Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(9)

“I’ll see you next month. Hopefully, not before.” Pollock snaps my file shut and slides it aside on his desk. My fingers itch to snatch it and read for myself the words that say I’m this terrible thing that must be watched and monitored like a bomb waiting to blow. Like there will be something there I can point at and say, Aha! That’s not true. I can prove it. I’ll show you.

I nod, not knowing what to do or say. I turn to follow Mom from the cubicle but pause as someone else steps inside the small space. Saunters really.

My gaze moves over him unevenly, jerking along the long body. The legs, waist, chest. He’s more muscular than Zac. And taller. Fighter’s build floats through my head.

I glance up at his face, survey the strong lines. Even if his face isn’t the perfection you see in the movies or on magazine covers, there’s no doubt that he’s hot. His brows are thick over deeply set eyes. The nose looks like it’s been broken. His hair is too long, almost to his shoulders, and I suspect he himself might have hacked the dark blond strands framing his face shorter.

He’s got that confidence that always attracts females. Features carved from stone, but a body relaxed and at ease. Suddenly, I remember a line from Julius Caesar. As my gaze crawls over him, the words come back: . . . a lean and hungry look . . . such men are dangerous.

Without being told, I know he’s a carrier.

“Mr. O’Rourke, nice of you to show.” Pollock glances at his watch. “Only an hour late. This is unacceptable. We’re going to have to discuss this.”

O’Rourke shrugs. An intricate ink design creeps up his muscular bicep and disappears beneath the sleeve of his gray T-shirt. My gaze lifts, collides with his. They’re smoky blue, the irises rimmed with a blue so dark it appears almost black. He looks me up and down appraisingly.

Heat bursts over my face at his speculative look. Me. Here. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. I already deduced the same about him.

Except he looks the part.

His hard features remind me of the faces that flash across the television screen—criminals found guilty for committing some horrendous crime, all proven HTS carriers. This guy’s fathomless eyes hold secrets, shadows where light can’t reach.

He doesn’t even acknowledge Pollock. His deep voice rumbles across the air, turning my skin to goose bumps. “Hey, princess.”

I shiver. And then I see it. The proof. I missed it before, too mesmerized by his body, his face, his eyes. His neck bears the mark. The H trapped inside a circle set within a wide ink band that wraps his neck. And maybe it was just that I didn’t expect to see it. Even here. I have never seen one up close before.

Mom must see it, too—must be filled with my same fear, the same curiosity over what he did to get imprinted. She grips my arm like she’s hanging on for life.

“Sean.” Pollock says his name sharply, motioning to the seat. “Sit.”

After a long moment, the boy looks away. He drops in his seat, shaking his hair back from his face, the imprint even more visible now. Like he doesn’t care who sees it.

Mom’s hand slides down my arm to my hand. She gives it a hard tug. I barely hear her whisper, “C’mon.”

She leads me from the cubicle. Still, I glance back over my shoulder at the boy sitting in the chair. I stare at the back of his head, at the dark blond hair my friends would spend ridiculous money for in a salon. I doubt he does anything except shampoo it. It’s rich brown underneath the sun-gold strands. Maybe he works a lot of time in the sun cutting lawns. I can’t imagine my parents hiring him to mow the grass.

He sits so at ease in the chair. Does he care where he is? And why? Did he lose sleep over that imprint on his neck? At his corrupt DNA?

Pollock has already opened his folder and is stabbing his finger threateningly at Sean O’Rourke as he talks. I turn around and let Mom pull me away.

As we leave the building, I’m only sure of one thing.

I’ll never wear that mark.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................



* * *





Conversation between Dr. Wainwright and the United States chief of staff: SWITZER: At this time, the president is not prepared to take such measures.

WAINWRIGHT: Oh? Instead, he wants the homicide rate to keep climbing? He wants to quarantine another city? I hear you’ve already lost Phoenix.

SWITZER: We have the situation in hand— WAINWRIGHT: How is it you can even say that with a straight face? The power to test and identify carriers does nothing except tell us who the monsters are. It doesn’t stop them. The president needs to grant me more authority.

SWITZER: What you’re suggesting is impossible.

WAINWRIGHT: It’s not a suggestion. I’m telling you. If you want to keep the country from going under . . . then give the carriers to me.

SWITZER: . . . I’ll talk to the president. . . .





FOUR




ZAC COMES OVER STRAIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. HE must have skipped rugby practice. I hear the familiar purr of his car drive up and rush to the window to confirm that it’s him. Peering out, I curse under my breath and jerk back as if the blinds sting my fingers. I look around my room as if I can hide somewhere. Ridiculous, I know. It’s my fault I put this off so long.