Designed for Perfection

By Elle Davis

Messing with Mother Nature can have unexpected consequences...
Having a genius level IQ, model good looks, and supernatural physical traits almost guarantees seventeen-year-old Ronan Callahan a life of success. He’s a genetically engineered human, custom designed by scientists and his wealthy parents. But being designed for perfection doesn’t guarantee happiness for Ronan. In fact, his superior abilities have left him bored and unchallenged-- until he meets Cat.
Cat McCullough is orphaned and left to raise her little sister, Claire, on her own. The last thing she’s looking for is romance. In a high school full of girls swooning over Ronan Callahan, she’s the only one to see him for who he really is: arrogant and cold; and she’s not afraid to call him out on it.
Yet still, Cat is the only girl to ever capture Ronan’s attention for more than a minute. When Ronan falls for Cat, he falls hard. However, falling in love isn’t the only thing he has to worry about. A deadly virus is spreading among the Designers, forcing them to abandon their somewhat normal lives and unite in search of answers... but they might not like what they discover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Davis
• Release date: Apr 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311199072

Elle Davis

Hello Readers!My name is Elle Davis and I am an independent and liberated author. When I am not writing, I work as a part-time RN Wound, Ostomy Specialist.What makes my stories unique is that I always include elements of spiritual science integrated within storylines of romance (high functioning), mystery, and adventure.If you have received a complimentary copy, please consider taking the time to give an honest review in exchange. This is the only way that independent authors can promote their works in an industry dominated by big publishers.Reviews on Goodreads, Smashwords, Amazon, and personal book blogs are priceless!Thank you for your kind support,Elle DavisLiberated AuthorWho I am:I am a Registered Nurse, wife and mother of two amazing daughters. I think and act like an entrepreneur. I take full responsibility for my actions, and I love other people who are fully accountable for their life. I make a conscientious effort to think deliberately-striving for positive and empowering thoughts in every situation. I am a novelist who believes in writing stories that incorporate aspects of spiritual science. I am spiritual, not religious. I am grateful most of the time, but feel crummy when I'm not. I strive to be fair and objective. I come to my own conclusions and beliefs.Who I am not:I am not perfect. I am not fully who I intend to become. I am not drawn to negativity. I am not coddling. I am not afraid to speak my mind, but often choose paths that lead to states of harmony versus disharmony, which lead some people to believe that I am passive. I am not passive (especially when I believe strongly in something). I am not a conformist (just read my books and you will see). I am not insecure about much.

Book preview

Designed For Perfection

Elle Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Elle Davis

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

RONAN

The noise of my mom's high heel clicking on the colored tile floors, along with the fifty other women's in the store, sounds like a team of Clydesdale horses. She is dressed in a pretty champagne colored dress with coordinating pumps, and has her arm looped through my dad's like an old-fashioned couple strolling through the park. They look up at the signs indicating the content of each aisle and when they spot the IQ section in aisle eleven, they head straight for it. This section of the store is the busiest, as most would-be parents consider IQ a high priority for their offspring's success. A husband and his wife argue over the price of a twenty point IQ boost, and the wife becomes tearful when her husband tells her they can't afford it. My parents look sympathetically at the couple and discreetly lower their voice, when they tell the attendant that they will take the twenty point IQ boost. It takes only a second for the attendant to key the choice into the computer and then my mom drags my dad over to aisle five to look at the cosmetic traits, the second most important thing to a would-be mother. The attendants, dressed in white lab coats, stand behind the counter, poised to assist the wealthy couples in putting together the perfect custom package.

What do you think of that one? my mom asks, tapping her fingernail on the display case. As if on cue, the attendant reaches in and pulls out the small box before my dad has a chance to reply.

Ah yes. You can't go wrong with the amber. It's a little bit pricey, but it's one of my favorites, the attendant says, complimenting my mother for her good taste. He places the box on the counter and both my parents immediately lean in to get a closer look.

I wonder how it will it look with the olive skin? she murmurs, mostly to herself.

I think the gold and copper flecks will look outstanding against a darker skin tone, the attendant smoothly interjects. Then swiftly adds It's a unique combination, especially when paired with dark brown hair.

He'll be original, my mom says proudly, already sounding like she's made up her mind.

All right, if you're sure you like it, my dad says, nodding to the attendant to add the item to their shopping cart.

