Designer Genes - The Boyfriend Cut (3 page)

S
aturday. This morning I'd board a private jet bound for Florida while my friends headed to the mall to shop for dresses for Senior Ball, or to the beach to soak up some rays and color their winter-white bodies. They were free. They could spend hours in teenage bliss, ending with new clothes or a golden glow, but they wouldn't face anything life altering.

Unlike me. Today, I interviewed for my assigned mate
.

Dad drove through the security gates to the private aviation area of Lorain County Regional and followed the painted arrows until we arrived at Hangar 4-B. A white Lear jet's nose pointed our direction and a flight attendant descended the stairs.

He scowled and tapped the dash several times. "For the record, young lady, I still don't approve of this. Swear
this
time you won't agree to anything until we talk?" He rubbed his stubbly chin. "Why do I bother? You've ignored my warnings so far."

Another argument brewed. We'd barely spoken the past two days. When I'd joined him for breakfast the morning after I'd watched the pod, the wrinkled red envelope sat next to my plate of waffles.

"You opened it," he'd snorted, the irritation in his tone unmistakable. "I hoped you'd let me return it to the courier service on my way to the clinic." His fork plunked loudly against the plate. "Marli, I thought we decided to discuss decisions regarding your candidacy together. The Program owns your future once you get involved. Do you understand this at all?"

I said nothing, picked at my food and stared at the still shot of Jordan Mason I'd downloaded on my pocket digital pad. Dad snatched the pad from my fingers.

"I'm talking to a hormone-filled brick wall.
Boys
," he grumbled.

Up to that point, my interest in the opposite sex stayed limited to an on-again-off-again relationship with my high school boyfriend, Sam Jenkins. Romance hadn't been a priority in my life. But that was before Candidate 2255.

I remember nervously clearing my throat a dozen times, trying to hide my excitement before making the fateful announcement I'd accepted the request for an interview. Dad's explosive response had resulted in a broken plate and sticky syrup spattered across the floor.

"You
what
? But you're still in high school. Dammit Marli! How could you do something so foolish?"

At the time it didn't feel that way, but reflecting back and facing the private plane taking me to Florida today
,
"foolish" might be a mild interpretation. I prided myself in being levelheaded, not impulsive, and certainly not impressed by superficial things like drop-dead gorgeous boys. Apparently, I didn't know myself at all.

Anxiety crept over me. "Dad, can we not fight? I'm nervous enough and don't want to leave with bad feelings between us." I worried my thumbnail, feeling the edges of my eyes burn. "I'm sorry, okay?"

He grabbed a handful of my hair and gave a playful tug to get my attention. "Don't cry. You'll mess up your pretty face." He brushed the hair over my shoulder. "I'm sorry, too. Your old man isn't ready for you to grow up, and I'm certainly not happy about turning you over to some boy the government's chosen."

"It's just an interview, Dad. You're not getting rid of me anytime soon." A light knock tapped the window to the side of my head. "I have to go." I opened the door and he caught my arm.

"Be careful, Marli. I love you."

The brass wall of the private elevator felt cold against my back and I pressed tighter, wishing I could disappear into one of my many reflections. The numbers quickly scrolled on the way to some stranger's penthouse, each floor passing on a delicate ping. Above the touch panel, a digital clock tapped out the time.

By now, my friends had gathered at favorite hangouts for lunch. The girls would babble on about dresses, jewelry and shoes, and the boys would watch their lips, waiting for the moment they could latch on and shut them up. Kiss away the chatter.

Their decisions from this point, depending on the kiss, would give them a hint on how Saturday
night
might turn out. They only had to worry about one night, not a lifetime; the choices made theirs—not the government's. Now that I'd accepted the interview request, I danced to whatever marionette string my puppeteer pulled.

The metal carriage bumped slightly when it reached the top floor. The elevator doors opened to a foyer with a pale, colorless floor polished to a high sheen, and walls painted a faint shade of apricot. The ceiling sparkled with tiny lights set inside mirrored panels. When I stepped over the threshold under the radiance, I wondered if I'd actually crossed into another dimension. Beneath my feet, the floor glowed in bright fuchsia pink and if I lifted my foot, the color vanished, reappearing under my next step.

A security camera hummed, slowly sweeping over the foyer. An eerie feeling shimmied up my spine knowing someone was already evaluating me. I twisted a lock of hair tightly around my finger as if the silken lifeline could keep me from falling into an unknown abyss. Fingering the pink band strangling my wrist, I fought against the panic bubbling in my chest.

At the end of the hallway stretching before me, two intricately carved doors guarded the penthouse. Fear locked my feet to the floor as if held by imaginary magnets, unable to move closer to my worse fear, possibly poised behind the beckoning gates. Until a week ago, I never knew Candidate 2255 existed. Jordan Mason. Confident, boldly honest, and the most incredible looking boy I'd ever seen. Me? Candidate 5846: Marli Davis. Seventeen and scared to death.

Fifteen glowing pink footsteps ended at the penthouse entrance. When prompted, I scanned my wristband over the identification monitor, announcing my arrival. The floor returned to a ghostly gloss and the doors opened.

An older gentleman stood in the entry, his cheery wink crumpling one eye easing my anxiety. I followed him to an elegant sitting room, self-conscious of the loud echo trying to catch us as my heels tapped the granite floor.

