Telling Dad why Jesse could never be an option didn't seem the best idea. I moved from the swing to the porch steps, the cold concrete matching my sudden somber mood.
"You only get hurt when you let emotions rule your choices."
"Lately, Pumpkin, your impulsive choices have been completely based on emotion."
"Maybe, but it still doesn't mean I'm not afraid of a committed relationship. There's no guarantee of a happily-ever-after with any guy whether I pick him or he's chosen for me."
"That's a rather cynical view. True, there are no assurances, but if you're referring to your mom and me, don't let what happened to us decide your actions. Once-upon-a-time I loved your mother very much."
Mom's leaving hurt Dad more than he let on and whenever we came close to discussing those feelings, he changed the subject.
"Speaking of 'lost loves,' Sam's called at least a dozen times. The kid is so damn annoying. Please call him before I lose my last thread of patience. "
I brushed loose pebbles off the back of my skirt. "Dad? What should I do about Sam? I don't want to hurt him."
His rocker creaked when he rose. "Sorry, but nobody gets through life without being hurt some way. Sam will recover. It's you I worry about."
A hot shower and comfy clothes did nothing to settle the restlessness ticking through my body. I nestled into the window seat with my digital pad to work on homework, but Dad's comments about letting your heart decide your fate kept interrupting my concentration. Before today, I toyed with thoughts of dropping out of The Program, but my candidacy secured my family's future. Twisted blessings—even for my future children.
Children? Mrs. Mason's declaration flashed in my thoughts like a warning beacon. "…you could be become pregnant right away, which would also serve the greater purpose…" Whose "greater purpose?" Hers? Jordan's? Not mine.
The cell receptor buzzed against my hip—Jesse! I shut off the video feed before answering. Rick's Ohio State T-shirt and sweatpants didn't exactly scream "sexy," but then again, why did I care? Because I did—I was seventeen. Didn't all seventeen-year-olds obsess about their looks, or just the ones who sucked the lips off their assigned mate's brother?
"Jesse?"
"Good, you're still awake."
"How did you get my personal number?"
"I have my ways. I wanted to know you arrived home safely. My co-pilot is taking a break so I figured I'd call. Technically, I'm not supposed to talk to you. It's against the rules."
"Like you care," I teased, feeling brave with him thousands of miles away.
"Still holding a grudge, I see."
"Most hostages do."
"Brutal. If I'd formally asked you to spend the afternoon with me, would you have said yes?"
I paused a beat. "Probably not."
"Precisely my point. You would have missed out on a great learning experience, so technically, you should thank me."
"For kidnapping me?"
"Among other things."
"Jesse, don't go there, please," I warned, mostly because I'd been trying to avoid thinking about our kiss all night.
"I meant snorkeling."
My face flushed hot and I was glad the video was off. "Sorry. Guess I'm still worried."
"What if I told you didn't need to be? Got some info to share. Apparently, Mom hated the second candidate she interviewed. She told Jordan you made a much better impression."
"That's a shocker. The other candidate must have been a total loser."
Jesse laughed. "I was also right about the animal issue. She reamed Jordan for not saying anything and embarrassing her when you caught her off guard."
"How do you know all this?"
"I had a thirty minute delay before take-off, so I called Jordan. I wanted to make sure he got the bathing suit shot." Jesse's snicker bordered evil. "He did."
Air raced into my lungs so fast it hurt. "No one was supposed to know! Tell me you didn't say anything about the kiss."
"No! I'm not tired of living," he replied around a smile. "Jordan knows we went snorkeling, which he hated, but that's all. You can see other boys, Mars. Don't worry, our secret is safe."
Until discovered.
Jesse's co-pilot returned, ending our conversation with a generic "good-night," warding off any suspicion he flirted with his brother's prospective mate. Unlike Jesse, I couldn't believe what happened this afternoon qualified as "acceptable" by The Program.
