Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

I glance at the street sign and nearest house. “3412 Mulberry. That’s in Boerne.”

  “I’ll be there soon. Stay out of sight. It’s almost curfew,” he warned.

  I release a shuddery breath. “I know.” I start to add a thank-you but the line goes dead.

  I chafe a sweating palm against my thigh. He’s coming.

  Which is why I called him in the first place, but it doesn’t stop the ball of nerves from forming in my stomach.

  There’s an SUV parked not too far down a driveway and I hide behind it, waiting. My palms feel clammy and I continue rubbing them against my thighs, glancing between the street and the house, making sure no one notices me lurking next to the parked car.

  I tell myself I’m only worried about getting caught. And not the boy coming to my aid.

  The minutes slide by. It’s after ten now. I’m officially out past curfew. I hear another car, and this time it’s a police cruiser. It was inevitable. They make the rounds several times a night in this neighborhood. Mine too.

  They don’t notice me where I crouch. I squeeze my eyes in a tight blink and wait for the sound of the engine to fade. I tremble long after the car is gone and the sounds of crickets return to fill my ears.

  When I hear another car, I take a peek. It’s an old truck, moving slowly. The driver comes into view. Even in the dark I recognize the fall of his hair, the ends brushing the back of his neck.

  I stand fully and hurry down the driveway. The truck stops. I hover uncertainly at the driver’s door.

  He rolls the window down. We stare at each other for a moment, several feet separating us. Even in the shadows, I can make out the thick band encircling his neck, the bold, circled H.

  “Get in.”

  I move around the truck and open the door. It swings wide with a groan. I ease myself carefully onto the passenger seat and shut the door after me, flinching as it clangs harshly.

  I brush the hair over my shoulder nervously and lean back against the worn upholstery. “Thank you.”

  He starts to drive. “Where do you live?”

  I give him my address. “It’s only ten minutes away.”

  We drive in silence. I stare straight ahead, hands clasped around my knees. It’s somewhere to rest my hands. Some way to try to contain my shaking. An insane urge to laugh bubbles up inside me. Nerves, I know, but it just strikes me as suddenly unbelievable that I had started the night on a date with Zac and now I’m in a truck driving through the dark with Sean O’Rourke.

  “You can’t do this.”

  I jump at the sound of his rumbling voice. My gaze skips to him. He’s still staring straight ahead, one hand draped loosely over the wheel. It’s almost like he hasn’t spoken at all, except his lips move as he adds, “If they catch you after curfew—”

  “I know.” My voice sounds tired even to my ears.

  “Do you?”

  “That’s why I called you.” I was desperate enough to do that.

  “I can’t look out for you.”

  I bristle. “I just need a ride. Not a bodyguard.” But then I see him in the bathroom when he walked in on me with Brockman, and my words lack the desired punch.

  He laughs hollowly. “You need a bodyguard in the worst way.” The way his voice says “worst” . . . with such emphasis and conviction, rubs me the wrong way. Probably because it’s true. I can’t even name a friend who would pick up the phone for me anymore.

  He continues and it’s salt on the wound, “You have no clue how the world outside your little bubble works.” He motions to the sprawling houses we roll past.

  “I’m a quick learner.” I squeeze the words past my tightening throat, thinking that I’ve already got the gist. This last week has been the worst of my life. I hardly feel secure inside a bubble.

  “Yeah? Well. You’re going to have to be.”

  “And were you a quick learner, too?” I lash out. “Is that how you got imprinted? I guess you didn’t get things figured out fast enough, did you?”

  The moment the words slip out I wish I could take them back. I can’t believe I flung that in his face.

  The interior light casts enough of a glow that I see his square jaw tighten. A muscle feathers along the flesh there. Suddenly, he’s pulling over, yanking the truck to the side of the street.