The attendant tells them that aisle three is a must for those couples expecting a baby boy. Here they can select physical traits for strength, speed and athletic ability. My parents, eagerly head in that direction, already debating on whether speed or strength would be the more desirable trait. He watches them for a moment, then reaches down to replace the box in its designated slot behind the Amber label, along with the other fifty custom shaded human eyeballs, staring blankly up at the display glass.

***

Ronan, wake up. The sound of my mom's voice interrupts the dream that I am so familiar with that it seems as real to me as her voice does now. I know each section of the Build-a-Baby store in my dreams. I know which cosmetic traits my parents will choose, and that they will spend the ten thousand dollars to give me a twenty point IQ boost. I know this because I am the son that they are shopping for in my dreams. I am a Designer, a genetically modified and engineered human.

Ronan, she whispers hesitantly, nudging my shoulder.

My mom, Rhoda, and I had one of our worst arguments last night. After entertaining me with an angry tantrum, she went to bed nursing a migraine, so her eagerness to resume the discussion this early in the morning is a little surprising. My relationship with both my parents can only be described as odd. It's as if the parent/child roles have been prematurely reversed and they have unintentionally relinquished authoritative control. Even the way Rhoda approaches me now, reminds me of a child, timidly appealing to a grumpy parent. I'm not changing my mind, I say firmly, without opening my eyes to look at her. My decision to drop out of high school and travel to Europe was not well received by Rhoda. I had shattered her dreams of being class president, star athlete, Valedictorian and devoted son a long time ago, so her strong reaction to me leaving was somewhat unexpected. There is a moment of silence and I brace myself for another round of threats, pleading and bargaining, all part of her repertoire for changing my mind.

We need to talk to you, she says softly.

The word we catches my attention, and I slowly open my eyes to find both my parents at my bedside. My mom sits down on the edge of my bed, tapping her fingers lightly on the coffee cup she's holding, and my dad, John, stands quietly beside her. He rarely gets involved in our arguments, so his presence now makes me a little uneasy.

Son, he starts. He always refers to me this way, as if to remind me that I am his child. Your mother and I have something to tell you. He pauses and studies me, I suppose waiting for some sort of encouragement. I don't react. We received a call from a professor at Stanford University. He is on the board for the Council for Responsible Genomics and he is trying to locate all of the children that were... He hesitates again and I finish the sentence for him.

Genetically modified? He winces at my words and I can see the pain in his eyes. Yes, genetically modified, he confirms.

Why? I ask. My mom and dad exchange glances, and suddenly I am aware of my heart pounding in my chest.

Apparently some of the kids with DNA modifications are having problems, my mom says, avoiding eye contact with me.

What kind of problems? I ask, trying to fight the wave of nausea that's washing over me.

He didn't go in to details Son, he wants to meet with us the beginning of next month. So you want me to stay so you can monitor me? I ask, already knowing the answer is yes. My dad nods his head in confirmation.

We think it's best if you remain here with us, he says slowly and my mom quickly adds, So we can get you help if you need it. Rhoda has been paranoid of me disappearing ever since an incident two years ago, when I took off and spent the whole summer in Europe. I came home to find her thin and frail from worry, and it was one of the few times that my dad ever voiced disappointment in me.

I should consider my superior enhancements as some sort of a blessing. After all, I'm guaranteed a life of success and achievements, a birthright for having wealthy parents that could afford the price tag of a Designer baby. By the time I was seven, I was completing college level coursework. At the age of eleven, I had offers from three major modeling agencies. At the end of my freshmen year in high school, I was handpicked by a professional football scout for the Dallas Cowboys, ready to sign a four-year, multimillion dollar contract. And, as a result of savvy stock market investments, I was a self-made millionaire by the time I turned sixteen. But, for reasons not fully understood by me, I wander through my life bored stiff with the events and people that surround me, constantly blaming my chagrin on my parents and the scientists that created me. I inhale deeply and lie back down, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

He did say that his agency is trying to find the pre-birth records on all of the CGEM patients, and they have some promising leads, my mom says cautiously.

