Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(49)

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 imprinted 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.