An Excerpt from Chapter Six of The Fourth Piece

Chapter Six

Devon

THE NEIGHBORHOOD’S QUIET AT SIX in the morning.

The only people out are joggers and folks walking

their dogs. I nod to them as they pass by panting and

sweating, earbuds secure. I love early morning people;

they don’t talk much. We all have a purpose: workout.

We got no time for keeping up appearances. Mrs. Garner,

a lady who’s always in pumps and nylons at the

damn grocery store, runs in a ratty old sweat suit. Mr.

Taylor, three-piece Armani man, runs in biker shorts and

a tank. I love being alone and not having to slow down

to keep pace with teammates.

I’m miles from my house, running through the suburban

maze known as the Better Side of Town. Houston’s

so big there’s no telling how many suburbs are out

there claiming to be H-Town’s ‘Best Part.’ One day, the

Greater Houston Area is gonna take up half the state.

Every five minutes some new little town gets annexed.

Just last month, the city reigned in another million dollar

neighborhood—though a lot of people protested because

it’s full of aliens.

I still remember the insanity when aliens first started

buying houses in the area. All the humans moved out,

saying the Visitors were bringing down the property value.

But, you know, one thing I can say about Visitors is

that they keep stuff clean. Since the regulars moved out,

that whole place friggin’ sparkles. I like running by it

every now and again.

My sneakers pound the pavement, pat, pat, pat. I

love that sound more than listening to my iPlay. The

sports watch on my wrist tells me I’ve gone ten miles in

forty-nine minutes. My skin’s dry and I’m not breathing

hard; my heart beats slow and steady.

The sun’s not up until seven, so the sky’s dark and

streetlights are still on. A few cars are in the street, and

the red glow from their taillights wash over my tan skin.

The woman staring at me through a bay window makes

me wonder what I look like bathed in red light.

I slow my pace, waving at the woman as she stands

behind open blinds, curtains drawn, holding a mug and

watching. A little smirk crosses her lips and pride flushes

through me. I know that smirk. I grin and make a show

of rolling my T-shirt up over my abs and fanning myself

with it. I pass her window, but I know that cougar’s probably

ogling my ass. A lot of PTA moms do.

I run through the subdivision’s gate. The entry is a

stone playhouse made to look like a miniature version of

the houses in the neighborhood. It’s about six feet tall.

I look around—no cars, no people—and leap onto the

roof of the thing, breathing in deep. Mornings around

here smell like pinecones and flowers from the manicured

trees and gardens winding around the brick fences

that surround various subdivisions. The gardens stop an

inch before the sign announcing the city limits, and wild

grass and weeds take over.

I jump off the roof. My feet hit the grass with a

thump and I run towards the edge of the city. I jog into

the parking lot of a shopping strip with a grocery store,

pawn shop, Chinese restaurant, and a Mom and Pop

donut place. The lights are on inside Silva’s Donuts.

Through the glass door and big windows, I see Monica

sitting on a stool behind the counter, head tilted up, probably

watching the TV mounted on the far wall.

The store’s empty aside from Monica, and the only

vehicle in the lot is her Kawasaki. I’m completely into

college chicks with motorcycles; too bad she treats me

like jailbait. I’m seventeen, the age of consent woman,

come on. The gravel of the parking lot is crispy under

my shoes as I sprint toward Silva’s. A bell over the door

rings as I let myself into the store and a waft of hot sugar

and roasting coffee beans makes my stomach growl.

Monica barely glances at me, but gives me the

“hello” nod. Silva’s isn’t fancy, but it’s clean. The walls

are Peep yellow and the tables are small and round with

white tablecloths. A glass case up front displays donuts,

kolaches, and cheese danishes. I make my way to the bar

and hop up on a stool.

Planting my elbows on the bar’s surface, I grin at

Monica. “Hey.”

“Hn.” She slips off her stool and goes to the donut

display, pulling out two sausage and cheese kolaches

and dropping them on a paper plate in front of me. After

a beat, a bottle of chocolate milk appears too. “There’s

your breakfast, Champ. How far did you run today?”

I glance at the pedometer. “Fifteen miles.”

“You’re slacking,” Monica says. Her voice is kinda

deep for a girl’s, but it’s nice. Not as sexy as Keelie’s, but

still hot. “How’d your party go?”

I bite into a kolache. “It was okay,” I mumble,

mouth full.

“Must not have gone well if that’s all you got to

say,” Monica says, passing me a napkin.

She sits back down on her stool and I stare at her.

She’s in a tight T-shirt that makes her boobs pop and

low-rise jeans that fit her like a second skin. She’s probably

got on cowboy boots too. Monica doesn’t care how

hot it is; she’s always got on jeans and boots, always

ready to ride.

I set the napkin on the counter and lick sticky cheese

off my lips, thinking about what I want to say to Monica

about the party. Hmm. So, it’s like this, Monica. The party

was going great until I had a seizure and ripped apart

a chair. Oh, and I can’t leave out the part where Lawrie

almost drowned.

I grind my teeth. I almost killed that idiot when he

wasn’t dead. I thought for sure when I got down there

and saw him stretched out on the ground that he was a

goner. But then he sat up and clung to Lyle, and the both

of them looked at me like I was as useless as the rest

of the losers standing around watching. And from that

spazz look in Lyle’s eyes, I know he and Lawrie were

probably doing that mind-to-mind telepathy crap.

I didn’t ask Lyle about it because I was afraid I’d

hit him, but if he used his powers to send me that vision,

I would have—God, I don’t know. We aren’t close like

we used to be when we were kids, but he’s still my twin.

“Devon? Devon?” Monica waves her hand in my

face.

“Huh?” I blink and stare at her.

She’s got great eyes, so brown they look black

with thick lashes around them. She doesn’t wear all that

makeup high school girls do and she keeps her black hair

long and straight with red streaks dyed under the bottom.

“Your party?” Monica presses. She pulls the top off

my chocolate milk and takes a swig.

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