Borderline (4 page)

6

I fled upstairs to put on a T-shirt and some baggy shorts, then feigned rapt interest in the dog-eared paperbacks in the living room to avoid further “chitchat” with Gloria. Reading was one of the slowest things to come back to me after my head injury; thirteen months later printed words still sometimes seemed to lose their moorings on the page. When Caryl arrived dressed smartly in a sage-green pantsuit, I was stretched out on a squishy couch, reading the fifth page of
Prisoner of Azkaban
for the third time. The decrepit cat lay curled up near my feet, despite my having displayed no signs of interest in the creature.

“Monty,” Caryl snapped as she seated herself on the other couch. “Shoo.” The cat leaped down from the couch and skittered off into the dining room. “Have you had breakfast?” Caryl asked me. I got a strange feeling on the back of my neck, as though a snake had draped itself across my shoulders.

“I had coffee and a bear claw,” I answered. “I figured if it didn't have a name on it, it was up for grabs.”

When she didn't reply, I turned my eyes to the book, flipping back to the last part I remembered clearly. Caryl sat there for what felt like hours with no apparent inclination to talk.

“Is that cat friendly?” I ventured. “I'm not sure if I should touch him.”

“Don't.”

“Roger that. Is there something I'm supposed to sign today?”

Caryl shook her head, studying me. “Our employment contract contains proprietary information, so you will be staying here as our guest until such time as you are formally initiated into the Project.”

“Initiated.” I set aside the book and cracked my knuckles one at a time. “Is there chanting involved? Will I be anointed with something?”

“No, but you will be given some additional information and equipment.”

“Equipment? Sexy. I love all this mystery. Are we ghostbusters? Please say we're ghostbusters.”

“I like the way you think,” she said in her usual bored tone. “Ah, Teo. He is nothing if not punctual.”

I glanced at the nearest clock, which read 9:09. Sarcasm then, probably. Following her gaze to the stairs, I saw that Teo was wearing a different black T-shirt and the same pair of jeans as yesterday. Either he hadn't washed his hair or he had spent a good deal of time making it look that way.

Teo flopped down on the couch next to Caryl and leaned over as though to kiss her cheek; she just as casually intercepted the gesture with a gloved hand and applied enough force to his jaw to nearly knock him off the couch.

“Morning, ladies,” he said nonchalantly once he'd righted himself. “Time to break in my new partner?” He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, his left hand resting behind Caryl for just a moment before he yanked it back sharply. Caryl
wasn't even looking at him; she had turned her inscrutable gaze back to me.

“We're partners?” I asked Teo. “Like on the cop shows?”

“Kind of a cross between that and an AA sponsor,” he replied. “We all need babysitters, and Caryl has us babysit each other.”

I looked at Caryl, but she seemed content to let the two of us talk.

“Are you new too?” I asked Teo.

“Nope,” he said. “Been here since I was twelve.”

“What happened to your old partner?”

“Killed herself, just like the first one.”

I stared at him. “This—seems a less than ideal job for me.”

“It's not the job,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Caryl just gives me the craziest ones.”

“And how sane are you?”

“I'm the one-eyed man in the land of the blind. Bipolar.”

Caryl interjected quietly, “But he is more reliable than many of our members.”

“So . . . he's okay?”

Teo gave me a
hey, I'm right here
sort of wave.

“He's had mild recent symptoms of mania,” said Caryl. “He may be overconfident and hard to keep on task, so I will need you to watch out for that.”

“Am I invisible?” said Teo. “Or is this a subtle joke about the fact that I don't exist?”

I blinked at Caryl.

“He's being melodramatic,” she said. “He means he has no legal identification; his mother didn't register his birth.”

“Or my existence, really, except for the occasional attempt at an exorcism. So! Is it my turn to talk about people like they
can't hear me? What should I watch out for with her?” He jerked a thumb toward me.

“Sexual advances,” Caryl said. “Paranoia under stress. Also, any criticism you offer, however mild, may be met with verbal abuse or even physical violence.”

He eyed my legs. “I think I can take her.”

I snatched up my cane; I'm not sure whether I intended to prove him wrong or just awkwardly flounce out of the room. Either way, I thought better of it and focused instead on the chill smoothness of the aluminum against my palms. As Dr. Davis had taught me, I filled my mind with the object's shape and temperature, color and texture.
Be one-mindful. Empty your thoughts of the asshole on the other couch.

“This is perhaps not the ideal pairing,” Caryl said as she watched me. “You are both prone to impulsive behavior, but I prefer not to break up any of the existing partnerships.”

I dragged my eyes away from my cane, feeling calmer. “So what do we need to do?”

