Uninvited
Page 14
Sucking in a deep breath, I dial her, loathing that she will now know just how far life has changed. That I’ve lost him, too. Her phone goes to voice mail. I punch END harshly, punishing my phone.
Shaking my head, I scroll through my contacts. All friends that I couldn’t call. Or I could. But they wouldn’t come. I cringe, imagining the scenario. I’d already had enough humiliation for one night. I’m not up for more.
Perhaps this more than anything else alerts me to how terribly wrong my life has become. When you’re stranded and in trouble and there’s no one to call, you’ve hit rock bottom.
I stare at my phone, considering my lack of options. Well, one option teases at my mind. But it’s ridiculous. Even possibly dangerous. The goal right now is to avoid danger, avoid getting into trouble. And calling him definitely spells trouble.
Another car approaches. The headlights blind me for a second. My pulse jackknifes against my neck until it passes.
“Enough,” I mutter, and dial information. Stranded out here, I don’t have a better choice. I wait as the operator connects me.
A woman answers, the din of voices and dishes ringing behind her, “Golden Palace.”
“Yes. Could I speak with Sean, please?”
“Sean busy,” she snaps sharply into the phone.
“Wait. This is his sister,” I lie, hoping the woman doesn’t know that he only has foster brothers.
“No calls at work,” she barks into the phone.
“Please. It’s an emergency.”
She grunts and mutters something in another language, and then, “Hold on.”
The sounds of the restaurant hum into the phone as I wait, still walking along the dark road . . . watching for cars. There are no streetlights. The only light is the occasional glow from an elaborate entrance gate or distant porch light.
Finally, a deep voice comes on the line. “Hello?”
I open my mouth, but nothing passes from my lips. The words strangle in my throat.
“Hello?” he says again, a ring of impatience to his voice and I can tell he’s about to hang up.
“Sean,” I blurt his name. “It’s me. Davy. From school.” My words tumble free in a rush.
Silence stretches between us and for a moment I wonder if I lost the connection. Then I hear his breath, just the faint rasp of it.
“I’m sorry to call you at work.” I realize I’m pressing the phone hard into my ear and peel it away from my face before I accidentally end the call.
“Why are you calling?” To the point. No emotion.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” My voice cracks a little. To admit this to a veritable stranger, to an imprinted carrier . . . someone I can’t figure out. Someone probably dangerous. Yes, dangerous. He rules the Cage, and Nathan clearly has all the makings of a sociopath. His HTS status is spot-on. So what does that say about Sean? And yet . . . he stepped in and helped me with Brockman. He can’t be all that bad.
So you think he’ll go out of his way to help you again?
I press my fingertips against my lips, a hot ball of anxiety twists inside me. It’s a horrible sensation. I shake my head. No. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have called—”
“Where are you?”
I blink at the abrupt question. I thought he would have slammed the phone down by now. “What?”
He repeats himself, enunciating each word firmly in his deep voice. “Where are you?”
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 should 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?
Shaking my head, I scroll through my contacts. All friends that I couldn’t call. Or I could. But they wouldn’t come. I cringe, imagining the scenario. I’d already had enough humiliation for one night. I’m not up for more.
Perhaps this more than anything else alerts me to how terribly wrong my life has become. When you’re stranded and in trouble and there’s no one to call, you’ve hit rock bottom.
I stare at my phone, considering my lack of options. Well, one option teases at my mind. But it’s ridiculous. Even possibly dangerous. The goal right now is to avoid danger, avoid getting into trouble. And calling him definitely spells trouble.
Another car approaches. The headlights blind me for a second. My pulse jackknifes against my neck until it passes.
“Enough,” I mutter, and dial information. Stranded out here, I don’t have a better choice. I wait as the operator connects me.
A woman answers, the din of voices and dishes ringing behind her, “Golden Palace.”
“Yes. Could I speak with Sean, please?”
“Sean busy,” she snaps sharply into the phone.
“Wait. This is his sister,” I lie, hoping the woman doesn’t know that he only has foster brothers.
“No calls at work,” she barks into the phone.
“Please. It’s an emergency.”
She grunts and mutters something in another language, and then, “Hold on.”
The sounds of the restaurant hum into the phone as I wait, still walking along the dark road . . . watching for cars. There are no streetlights. The only light is the occasional glow from an elaborate entrance gate or distant porch light.
Finally, a deep voice comes on the line. “Hello?”
I open my mouth, but nothing passes from my lips. The words strangle in my throat.
“Hello?” he says again, a ring of impatience to his voice and I can tell he’s about to hang up.
“Sean,” I blurt his name. “It’s me. Davy. From school.” My words tumble free in a rush.
Silence stretches between us and for a moment I wonder if I lost the connection. Then I hear his breath, just the faint rasp of it.
“I’m sorry to call you at work.” I realize I’m pressing the phone hard into my ear and peel it away from my face before I accidentally end the call.
“Why are you calling?” To the point. No emotion.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” My voice cracks a little. To admit this to a veritable stranger, to an imprinted carrier . . . someone I can’t figure out. Someone probably dangerous. Yes, dangerous. He rules the Cage, and Nathan clearly has all the makings of a sociopath. His HTS status is spot-on. So what does that say about Sean? And yet . . . he stepped in and helped me with Brockman. He can’t be all that bad.
So you think he’ll go out of his way to help you again?
I press my fingertips against my lips, a hot ball of anxiety twists inside me. It’s a horrible sensation. I shake my head. No. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have called—”
“Where are you?”
I blink at the abrupt question. I thought he would have slammed the phone down by now. “What?”
He repeats himself, enunciating each word firmly in his deep voice. “Where are you?”
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 should 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?
