Uninvited Read online

Page 13

  Author: Sophie Jordan

  In that instant, everything about him—about who I thought he was—dies a quick death. Grief swallows me as I blink at my boyfriend. Looking at him, I only see another disappointment. Another loss. Another piece of me gone and crushed to tiny bits.

  Turning, I open the door and flee the room.

  “Davy, wait!” His steps pound after me. Before I reach the top of the stairs, he grabs my arm and forces me around. “Where are you going?”

  I look at him evenly. “I’m going home. ”

  “You’re mad at me,” he announces.

  “And you’re observant. ”

  He drops his hand from my arm. “Why are you being like this?”

  Why am I being like this?

  “You know why,” I say, deliberately echoing his words.

  His face hardens and he crosses his arms, reminding me of a spoiled little boy. “We just got here. I’m not ready to go home. ”

  I stare at him for a moment, still reconciling this Zac with the boy I thought I knew. The boy I loved.

  What did I know anymore about anyone? About anything? If I’d been so wrong about him, what else am I wrong about?

  White-hot panic hums through me. I’ve got to get out of here. Escape.

  “I’m leaving. ” My feet move swiftly down the steps. I don’t look back to see if he’s following. I hope he’s not.

  The loud pulse of music vibrates up my legs from the floor as I push through the crowd. When I burst out onto the porch, it almost feels like I’ve emerged from underwater. I suck in a slightly frigid breath and brace a hand against the limestone post. I stare out at the dark street lined with cars. The late March wind folds over me. It’s still cold in the evenings. I know I need to enjoy this weather while it lasts. Soon, the days will be scorching.

  But enjoying anything anymore seems the most implausible thing.

  I brush fingers to my lips, still tasting Zac there. Familiar. But no longer exciting or comforting. The memory of him doesn’t make me warm and tingly inside. There’s only hurt. Betrayal and bitterness.

  It took losing me—the death of the old Davy Hamilton—to meet the true Zac. To learn what the world is really like. A hard lesson, but now I know at least.

  Shaking my head at the gnawing ache in my chest, I descend the wide porch steps.

  “Davy, stop!”

  I don’t know why, but I do. Turning, I watch as Zac jogs down the steps. Several of our friends—his friends—spill out onto the porch, like vultures scenting blood. They love a good scene.

  Squeezing my hands into fists at my sides, I vow not to give them one.

  He stops before me, releasing a breath.

  I wait, bracing myself for his coming apology, telling myself that I can be dignified and accept his apology, but that it won’t change anything. I can’t be with him anymore. Now that I know how he really feels. He’ll gladly use me. Sleep with me. But he doesn’t want me. Not really. I’m ruined in his eyes.

  He turns his face slightly, looks behind him, aware of our audience standing on the porch. Tori pushes to the front, her arms crossed in a hostile pose.

  Zac looks back at me. I wait, saying nothing. He stopped me, after all.

  “Davy,” he begins, “I want my sweatshirt back. ”

  I blink, uncomprehending.

  “The NYU one,” he prompts as if I might not know what he’s referring to.

  He stopped me for this? Not an apology. He wants his sweatshirt back?

  I gawk at him. He flicks a quick glance over his shoulder. Several of the kids on the porch laugh. Tori smiles, satisfied. Even Zac smiles . . . just a hint, but those lips that had kissed me only minutes ago curve ever so slightly.

  Then I understand. He’s doing this for their benefit. Dumping me in front of them. Making sure they all know that I didn’t walk out on him. That a girl with the kill gene didn’t leave him high and dry. There’s no apology coming. There never was.

  My hand shoots out. Before I even realize what I’m doing, my palm connects with Zac’s face. Gasps ripple through the kids assembled on the porch. Even in the night, I can detect my white handprint against his cheek.

  Tori thunders down the steps. “See! See! Get out!” She’s practically shrieking at me, waving a hand in the direction of the road.

  I back away, horrified. I gave them a scene. I gave them the evidence they wanted that I was someone dangerous and violent. That I didn’t belong with them. It didn’t matter that I was justified. Any other girl could have reacted this way. Any girl but me.

  I don’t belong with them. This much is true, I realize. With any of them. And surprisingly, this doesn’t fill me with even a shred of sadness. Outrage burns through my veins, keeping me warm against the wind as I turn and walk past rows of cars lining the circular driveway.

  It’s going to take forever to hoof it home, but I’m not going back to that house for anything. Tonight’s misery quota had been met.

  I’ve only covered a few yards before headlights flash behind me. Zac’s car rolls ups beside me. I shoot him a cursory glance and keep moving. He sticks his head out the window. With one hand propped on the steering wheel, he drives slowly, keeping pace with me.

  “Davy, get in the car. ”

  I bristle at his tone. “I can walk, thanks. ”

  “It’s going to take you an hour on foot. ”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides . . . are you sure you’ll be safe with me?”

  He makes a sound, part grunt, part sigh. “Stop it. ”

  “I’m just saying. You’re sporting a nice handprint on your face there. ”

  He glances at the road, turning the wheel a bit to avoid someone’s recycling bin that’s still in the street. “I picked you up. I’ll take you home. ”

  A little laugh breaks loose from me. “Trying to be a gentleman now, are we?”