The Program. Organized about ten years before my birth, the government matchmaking service culled girls and boys with exceptional genetic markers for candidates, aligning them into pre-arranged life relationships. Rick claimed it was set up to create some superior society—"genetic wonders" that supposedly would be smarter, healthier, and stronger than our international counterparts. I couldn't shake the feeling there might be something more…something darker.
I touched the tiny lump behind my right ear where a microchip had been implanted at birth to track my development for some government mega database. Everyone born after the year 2040 had them, but unlike the bands that would eventually be removed, the chip remained attached to your skull for life—property of the U.S. government.
Sam's instant message beeped me from my dark thoughts. Hey babe, come outside.
Afraid he'd wake Rick, I wrapped myself inside the lap quilt off my rocking chair and padded quietly down the stairs. Sam waited in the shadows in the corner of the yard, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Good, you brought a blanket." He gathered me into his arms and his lips sampled my neck. "I missed you, babe. Why didn't you call? "
"It's so late I thought I'd wait until morning."
Sam didn't care about my reasons. His lips pressed hard, his tongue pushing through my reluctant lips, smearing Jesse's kisses away. His hand moved behind my head, holding me tight to his mouth a second time, mashing my nose against his cheek. I shoved against his shoulders.
"Sam, I can't breathe!"
He threw his arms in the air. "What? I thought maybe you missed me."
"Shhh! Keep your voice down. And I've only been gone a day."
Sam fisted his hair. "I can't stand this damn Program. You act like they own you—dropping everything to fly off to some stranger's house. For what? A stupid interview?"
My teeth ground together. "You know it's more than an interview and in a sense, yes, The Program owns me."
"Drop out!"
"I can't!" I hissed back. Sam didn't know the truth behind my illegal enrollment, nor could I tell him to help explain my reasons for staying. Gingerly, I took his hands, dropping my voice. "It's complicated...especially now."
He yanked his hands free. "Oh, I get it. Why settle for the small town boy when you can have the rich brat. Tell me—is he better looking, too?"
"Sam, it's not like that. I told you, The Program paired me with Jordan."
"Jordan. First names now, huh? No more numbers." When I wouldn't answer, Sam pulled me close. I turned my head to avoid his kiss.
"I need to get back inside before Rick discovers I snuck out."
After a careful kiss at the front door, Sam said "I love you." I couldn't return the sentiment because it no longer felt right. He walked away defeated and pangs of guilt punched my gut. Dad was right. I couldn't do this without hurting Sam.
I tiptoed back to my room and burrowed beneath my quilt. Memories I kept buried deep stirred, bringing a clear recall of the day I entered The Program.
…A woman with a wide-brimmed red hat perched on her head, walks around me while I stand in the center of the principal's office. She strokes my hair and pulls back my slouched shoulders. "Absolutely perfect. I agree, she should definitely be submitted. I'll notify her parents immediately…"
The next day, a bright pink band holding four sparkling diamonds circled my wrist. I officially became a candidate in The Program. Later, my family ties unraveled. Mom and Dad had the worst fight ever. In the middle of the night, Mom placed Daniel and me in a taxi shuttle, and t
he three of us left for California. Without Dad.
4
KISMET UNLEASHED
An endless chirping from the oak tree outside my window woke me long before the alarm. I wished for a cat—a hungry one. I blew a long, noisy breath and kicked my covers to the floor in frustration. Staring at the ceiling, I studied how the lavender and gray shadows gave the sponge-painted clouds a realistic appearance.
Mom loved to "express herself" by painting murals on our walls to make our bedrooms our own private world instead of just a room within the house. Daniel's room once resembled a pirate's ship with his bed beneath a huge mast sporting a skull and cross-bones that scared the crap out of me when I opened the door.
Considered "the princess," my room had been painted to resemble a castle, my bedroom door a drawbridge, my bathroom one centered in a turret. Painted stone balusters joined at the window seat to look like a balcony, and out my window, the view of my kingdom. The ceiling was my sky, complete with stars painted in glow-in-the-dark silver paint scattered between the clouds.
