Uninvited, Page 22

Page 22

  Author: Sophie Jordan

  “He’s with campus security. We’re not. He’s safer than we are standing out here. Let’s go. ”

  I nod jerkily and move, my head still ringing from the earlier blow. I cup the back of my neck as if that will help. Gil walks close to my side, one hand wavering between us as if he’s prepared to support me if I should trip or fall.

  “You mind if I get a ride again? My apartment’s not far. I usually walk, but today . . . ” His voice fades, but I can hear his apprehension, see it in the way his eyes scan the parking lot, pausing on the doors in the distance where the first students start to exit. I’m reminded that he’s been a student here before he was ever declared a carrier. These were once his fellow classmates and they know him on sight. He doesn’t need an imprint on his neck to identify him. Walking home, any student driving past will know who he is . . . what he is.

  And as Tucci pointed out, with the current events, anything could happen to him.

  “Sure,” I respond, punching the UNLOCK button. He dives into the passenger seat.

  The parking lot is already crowded by the time I back out, cars in the front impeding our exit from campus. As I inch behind vehicles, I glance to the doors and migration of students, scanning for one taller than the most. An ink collar on his neck. But he never appears.

  (FBI interrogation)

  AGENT OALLEN: Why did you do it?

  KEVIN HOYT: What are you talking about?

  AGENT OALLEN: C’mon, man. We’ve confiscated your computer. Your phone. I’ve talked to the other three. They didn’t pull off the largest mass shooting in this country’s history on their own. We know you’re the brains behind this.

  KEVIN HOYT: That’s kind of you to say.

  AGENT OALLEN: So. Why?

  KEVIN HOYT: Why not?

  AGENT OALLEN: You don’t even care? You feel no remorse? One hundred and twenty dead. Over fifty injured . . .

  KEVIN HOYT: Pretty good. We were aiming for two hundred but, like you said. Over fifty injured. We might get there yet.

  AGENT OALLEN: You’re a monster.

  KEVIN HOYT: That’s what everyone keeps saying. . . . It’s good to know they were right. Isn’t it?

  EIGHTEEN

  IT DIDN’T TAKE TOO MUCH INVESTIGATING TO FIND out where Sean lived. I still had my notes from his interview, including the name of his foster mother. A quick online search uncovered only one Martha Delaney in the area. I plug the address into my phone and head downstairs, finished with sitting at home with nothing to do. Four days of no school. No friends. No leaving the house. Mom said it’s too dangerous for me to go out. It isn’t safe for imprinted carriers to walk the streets. All over the country they’re targets for vigilante justice.

  She’s right, of course. I should just stay home, but there’s only so much television a person can watch.

  Snatching my keys off the hall table, I abandon the empty house. I haven’t seen Dad since the day I was imprinted. Mom says work keeps him away, but I know it’s not that. It’s me.

  Mom faces me every day, her smile in place, but even she has taken to avoiding me, increasing her hours at the office. Mitchell’s Jeep sits out front and I’m sure he’s sleeping late. I heard him back out of the driveway last night while I was in bed.

  With one eye on my phone’s map, I drive, leaving my safe neighborhood behind and getting on the highway that takes me closer to town. I pass the exit to Keller High School and keep going. I pass the next exit that would take me to Gilbert’s apartment.

  I never would have visited anyone this close to the city before. Not only would my parents have forbidden it, I would have been too afraid. Bad things happen within the city limits. Even on the outskirts, where I’m headed. Like an infection, the crime is spreading, spilling into what once used to be safe suburbs.

  The hills get smaller. More houses and buildings appear as I head south. Buildings that look like they’ve seen better days. Graffiti is everywhere. I exit the highway and take a right at the first stoplight. The buildings aren’t rock here like where I live. They’re mostly a mud-colored HardiePlank that reminds me of cardboard. I weave to avoid hitting a stray cat that looks more like a skeleton. Patches of fur broken by raw flesh cover it.

  The road narrows and I have to ease off the gas so that I can maneuver around cars parked in the street. The apartments get shabbier, interrupted by an occasional house with cracked concrete porches and yards overrun with weeds and miscellaneous junk.

  A siren sings in the distance. A moment later, it soars through the cross street in front of me. I watch it for a moment and find myself wondering where they’re going, who they’re after. A carrier? Like the ones splattered all over the news. Shaking my head, I glance down at the address again.

  I mutter under my breath, searching for house numbers that aren’t visible on most homes. At a corner sits a rusted Dumpster. A hand peeks out from its depths throwing something that might be a rotting watermelon into the arms of a waiting youth.

  I slam on my brakes as a body bolts across the street in front of my car. A split second later another person flies after the first. He tackles him on the sidewalk with a bone-jarring crack I hear through the windows of my car. The two tussle, arms swinging, fists slamming.

  I blink and gawk, unsure whether I’m witnessing an assault or high-spirited horseplay. Given where I am, it’s pure optimism to think I’m watching a couple of boys wrestling good-naturedly.

  I step on the gas and drive on, almost missing Sean’s house, the numbers mostly hidden behind an overgrown bush.

  I consider his home for a moment as I idle in the street. It’s a little better than the neighboring houses. The yard is mowed and there’s a pot of flowers in the window. I park directly behind his truck and step outside, taking my time to shut the door, assessing my surroundings.

