “He hasn’t been returning my calls, and now David won’t either.”

“I know David’s been wrapped up with problems in postproduction and hasn’t had—”

“Bullshit. Pardon my French. But that’s a load of shit. Either he’s slinging it at you or you’re slinging it at me. Which is it?”

This was not the kind of conversation I’d hoped to be having. “If he’s been dodging your calls,” I said, leaning back against the wall of the coffee shop, “I honestly have no idea why. I just know that you’ve been trying to contact Johnny, and Johnny is being a pain in my ass too, and I thought we could help each other.”

“What would help me,” said Inaya with tightly controlled fury, “would be if people would stop pumping twenty gallons of sunshine up my ass every time I try to find out what’s going on with a project I sold my house to help finance.”

“So this is about the studio.”

“I’m not answering any more questions until you answer some of mine. I’m not surprised Johnny’s blowing me off, but David I expected better from. This is bullshit.”

A motorcycle roared by, giving me a moment to think. In my years of dealing with touchy actors and underpaid crew, I had learned that trying to soothe an angry person is like pouring gasoline on a fire. There are only two good ways to deal with someone’s anger: give it what it wants, or failing that, agree with it.

“You’re right,” I said as soon as the motorcycle had passed. “It’s bullshit.”

I was rewarded with a few seconds of silence. “What?” she finally managed.

“Screw him,” I said. “He gets what he wants and then kicks you to the curb. It’ll be me next, just watch. I don’t blame you for wanting to punch him in the mouth.”

“Well, it’s not right.” I could hear her relax a little.

“Damn right it’s not. And since when is John Riven anything but a hot piece of ass? Why does the world seem to revolve around him all of a sudden?”