  Panic shimmies up my chest to clog my throat. I’m struck again with the knowledge that I’m in a vehicle. Alone. With a carrier who has proven himself to be a violent offender. For a moment, I let that fade from my mind. I provoked him like he was just an ordinary guy. Like I’m an ordinary girl. A girl who a week ago could get away with anything.

  He shifts into PARK and turns to me. All my doubts about him return. I forget that he cared enough to help me with Brockman. I just see the tattoo on his neck. I scrabble for the door handle, seize it, and shove it open.

  “What are you doing?” he growls, and slides across the bench seat, reaching around me for the handle. His hand squeezes over mine, crushing my fingers as he swiftly slams the door shut.

  He’s draped over me. His left hand is folded over mine on the handle while his other arm stretches along the back of the seat. My chest heaves, pushing against him. I’m consciously aware of every inch of him plastered to me.

  He’s not built like Zac. He’s stronger. More muscular. Like he’s accustomed to hard labor and fighting with his fists. I feel his power and imagine it used against me. Grinding me into nothing. A scream rises in my throat and starts to leak free. He quickly slams a hand over my mouth.

  My chest rises and falls against him as I struggle for breath. I stare at him, afraid to blink, and my eyes start to ache. We’re so close I can see the dark ring of blue rimming his irises.

  “You’re going to get us both in trouble. Trust me. You don’t want that to happen. You think it’s bad now. You have no idea how bad it can get.” There’s an edge of desperation to his voice.

  I shake, trembling uncontrollably. In my mind, all the news footage I’ve ever seen highlighting the gruesome damage wrought by carriers flashes before me.

  He mutters a curse and I flinch. “Look, I don’t get off on hurting girls. I’m not going to harm you.” His hand softens on my face, his fingers lifting up ever so slightly, allowing me to breathe better. “Okay?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll lift my hand, but unless you want to get us both arrested, for God’s sake don’t scream.” His gaze flicks to the street, assessing.

  I nod again, relaxing somewhat.

  Of course. Coco certainly wouldn’t have called him a good guy if he was into hurting girls. And he wouldn’t have helped me out with Brockman.

  My gaze drifts to his neck. The deep band and circled H. He isn’t into hurting girls. So what did he hurt then? He didn’t get that imprint on his neck for nothing.

  “Stop looking at it,” he hisses, giving his head a little shake. The roughly shorn, gold-streaked strands brush the planes of his face. He looks at me beneath hooded eyes. Something flashes in those pale pools of blue. “Look at me.” A glimpse of real emotion. Not anger . . . but something else.

  His hand lifts off my mouth now, hovering over my face, ready to cover my lips again if I start to cry out.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I whisper, almost convinced I can feel the thud of his heart through his chest into mine.

  “You’ve got to get a grip on all this. I know you probably think nothing could get worse, but it can.” He moves off me then and falls back on the seat with a sigh.

  I nod. That’s exactly what I had been thinking. That I’d hit rock bottom. “I’m sorry I’m so jumpy around you.”

  “You . . .” His voice fades and he fists his hand on the steering wheel. He shakes his head fiercely as if stopping himself from saying what he wants to say.

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  He turns, studies me with his head angled. Like how an animal curiously examines something it’s never seen before. “I was going to say you shouldn’t be sorry. You shou
ld be jumpy around me. Around every carrier there is. Nathan and Brian. Even around Pollock. Anyone with the Agency. Everyone. It’s smarter to be cautious. Distrustful. If you want to stay in one piece.”

  Everyone? That is my life now? An island unto myself? Always alone?

  He continues, “You shouldn’t have called me. And I shouldn’t have come.”

  “But you did,” I say, hoping that he’s wrong. That there’s something good in others. In him. That I’m not alone. I can’t be. I don’t want to be.

  “Next time I won’t.” He pulls the truck out onto the street again.

  His words inexplicably wound me. It’s not as though I count him as a friend, but he’s the only one tonight that came when I called. If I can’t have a friend among my own kind—and I have to accept that I’m one of them now—then what’s left for me?