  From somewhere inside the house, music blares. I stand motionless for a moment in the driveway before walking up the uneven sidewalk and stopping on a threadbare doormat. I lift the chipped brass-plated knocker and let it fall twice.

  The door opens and the music hits me harder. It’s a fast beat, heavy on the electric guitar. The vocalist is more screaming than singing and I wince.

  The guy in front of me is shirtless, wearing only gym shorts, and I almost don’t notice the imprint around his neck because I’m so distracted by the tattoos covering every spare inch of him. He’s grotesquely muscled. Not even an ounce of body fat.

  “Who are you?” he asks, his voice lifting over the music.

  My gaze jerks off the tattoo of a dragon on his chest to the dark eyes watching me curiously.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Have yourself a good look?”

  I shake my head, tossing my hair. A few strands stick to my lips. Lip gloss. Why the hell had I worn lip gloss? Was I hoping to impress Sean? I just wanted to make sure he was okay. To thank him for the other day.

  I swipe the strands away from my mouth. “Davy,” I answer, letting my name hang, shifting my weight between my feet as he studies me. I hadn’t really thought about coming face-to-face with the others. His foster brothers. Carriers. I should have guessed when I heard the loud music that he wouldn’t be the only one home. Sean doesn’t seem the type to listen to music at decibel-shattering levels.

  “Davy. ” He stretches my name into something three or four syllables long. He props one hand on the door frame and leans forward a little. “You seem a little nervous, so I’ll make this easy, sweetheart. Who are you here to see?”

  “Sean. Sean,” I answer quickly.

  He leans back again. “Of course. Sean!” he shouts loudly, still looking me over. “You got company. ”

  I think I hear a thud from inside, but it’s hard to tell with the blast of music.

  His head bobs as he speaks. “Haven’t seen you before. I’d remember. ” His mouth curls. “Not too many girl carriers. Especially imprint
ed ones. You don’t exactly look the type. ”

  I can’t help myself. “No? What type do I look like?”

  He gives a short laugh. “Not Sean’s type, that’s for sure. ”

  I suck in a breath, stupidly stung. Sean has a type? And I’m not it?

  His gaze flicks over me again. “You look like you’re headed to choir practice or something. ”

  I glance down at my khaki shorts, bright blue tank top, and tennis shoes. I thought I looked fairly ordinary. It’s not like I dressed in a cotillion gown. What does he see when he looks at me?

  He waves at my necklace. It’s a simple silver chain with a cute ladybug charm. “That’s sweet. Gift from Daddy?”

  My cheeks burn at the accuracy of his guess. Dad got it for me on my thirteenth birthday. He always called me his “ladybug. ” I cover the charm with my hand, oddly more self-conscious of that than the disfiguring tattoo circling my neck.

  “You go to school with Sean. ” It’s more statement than question.

  I nod.

  He smiles. “I’m done. Graduated last year. ”

  I want to say, But you still live here . . . with your foster family. Martha Delaney can’t still be collecting money for keeping him. And yet he’s here. There’s a lot I don’t know about Sean and his life in this house with these people.

  I press my mouth into a hard line. Just because I’m curious, just because I brought myself to his door, doesn’t mean I have a right to pry.

  My stomach turns. When had I become curious? When had he stopped being something strange and frightening?

  “I’m Simon, by the way. ”

  “Hello, Simon. ”

  Sean appears behind his foster brother. For a brief moment, his expression cracks and his surprise seeps through. He blinks and then it’s gone. The hard-chiseled mask back in place.

  “Davy. What are you doing here?”

  Simon stands to the side. “Man, don’t be rude. Invite your friend in. ” He emphasizes the word friend. Heat fills my face.

  Sean stares hard at his foster brother and something passes between them. Something I can’t read, but the words are there. I look from Sean to Simon and back again, trying to decipher their silent exchange.

  “Sure. Come in, Davy. ” He looks at Simon warningly and holds out his hand for me.

  I stare down at that hand for a moment, the long tapering fingers, the wide, broad palm. We’ve never held hands before. This thought enters my head dumbly. Along with the knowledge that maybe I want him to hold my hand. Maybe I want someone to touch me. Him. As I am. Like this. And not just some jerk who thinks it’s okay to put his hands on me because I’m a carrier. Like Brockman. Or even Zac.

  My chest suddenly grows tight and I’m not at all sure about entering this house, but I remind myself that I did this. I brought myself here to see him. And despite everything, despite my discomfort in this moment, I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore. Not in the way I first was. Now, if there’s any fear, it’s a different kind. Fear for the unknown. For the breathless way I feel around him.

  I place my hand inside his and try not to think about how it feels to hold the hand of someone other than Zac.

  Sean pulls me after him. The inside is clean enough, filled with worn and faded furniture. He cuts through the living room. We skirt the bench press where Simon had presumably been working out when I knocked on the door.

  The hallway is narrow and dim. A few photos line the walls, the faces shadowy blurs. I try to glance at them, to see if any are of a younger Sean, but we’re moving too quickly. From somewhere in the house, the music stops abruptly.

  As soon as I step inside his bedroom, he drops my hand. Chafing my palms on my thighs, I stop in the middle of the room and look around. There are two beds, both unmade. The room is otherwise tidy. One desk. Two dressers.

  “You share the room with Simon?”

  “With Adam. ”

  I nod like he’s told me all about Adam. Like he’s told me about anything.