Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(51)

“It’s the cop who’s been looking for Rivenholt, okay? So I have an ulterior motive.” Did I? I couldn’t even keep track anymore.

“Is everything about work for you?”

“What else have I got?” I said, trying not to sound too drunk. “But it’s interesting. Berenbaum thinks Inaya and Vivian are plotting against him, and Inaya thinks Vivian and Berenbaum are plotting against her. By my math, that suggests that Vivian is plotting against both of them. How Rivenholt and an abduction are involved, I still don’t know.”

“I just want to boot him back to Arcadia. I don’t need to know all the drama.”

“Want to drive me to the train station at three so we can nab him?”

Teo’s hands stilled. “Wait, what?”

“Weren’t you there when I was talking to Berenbaum?” I slipped the paper clip off Rivenholt’s folder and picked up the photo, staring at those breathtaking eyes.

“Listening to your phone call would’ve required more of a shit than I actually give about any of this,” he said, starting up the massage again. “Are you sure he’s going to be there?”

“Tell you what,” I said, admiring Rivenholt’s cheekbones and trying to ignore the way Teo’s hands were encroaching on side-boob. “If we go and he’s not there, I’ll do your laundry for a month.”

“You just want to rifle through my underwear.”

“Says the guy copping a feel.”

Teo retracted his hands, but it was worth it to score the point. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll drive you.”

I slipped Rivenholt’s photo into my pocket. “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I’m all for fooling around, but I think we skipped first base.”

“Excuse me for not knowing the rules.”

“What are you, a virgin?”

His spine stiffened, and he headed for the door. “You’re not even allowed to ask me that.”

“Oh my God, you are.”

He stood there holding the door open and not looking at me.

“Aw, hey,” I said. “Don’t feel weird. It’s kind of awesome, actually. Good on you. I just—well, now I get the mixed-signals thing. I thought you were just being a dick.”

“Can’t I be a virgin and a dick?”

“If you ever have any questions about anything—”

“You know what would be awesome? If we talked about something that wasn’t this.”

“Fine. To the train station.”





24


By the time we got on the road, traffic had mysteriously quadrupled in the way that it often does in L.A. I glanced at the clock—2:13—and tried to take calming breaths. Teo, on the other hand, was not even trying for calm and was driving like an *.

“Teo, if we get pulled over, we are going to miss the train. The Mythbusters proved that weaving in and out of lanes doesn’t get you there any faster.”

“You’re welcome to walk.”

“Right. Sorry, I keep thinking I’m talking to an adult.”

To minimize suffering, according to Dr. Davis, you must apply something called “radical acceptance.” Basically, this means ceasing to fight things that are beyond your control. As both Teo and Los Angeles traffic fell firmly into that category, I did my breathing exercises and pulled my face into an imitation of a serene smile. Strangely, it helped. It was possible, my Wise Mind reasoned, that I had guessed wrong about the three o’clock train, in which case all this stress and hurry would be for nothing.

We pulled up to Union Station at 2:43. “Get out and I’ll find a place to park,” said Teo.

There were about eight things wrong with that plan, but I had no time to argue. I got out of the car as fast as I could and shut the shrieking passenger door behind me.

Union Station is the sort of place that looks like it ought to have ghosts. And it does, if you count the dead-eyed -people shuffling through the cavernous main terminal or perched in uncomfortable chairs, watching rows of demonic red -numbers. I checked the boards to remind myself which track the viscount’s train was leaving from and then started down the fluorescent--lit tunnel of doom.

Picture one of those endless corridors in an airport, but take out any windows, moving sidewalks, ads, artwork, or other relief. Make it all concrete and aging tile instead of carpet and plaster. Now add in creepy dungeonlike stairways every twenty feet or so that lead tantalizingly upward, teasing promises of sunlight and air that only make the endless slog to your platform all the more unbearable.

The tired-looking kid trying to sell me candy was probably the least depressing thing in the place, and that’s saying something. I would have stopped and bought some off-brand peanut butter cups for Rivenholt if it hadn’t already been 2:49. I climbed the stairs to track twelve, ignoring aches and pains and a stitch in my side that made me wonder if I hadn’t torn a brand-new hole in something.

Passengers were boarding. Shit, I could have already missed him. I scanned the crowd frantically for blonds, then addressed a friendly looking conductor lady with overprocessed hair. “I’m looking for my friend. He might be on this train.”

“Do you have a ticket?”

“I don’t.”