A delicate vanilla scent settled on the air in the spacious surroundings. Two white leather couches framed a low table with an arrangement of fresh orange lilies in the center. I caressed the armrest of one sofa, the supple leather soft as velvet. Only the wealthy could afford such fine quality leather.

Across the room, a wall of windows spanned ceiling to floor. In the distance, the harbor glistened, the wharfs lined with numerous vessels. A few sailboats drifted lazily on the azure waters. Almost a serene scene, if dark sinister ships didn't frame the outskirts of the bay.

Border patrols.

Not since the year 2040 had anyone traveled outside this country without undergoing rigorous government screenings. I figured that if you were rich enough you could probably bribe your way through the hassle. Otherwise, you had to be involved with the government, or have a candidate in The Program. Another perk or trade-off.

In an attempt to quell my nerves, I wandered to a black baby grand piano in the far corner. Eighty-eight polished keys glistened in the afternoon sun. I held down the left una-corde pedal with my foot to soften the sound before depressing Middle C. I recognized the waxy feel of the real ivory key versus a slick manufactured one, the tone rich in the belly of the piano, even with the lid closed. I was nine years old the last time I played a piano with ivory keys. The upright tucked against the dining room wall at home had the plastic keys, even though it was close to forty years old. The piano before me had to be a family heirloom, although it looked as if it had barely rolled off the assembly line.

I closed my eyes, my fingers exploring the naturals and accidentals. I depressed D…then E…ventured to F and dropped back to C, carefully repeating the two measures. The image of Grandma Adams patiently teaching me to play flashed in my mind and I felt myself fall into the childhood memory, forgetting where I stood. Until my toe tapped the right sustain pedal and I hit the high F, ready to launch into my favorite piece of music: Tchaikovsky's "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy."

The note rang out in the spacious room, piercing my daydream and stealing my breath. Quickly I released the pedal and stilled, waiting for someone to scold me for touching the piano in the first place before kicking me out altogether. No one came and the room fell silent again.

Cautiously, I rounded the side of the piano. Several silver framed pictures dotted the closed lid. A surprised breath caught in my throat. Apparently, my assignee told the truth about his so-called "passions." He stood next to a racecar in one digital print
.
In another, the photographer captured him under the canopy of a deep, aquamarine wave on a surfboard. The third framed image showed him sitting on a rock against a blazing sunset with a guitar resting on his knee.

I brought the picture closer for inspection and discovered the silhouetted boy was not my assignee, but ran a close second on the gorgeous meter.

"That picture was taken last summer."

Startled, I slammed the frame down, knocking several others over. When I twirled to face the voice, my foot rocked to the side and the boy from the picture caught my hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." His chocolate brown eyes slowly swept over me. "So you're Jordan's candidate." He turned my wrist and examined the pink bracelet holding me captive. "Only four diamonds? From what I see, you're definitely worth five."

A flash of heat crawled up my neck and an unsettling sensation awakened with his questioning...or maybe it was how my hand felt inside his. I pulled away, but the feeling remained. He reached around me and righted the toppled pictures. When he glanced sideways, he caught me staring and the glimmer in his eyes spiked my inner thermostat.

"What's your name? The only reference I've seen is your number, '5846.'"

"Who are you?"

A striking resemblance to my assigned candidate, almost a
duplicate
, but science hadn't mastered human cloning. Sandy blond hair, lighter and longer than my assignee's, swept away from chiseled facial features kissed golden by the sun. Black shorts and a white T-shirt with a surfer hologram, stretched tight over a muscular chest. A smug grin pulled the corners of his mouth at my obvious, although brief, eye roll over the length of his body. The burn intensified on my cheeks.

"Doesn't matter who I am. You're not here for me. Damn shame, though. After seeing you, I'm regretting some past choices."

I checked out the band circling his arm. Yellow—not blue.

He shook his wrist. "Not the royal blue you're destined for, but
yellow
at least allows me to have a life."

The strange boy wandered to the keyboard, completing the refrain I started. "Tchaikovsky? You play the 'big guns.' Sugar Plum Fairy, correct?"

"Yes, it's my favorite piece. Sorry, I shouldn't have touched the piano. It's so beautiful, and the ivory keys…I couldn't resist."

He pulled the lid over the keyboard while his eyes held my gaze, a direct "hands off" gesture. I tried not to let my embarrassment show, but I knew my skin already mottled with red patches from the heat stinging behind my eyes.

"My grandfather's. He played piano in nightclubs to pay for college. My grandmother gave him this piano for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. When they died, the piano became ours."

The curious part of me wanted to know what happened, but being a stranger, not to mention having experienced a recent death in my own family, I knew unless the information was volunteered, questions shouldn't be asked. I gave the standard reply, realizing now it's something said more out of respect than honesty.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

He stepped forward before I could react, his face close enough I could see gold flecks in the irises of his eyes. His thumb gently traced over my cheek and I flinched, moving away.

Confusion, fear, and an unexpected thrill twisted inside my stomach. Even if he wasn't my assigned candidate, I figured he probably shouldn't be here. Nor should I have felt tingling sparks when he touched my skin.

"Strange floor in the foyer," I said, changing the subject.