“There are some recent local difficulties that only I can address,” Caryl said, “and because of them, I have not been micromanaging schedules and deadlines as well as I ought. I'll need the two of you to pay a visit to Viscount Rivenholt.”

I glanced at Teo, who looked as bewildered as I felt. He ran a hand through his hair, making a worse mess of it as he eyed Caryl. “What's the viscount done that requires a visit from the Project?”

“His visa expired two weeks ago, and he has neglected to return home. A gentle reminder is in order.”

“Immigration issues?” I said. “I thought we were an employment agency.”

“It's complicated,” said Teo. “You'll figure it out.”

I thumped my cane emphatically on the hardwood floor. “Fuck that. I'm not going to tell some British lord or powerful space dude to pack his bags and go home, not without some idea who I'm speaking for.”

“First off,” said Teo, “‘space dude'? Your second guess after England is outer space? Second off, I'll be doing the talking. It's all going to make a lot more sense if you shut up and pay attention.”

I bristled. In the entertainment industry you have to be okay with kids treating you like dirt, but this wasn't a movie set, and quite frankly, even on set I was used to being top dog. My mounting anger interrupted the fragile connection between mind and mouth, and before I could articulate my feelings, Teo was already flapping his gums again. I breathed slowly and pulled my mouth into a slight smile I most definitely wasn't feeling.

“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 accompa­nying 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 ciga­rette 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.”

Teo seemed to chew on this. “All right, you stay here. I'm going to check the restaurant, since he knows me.”

“Aren't we supposed to stay together? In case one of us goes crazy or something?”

“I promise not to cut myself if you promise not to”—here he eyed me speculatively—“step in front of a train. Deal?”

“Whatever. You're the boss.”

That seemed to please him; there was a strut in his step as he headed back to the elevator. I leaned against the wall, ignored the dull ache in my lower back, and waited.

And waited.

I got more fidgety with every passing moment. This was my first assignment, a test of sorts, and so far I'd been worse than useless.

I wished I had a phone or a watch or something, so I could know when the wait started getting ridiculous rather than just
feeling
ridiculous. I was pretty sure it shouldn't take so long for Teo to find a restaurant, scan it for a familiar face, and come back.

My imagination ran haywire. What if Teo had tried to confront the viscount downstairs and a fight had broken out? What if one or both of them had been hauled off to jail, and I had no ride home? What if—

My thoughts were interrupted by a distant clinking sound. I glanced down the hall and saw a housekeeping cart. An elderly Latina was loading room service dishes onto it. I smiled and lifted a hand in a little wave.

“Yes?” she said. “How can I help you?”

I'd actually only waved to be friendly, but since she offered . . .

“Good morning,” I said with a warm smile. “I don't suppose you know when the man staying in this room is likely to come back?”

She knew
something
; I could tell by the way she frowned when she saw where I was pointing. “If he is out, you can leave a message downstairs for him,” she said.

“Right, I know,” I said, feeling like an idiot but hoping she'd
assume my blush was attached to a scandalous story. Fancy Los Angeles hotels are full of those stories, though admittedly I didn't quite look the part.

“Why do you ask about him?” she said in a tone that suggested she was strongly considering notifying security.

“I left my phone in there,” I improvised. “I have an audition in an hour, and I don't know the address. God, I hope he comes back soon.”

The housekeeper approached me with a skeptical expression, and I could tell when she was able to see my scars. I call it the “what-the-hell” distance. Strangers who approach me always look harder for a split second, then quickly away. The what-the-hell distance seemed to be less than twenty feet now. Interesting.

“I think he is gone all during the day,” she said a bit more kindly. “‘Do Not Disturb' was on his door every day this week.”

“Damn it!” I sighed in what I hoped was an actressy fashion, leaning on my cane and covering my eyes with my free hand to hide how pleased I was to have turned up a scrap of information. “I'm sorry,” I said tragically. “It's not your fault. Thank you anyway.” I looked up and gave her my best
please don't call security
smile.

The housekeeper looked up and down the hall. “I'll open it quickly. You can look for your phone. Hurry, please.”

I stood for a moment in stunned disbelief. Jackpot! Teo was going to kill me, but how could I pass up the opportunity? I'd just pop in briefly and make sure the viscount wasn't rotting in a bathtub in there or something.

“Thanks so much,” I said as she opened the door.

The golden-brown leather seat in the window looked like
a waffle; it was next to a table like a dish of creamy butter and two sleek backless chairs that reminded me of coffee mugs. It would have been enough to make me hungry if the room hadn't been so relentlessly full of mirrors. It was hard to find somewhere to look that didn't nauseate me with the wreckage of my face.