  An oncoming car lights up his face for a brief moment, and I don’t miss the unyielding set to his jaw.

  “So you’re telling me to trust no one.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Remember that and you might survive.” Nodding, he slides me a measuring glance. “You’re soft. You need to toughen up.”

  I can’t help thinking that telling an HTS carrier that she needs to toughen up is ironic. Presumably, carriers are already tough. Sociopaths waiting to snap.

  He slows in front of my house. Like most homes in this area, it sits far back from the road. He pulls up to the gate but doesn’t drive all the way down the driveway to the porch. Probably a good idea.

  I open the noisy door and stick one leg out. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “Be more careful.”

  Because he won’t bail me out again. He doesn’t say those words, but he doesn’t need to. He already did. He made his point clear.

  As I walk down my drive and beneath the covered portico, I fish out my keys, resisting the temptation to peek behind me. I haven’t heard him drive away yet. The glow of headlights bathes me in white as I unlock the door.

  Is he still watching me? Making sure I get safely inside? That seems a little too courteous for a carrier who just vowed to never help me again.

  As I punch in the alarm and step inside, he reverses and drives away. I lock the door behind me. The house is dark and silent. My eyes adjust to the gloom. I inhale, smelling the aroma of fresh-cut flowers on the foyer table.

  I move into the living room, not bothering with the light. I know my way well. Especially toward the piano, the first instrument I ever played. I push back the lid and sink onto the bench. I don’t need sheet music. I lightly poise my fingers, curling them softly. They’re elegant and slim from long hours of practice. My fingertips sink down on the smooth, well-loved keys. A soft swell of music rises from the belly of the piano as I play something I wrote a year ago. I still remember it even though I haven’t composed lately, too busy with school and voice lessons and Zac. Now all those things are gone. Lost to me. My body sways slightly with the harmony. At least I still have this.

  I finish playing half an hour later. The last note hangs, reverberating in the silent room, fading into space until the only sound is the faint whir of fan blades from above.

  With one last caress for the keys, I rise and head upstairs. Usually, Mom or Dad wait up, but they must have gone to bed. Light spills into the hallway from my parents’ bedroom, a bright puddle of yellow on the bloodred runner. I have to pass the open door on the way to my room.

  I pause and peer inside. Mom’s asleep in bed, a book forgotten next to her. A relieved breath shudders past my lips. At least I don’t have to lie to her and tell her I had a great time with Zac. I’ll have to tell her the truth soon enough and dash her dreams that Zac is sticking by me through all this.

  Even across the room, I can detect the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her lamp is still on and I’m contemplating turning it off when the empty space beside her registers.

  I frown. It’s not like Dad to work this late on a Friday. Usually, he and Mom share a bottle of wine and watch a movie together.

  I can’t help wondering where he is and if it has anything to do with me. It has to be because of me. Mom’s been the calm one, practical and accepting. Dad’s been angry, storming around the house. Slamming doors. At first, it made me feel better. Proof that he cares. He may not have been able to stop all this from happening to me but at least it made him furious. And that gave me hope that maybe he could do something. Figure something out to save me. Typical daddy’s-girl thinking.

  At night, I hear him fighting with Mom through the walls. They never used to fight. I don’t feel good about that. That I’m the reason.

  I move from the doorway, wondering where he is . . . why he isn’t fighting with her now. Have they moved on to avoidance? In some ways I wish he was in there, his voice raised in anger. That’s better than this silence.

  Walking into my bedroom, I can’t help thinking that this is my life now. I drop on my bed and pull one of my pillows close to my chest, hugging it tightly.

  No one to trust. No friends. A life of silence broken only with music.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  Inscription on page 21 of Davy’s eleventh-grade yearbook:

  To my best friend! The sweetest, most brilliant girl ever!!!

  Looking forward to our senior year together! We’ll be unstoppable!

  Love you to the moon and back, your BFF, Tori!

  TWELVE

  “DAVINA, COME UP HERE.”