When I returned to Ohio after an incident caused an immediate change in custody, I no longer believed in fairytales. Dad and I painted my room a dusty purple, replaced the frilly bedspread with a dark plum and white polka-dot comforter, and tossed the satin accent pillows. Large hot pink, lime green, and black furry pillows took their place. The only thing I couldn't change was my "sky." Even after all these years, the stars still shone when the lights went out. I believed in wishing on the first star of the night and if I didn't get a chance to do so on a real one, I'd pick a fake one to hang my hopes on. The one directly over my head held last night's wish, the same one for the past several weeks. One that apparently wasn't coming true.
A wayward beam from the rising sun sliced across the opposite wall spotlighting the poster of a prima ballerina in a deep bow, my old ballet shoes draped off the corner of the frame. Mom started me in ballet lessons at age six and when I started loving animals more than pirouettes, she pushed my dance teacher to advance me to the pointe troupe in hopes I'd shed my tomboyish tendencies. The shoes killed my feet and the longer Saturday lessons stole the time I usually spent helping Dad at the clinic. When I cut ties from my mother and returned to Maple Heights, I left my shoes behind.
Of course she mailed them to me, along with the poster, instructing my father through one of many arguments to encourage me to continue. Dad asked me what I wanted. I hung the poster because it matched my room and draped the shoes in memoriam, but never laced them on my feet again. I enjoyed ballet and faithfully watched The Nutcracker every Christmas. Perfecting Tchaikovsky's piece from the famous ballet transitioned my love of music into a fitting epilogue to my short dance career.
Pushing away the memories and realizing sleep was no longer an option, I crawled out of bed. Sleep deprived and not paying attention to where I walked, I stumbled over a stray tennis shoe, accidently bumping the stack of study materials for my upcoming finals off the corner of my desk. A familiar red envelope slapped the floor.
Three weeks had passed since my interview and no word from Jordan Mason. Not even a standard rejection notice. His mother must have convinced him to seek other "respectable" choices—older, more mature candidates. After all, what bragging rights would you have to an assignee still in high school?
Maybe he changed his mind when he saw the stupid picture of me in his sister's bikini, thinking "too young," although Jesse didn't seem to mind. But then again, I might have been nothing more than an afternoon snack to "Mr. Rock Star." He hadn't called either, which in all likelihood meant he'd found someone whose kisses curled his toes.
My mental muse spoke up. Stop obsessing about the Mason twins. You have finals to cram for and the last thing you need is boy drama. I caught the reflection of a girl from the mirror in the corner. She appeared preoccupied, possibly with Jordan's eyes, or Jesse's lips. The poster child of a sappy teenage girl caught in a romantic delusion. Above the mirror I'd tacked a poster of my favorite rock band, "Hopeless," their title fitting the current chapter of my life.
I made my way to the kitchen in search of comfort food. The first rays of dawn peeked through the lace curtains and tiny dust particles swirled in the pale lemon shaft. Choosing to drown my self-pity in gallons of caffeine, I headed for the beverage maker. A message rolled over the digital display above.
Mars—on emergency call—will be gone most of the morning—let Muffy out—love Dad.
Rick belonged to a dying breed of veterinarians who still believed in making house calls. He also had a soft spot for strays, oftentimes keeping them until he found them homes. Muffy, a large, black and white spotted Great Dane abandoned on the doorstep of his clinic, was the latest rescue. Her home immediately became ours, and letting Muffy out qualified, by most standards, as an Olympic Event.
I didn't bother to change out of my boxer shorts and knit camisole. This early, no one was outside. Besides, the trees out front would hide me for the short duration of the morning chore. I removed the leash from its hook and inhaled deep before opening the laundry room door. Muffy lifted on two legs, draping her front paws over my shoulders. Her rambunctious tail knocked over the clothes hamper as she squirmed excitedly while I attached the leash to her collar.
I held tight to the railing on the back porch, the pressure of the leash cutting into my fingers. Muffy bolted for the nearest bush and I barely realigned my hands in the strap before she started for the stone steps at the end of the front walk.