A tiny orange light blinked on the phone next to an unmade bed. Since the housekeeper was watching, I opened drawers, moved the curtains around, bent carefully to look underneath the edges of the bed, but meanwhile I was noticing something else entirely: there was nothing in the room but some papers in the trash can. No clothes strewn about, no suitcase, no razor, no hair product. I tried to touch as little as possible in case this was a crime scene, but I did nudge open the mirrored closet door to find no clothes hanging. No shoes, no bags. I looked at the glassy surface of the computer desk, and the microscopic layer of accumulated dust was the final nail in my certainty: this viscount fellow had packed up several days ago, hung a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign, and never come back.

I turned my attention to the window for a moment, trying to get my damaged brain into gear and make some sense of this. The curtains were open, affording me a view of Los Angeles that might have been striking if I'd been in a different mood. At the moment it was just a bunch of palm trees and terra-cotta rooftops, and me failing at my first assignment.

“What are you doing?” Teo's voice was sharp from the doorway.

I turned around, trying not to let the
oh crap
show on my face.

The housekeeper said something to him in Spanish, and he waved her away irritably, pushing past her into the room.

“Teo, please be nice to the lady. She's helping me look for
my phone.” I tried desperately not to emphasize my words, waggle my eyebrows, or do any other kind of
work with me
dance, because I can smell stupid a mile off, and this woman was not giving me the faintest whiff of it.

Teo visibly clenched his jaw, then turned to the housekeeper. “Can you give us a few minutes alone?” he asked her.

She said something else to him in Spanish.

Teo shook his head irritably again. “Do you not speak English?”

“I speak it fine,” she said, her eyes cold.

“Okay then,” he said. “I need to have a private conversation with my friend here.” He pulled out a wad of bills and held them out to her.

She made a sound of disgust and walked away without taking his money. She muttered something in Spanish as she went, and I know Teo understood her, because his slouchy posture went ramrod straight before he came in and shut the door behind him.

“I was getting along with her just fine,” I snapped. “Would it have killed you to be polite? Now she'll report us.”

“To who? Anyone important knows I do business with the viscount. Now relax. Since we're here, we may as well get something out of it. Go through the trash.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're the one who decided to trespass, so you get to be the one to touch his snotty tissues or whatever.”

“Don't these sort of people use handkerchiefs?” I went to the bathroom and found a shower cap to put over my hand.

“Lady, you have no idea what sort of person you're talking about.”

“A vampire?” I guessed. I picked up the trash can—which held a frankly absurd number of Reese's cup wrappers—and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Nope,” said Teo, casually, like it had been a decent guess.

“I was kidding,” I said, taking out the wrappers carefully, one at a time, using the shower cap as an ill-fitting glove.

“You weren't kidding,” said Teo. “Not really. I bet you believe all kinds of crazy shit, or Caryl wouldn't have recruited you.”

I found something near the top that wasn't a candy wrapper: a folded piece of white paper. I clumsily eased it open with my shower-capped hand, hoping to find a scribbled address or phone number like you always do in the movies, but instead it was just a little sketch made with a ballpoint on hotel stationery. I stared at it.

Teo chattered on, poking around the room. “So apparently instead of checking out, the viscount extended his stay by a whole month. Either he completely forgot when his visa expires, or—Millie, you okay?”

The sketch was of the view out the window, the one I had just dismissed, but somehow in a few spare lines the artist had captured L.A.'s restless energy. DREAMLAND was written at the bottom in a bold, masculine hand. I stared at the paper and remembered, on a primal level, the thrill I'd felt when I first saw the city from the freeway eight years ago: sun low and heavy in the sky, downtown's high-rises glittering in the vermilion light. I felt a stinging at the back of my eyes and let the drawing slip to the floor.

“What is that?” said Teo.

“Nothing. Just a sketch of the city.”

He bent and picked it up as I continued sifting through
candy wrappers, and then he did something odd. He pulled a pair of nineties-retro mirror shades out of his pocket and put them on, peering at the paper through them. He hadn't worn them the whole ride over, even when we were driving into the sun, but now he put them on in a fashionably dim hotel room?

“He drew this,” he said. “The viscount.”

“Or maybe some lady friend who got bored waiting for him to come out of the shower.”

“Nope,” he said. “There's fey magic on this.”

“What's fey magic?”

“You can look through my glasses,” he said, “but give them back when you're done. At this rate you'll have your own pair before long.”

I took the glasses from him and slipped them on, looking at the paper in his hand. My breath caught, and I felt every hair on my body lift away from my skin.

Everything else in the room looked normal through the shades, only darker. The drawing, on the other hand, lit up like the Fourth of July. Radiant curving strands like flowering vines danced and shimmered from its surface.

“What the
fuck
is that?” I breathed.

“Magic,” said Teo. And this time, I was pretty sure it wasn't sarcasm.