  “Damn it! Get in. I’m responsible for you. Come back to the house with me. Or let me take you home. What if you’re caught out here? You know there’s a curfew. ”

  I snort. “Like we always obey that. ”

  “Yeah, that was before. What’s gonna happen if they find you wandering out here, a carrier . . . ?”

  Of course everything comes back to that. I whirl to face him. “Just stop! Go! I’m not your concern, Zac. We’re done. I absolve you, or whatever. ”

  “Fine. Walk,” he bites out, ducking his head back inside the car. “I tried. Just remember that. I tried. ”

  And he’s not just talking about me getting into the car. He’s talking about us. He actually thinks he tried to keep us . . . alive. I laugh out loud, the sound harsh on the night, making me feel a bit like a madwoman.

  “Is that what you think? Does it make you feel like less of a jerk to believe that? You need to believe you didn’t quit on us just because of some stupid DNA test, but you did!”

  “I’m not a jerk!”

  “Ha! You’re the worst kind because you don’t even know it. It would have been far kinder to just break up with me instead of dragging this out. At least that would have been honest. ”

  For a long moment, he says nothing. There’s just the purr of his engine and the gleam of his eyes from within the dark interior of his car. And then: “You’re right. I should have broken up with you,” he confessed. “I wanted to. Guess I was too much of a coward. ”

  His words shouldn’t wound me, but they do. My chest tightens, and it hurts to breathe.

  I fight past the lump in my throat to say more. “Consider it done then. ”

  He nods, the motion rough and jerky. I can’t make out his expression in the dark, but I sense his relief that it’s done. That we’re done.

  “Good luck, Davy. ” He floors it and the car shoots ahead into the night, turning the corner at the far end of the street so fast that it fishtails before righting.

  Then he’s gone. And I’m all alon
e.

  TEXAS ORDINANCE NO. 12974B (MODIFYING TITLE II: POLICE POLICIES OF PERSONS UNDER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OF AGE)

  WHEREIN the State concludes there has been an increase in violence and crime by persons under the age of thirty-five, resulting in a broad variety of offensive behavior, including vandalism, breach of the peace, and assaults on citizens.

  WHEREIN persons under the age of thirty-five are chiefly susceptible to engage in dangerous and unlawful activities . . .

  WHEREIN the offensive actions of persons under the age of thirty-five are not easily controlled by existing law . . .

  HENCEFORTH a curfew for those under the age of thirty-five will be in the interest of public safety and welfare and will facilitate and promote public safety for the citizens of Texas. . . .

  ELEVEN

  I’VE BEEN OUT PAST CURFEW BEFORE, BUT NEVER alone. Never walking the streets. Even in a nice area like this, where the houses sit far back from the road, draped in oak trees, it’s not completely safe. The most dangerous criminal behavior is reserved for the cities, but some of that element spills over. All I need to do is flip on the television to remind myself of that—or think about why the Wainwright Agency even exists, wresting more and more control from the government.

  Plenty of police patrol the area, issuing citations, and even arresting people for being disruptive. Or just suspicious. Their presence used to make me feel safe. Now I feel hunted. Like they’re out to get me, waiting for me to make a mistake. Someone like me, a carrier . . . it wouldn’t have to be a big mistake. It could be something small.

  Like getting caught out after curfew.

  I move swiftly along the street, past manicured lawns. There are no sidewalks out here. Simply large, acre lots with curving roads intersecting them. The vast carpets of rolling green look so inviting. I want to lie down on them. A sprinkler chugs, and the sound reminds me of a distant train.

  Mom always says we’re lucky to live where we do—outside the city, where local law enforcement keeps strict vigilance. The majority of the crime happens in town. Not just in Texas but across the country. Some cities have been abandoned entirely to the indigent and criminal. To carriers. The police never even set foot in those places—even parts of San Antonio are lost.

  Still, considering that I’m now a perpetual suspect, I wouldn’t mind a little less diligence on their part.

  As I hum lightly, my gaze scrutinizes every car that appears in the distance, trying to detect if it’s a patrol or just a random vehicle hurrying home before ten. A quick glance at the lit screen of my phone reveals I have about half an hour left.

  As much as I hated Zac’s reminder, he’s right. If I’m caught out past curfew, it won’t be a simple ticket. I’m in the HTS database. They’d take me into custody. I remember that much from the packet Pollock had given me.

  A car approaches in the night, and it looks like it has a light bar on top. Even though it’s not yet ten, I panic and dive into a yard, tucking myself behind a hedge of boxwood edging the driveway.

  The car passes me and I see it’s a simple luggage rack on top. My breath eases and I shake my head. It’s not even past curfew. How jumpy am I going to be when it’s after ten and I’m still walking the streets?

  Rising from behind the hedge, I watch as the car turns into a driveway and disappears into a three-car garage. The doors rumble shut and the neighborhood is silent again.

  My heart slows but still doesn’t resume its normal pace. Suddenly, I feel foolish. I should have just let Zac drive me home.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly punch in Mitchell’s number. After a few rings, it rolls to his voice mail. He’s probably at some bar where he can’t even hear his phone.

  I debate calling my parents wincing as I imagine the questions that will be fired at me. Mom was so thrilled that I was going out with Zac. At least one part of my life appeared unchanged. Even if it’s just my love life. Funny . . . they always thought Zac and I were too serious. Now that’s changed along with everything else.