  At the sound of my name, I stand and head to the front of the Cage. I pass Sean. He arrived an hour ago. I don’t look at him. At least I don’t turn my face in his direction. From the corner of my eye, I observe him writing something in his notebook. He doesn’t glance at me.

  Since Friday, I’ve taken his advice. I haven’t talked to him. I’ve tried not to look at him at all. Other than a few words exchanged with Gil, I haven’t said anything to anyone at school. Brockman is the only one I talk to and just because I have to.

  Every afternoon, Brockman has either Gil or me take our class’s completed assignments to the office and collect any new work. By Wednesday, I know the drill. I guess today it’s my turn.

  “Here you go.” Brockman hands me several manila folders, barely glancing at me. This has been his manner since the bathroom incident with Sean. No inappropriate remarks. He doesn’t so much as brush hands with me when he passes me the folders.

  “Come right back.” He says that every time. Like I have a choice. Like I have anywhere else to go.

  I nod and start to turn but stop at his, “Oh, wait.” I watch as he digs some spare change out of his pocket. “Why don’t you get me a soda, too. Big Red.”

  I hold my hand out for the money. He drops the coins into my palm. I slip the change into my jeans pocket and hurry away.

  The athletic hall, ripe with the ever-present aroma of sweat, is familiar by now. Sometimes I pass boys or girls heading into one of the gyms or weight room. They often notice my ID badge and look me over like I’m sort of a freak. Like they’re not accustomed to coming face-to-face with a carrier. I can’t imagine I look very threatening.

  Three boys emerge from the locker room. They’re dressed in their gym clothes, black shorts with gray T-shirts. A hawk, the school mascot, is emblazoned across the front, its wings stretched in flight.

  Their loud voices compete with each other. One of them nudges the guy next to him when he spots me, and soon all three fall quiet, assessing me with eyes that move rapidly, taking special note of my orange ID badge.

  One whispers something to the boy beside him and they laugh. It’s a mean, dirty laugh and it makes my skin crawl.

  We’re almost side to side now. I walk as close to the wall as possible, clutching the folders, bending them away from me in my hands.

  “I thought they were supposed to keep them in lockdow
n,” one of them says in a distinctly loud whisper.

  Lockdown. Like I’m a prisoner. A captive.

  I hurry past them before I can hear more. Before one of them gets the courage to actually address me. At least there’s that. They don’t outright confront me. Too uncertain of the girl with the kill gene.

  I find a bathroom on the top floor. I prop the manila folders down on the tiny shelf in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. I hardly recognize the pale girl looking back at me. The fear in my eyes is as unfamiliar as my surroundings. I guess I’m uncertain of the girl with the kill gene, too.

  I turn on the faucet, pump soap into my palms, and wash them together, letting the cool water run over my hands. If only everything else wrong in my life could disappear as swiftly.

  Brockman grunts a thanks when I return with his soda and set it on his desk. There were no new assignments waiting for us. This actually makes me kind of sad. It’s going to be a boring afternoon with nothing to do.

  I hesitate a moment before I open the Cage door. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with longing for my old school. My classrooms. People to talk to, teachers that actually give a damn and want to teach us.

  Sinking into my desk, I pull out a notebook and start writing. Composing. I hum under my breath as I jot down notes, toying with varying pitches and combinations in my head. I’m so absorbed I don’t hear him approach.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump and slam my notebook shut.

  Sean stands over me, holding a spiral notebook. It looks small in his large hands. Even the pencil looks fragile, as if he might accidentally break it in his grip.

  “N-nothing.” I want to ask him why he’s talking to me. I thought we were finished with that. With him talking to me . . . helping me. I got his message loud and clear. I was in this alone.

  “What were you drawing?”

  I shake my head, not about to explain that I was composing a piece of music. “Just doodling.”

  He eases into the desk in front of me and turns to face me. Using my desktop, he opens up his notebook and pulls out a work sheet tucked inside there. “Thought we’d finish that assignment.”