Out the corner of my eye, I spied a white car approaching. I feared for both our lives if Muffy darted across the street for the cat napping on the trunk on Mr. Baxter's car. My pleas became lost in the morning air when the cat yowled and Muffy leaped over the steps. The leash snapped, setting Muffy free and launching me forward. One knee smacked the cold pavement of the sidewalk and my head, the hard ground—luckily covered with two week's worth of overgrown grass. Brakes screeched. I yelled Muffy's name seconds before my world went black.
The aroma of coffee curled in my senses and a cool dampness spread across my forehead. Impulsively I rose, immediately regretting the choice when a sudden wave of nausea attacked.
"Ugh, I'm going to puke!"
"Wait, don't move." Whoever belonged to the male voice pressed an alcohol doused cotton ball to my nose. "Lie back and breathe slowly until the queasiness passes." He took my hand and applied pressure to the fleshy web between my thumb and finger—two odd tricks, but together seemed to work.
I opened my eyes slower this time, discovering the kind voice belonged to some gorgeous boy. A different kind of unsettling warmed in my stomach with the gentle way he held my hand. Something about him felt…familiar.
"Better?"
I nodded, both confused and fascinated, but before I could ask his name, a sudden warm wetness splashed across my cheek. "Muffy! You're alive…and a very bad dog."
The cute stranger spoke at his watch, pretending to dictate to a recording device. "Note: The patient has identified the small horse seated on the floor next to me." I giggled and a smile ghosted on his lips. "You hit your head harder than I thought if you're laughing at my lame joke. Can you tell me your name?"
A sharp pain stabbed my brain when I sat up a second time. "Ouch."
Carefully, he lowered me into the cushions behind my head and when his neck came within inches of my face, I trapped the scent of his cologne in my lungs.
"Are you always this stubborn?" he asked. "Stay still. You've got a nasty bump on your head and half the skin on your knee is missing."
"What happened?"
"You took a nose dive in front of my car and scared the hell out of me." He draped the afghan from the back of the sofa over me. "While you might be comfortable in those little shorts and top, I'm not."
I forgot about my makeshift pajamas and gave him a wary glance. Something about the glint in his eyes made me want to sit up just to feel his hands on my bare shoulders again, breathe in his cologne…taste his neck.
> Marli Davis! Get a grip—he's a stranger! One hot-looking stranger I swear I'd seen somewhere.
He regarded me, amused, and my cheeks flushed. "Trust me, you're safe."
Great. He's not even remotely interested.
He held up his index finger. "Can you at least follow my finger?" I crossed my eyes. "Girl, you're impossible." This time he batted his long lashes with dramatic overkill. "Please tell me your name."
I crossed my arms, attempting a serious expression. "Marli Davis. And you are?"
Eyes the color of a deep, mossy pond sparkled. "I hoped it was you. I'm Jordan Mason."
Holy hell! How hard did I hit my head that I didn't recognize the guy whose picture used to be covered in drool until...I gave up hope…stopped dreaming.
His bronze hair had been cropped short, but the sexy signature smile remained the same. Mortified, I wished for death. No makeup, morning breath, not my best boxers, and apparently, a lumpy head. I slid under the afghan.
"No way! I could die!"
Jordan pulled the blanket off my face. "I think you've already cheated death once today."
He rose and held out his hand. "Why don't you go change into something to stop my mind from wandering and I'll pour us some coffee. When you come back, we can get better acquainted."
When I stood, my leg buckled and Jordan lifted me in his arms. "Falling for me already?" The warmth of his arm under my thighs and the other holding me against him sent my head spinning and apparently stole my voice. "I could use a hint where to take you."
My cheeks flamed hot. "Sorry. Upstairs, second door on the right."
Jordan carried me as if I weighed nothing. We paused outside the door with "Marli's Room" painted inside a circle of hand-painted daisies. He fought back a snicker. "Cute."
A smile reaching his eyes played around the edges of his mouth. His intense stare felt so intimate, I dropped my eyes to avoid melting. The whirlwind of emotions I felt the day I watched his interview pod erupted.
Designer Genes - The Boyfriend Cut Page 5