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.
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.