My trip to Europe was spent in a futile attempt at trying to track down my prenatal records. CGEM, the Center for Genetically Enhanced and Modified, was the reproductive clinic where I was genetically engineered. I was just shy of fourteen years old when I learned the truth about my pre-birth alterations. It was my maternal grandmother Kate who provided me with the details of my parents' involvement with CGEM, a confession that strained the relationship with her only daughter. She said they were ahead of their time when it came to genetic engineering, offering not only legal reproductive techniques for things such as gender selection and genetic screening, but, a variety of illegal, somewhat experimental modifications using non-human DNA to boost physical, emotional, intellectual and psychic skills. It was an offer that was too irresistible to affluent, would-be parents (including my own), and they were easily seduced into the build-a-baby workshop mentality.

Do the Harolds know? I think out loud.

Yes, they are talking to Burke tonight, my dad says quietly. Burke Harold is the only other Designer kid known to me. He's my age, and our parents have been friends since before our birth. When my dad was transferred with the military to Montana, their family followed two years later. He is the closest thing I have to a friend or sibling. His parents are one of the few couples that my parents socialize with on a regular basis. We both were designed with beauty in mind, so Burke is as attractive as I am. His eyesight, hearing, strength and speed are also equally parallel to mine, although his personality is my mirrored opposite. My cold, arrogant demeanor is in stark contrast to his warm, easygoing, charming disposition. I guess his mom did a better job of selecting personality traits. He seems unaffected by the knowledge of his conception and unlike me, harbors no resentment towards his parents. Actually, he seems to embrace his gifts, using them to his advantage. He welcomed the modeling contracts, pocketing thousands of dollars while sleeping with every top female model in the industry. He also caught the attention of an NBA scout and is now the NBA's top draft pick, with multiple offers on the table, the minute he graduates from high school. He doesn't quite have my same interest in the stock market, but managed to talk me into investing for him, making him the second youngest self-made millionaire.

I wonder if this will change his mind about being a Designer, I mutter under my breath, as I throw the covers off of me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, almost displacing my mom to the floor. I turn and face the two of them, and see them cower under my glare. Well, you've messed with Mother Nature and now I'm the one who's going to pay the consequences. Thanks a lot! Please don't tell me you didn't see this coming, I say directing my sarcasm more to my mom than dad.

Son, at the time, it seemed like... my dad starts to say before I stop him.

Save it, I reply flatly, pulling on a pair of running shorts. I can feel a familiar rage, churning within me and I estimate I am only seconds away from erupting. It's happened once before, and it scared even me. I need to go for a run, I say through clenched teeth. A few months ago, I put my fist through the bathroom door, leaving a nice sized hole. It was the only physical expression of my anger so far, but I wasn't convinced that it would be the last. Even my dad, who works out daily and can bench press three hundred pounds, would be no match for my strength, should I lose it. I won't lose control, I silently promise myself. I may be made up of animal DNA, but I refuse to become one. Five miles into my run, my muscles finally start to relax. I wait until I am under the cover of the tree lined forest, before picking up my gait, not wanting to draw the attention of curious onlookers who might question the speed at which I am running. I allow my legs to stretch fully as I gain speed. Running feels as natural to me as it must to a cheetah and I have a returning thought that I must have some sort of feline DNA in me.

At just past eight on a Friday morning, I don't expect much activity on the trails through the Lewis and Clark National Forest, so the sound of a young girl's laughter drifting through the trees, catches me off guard.

Watch your step on the other side of the log, it's slippery, she calls to someone.

There is no reply, not even when she points out a white-tailed deer, with a level of excitement in her voice that warrants a response. I estimate her to be about 100 yards ahead of me on the trail, based on the clarity of her words. Over the years, I have learned to use my supernatural hearing to gauge distance between sounds, something that makes me sort of a hypocrite to my anti-designer stance. The girl continues her one-sided dialogue, cheerfully identifying various plants and animals to a silent companion or maybe to herself, I can't be sure. I stop and listen more intently to the sounds, clues that there may be additional hikers, but I can't detect even a second set of footsteps. Great, a crazy lady on the trail, talking to herself! Could this day get any worse? I think to myself, becoming instantly irritated by the certain inconvenience it would cause me to have to escort her out. I hesitate a moment, debating on whether or not to just turn back around, when the sweet velvety sound of her voice, singing an unfamiliar tune, permeates the silence. It stops me in my tracks and I smile in spite of myself. Okay, so it's a crazy lady with a golden voice. Now that may be worth a heroic rescue, I muse and I continue down the trail, one switchback away from a face-to-face encounter with her.

She doesn't see me watching her from the other side of the trail, nor does the little girl accompanying her. They are kneeling along the side of the trail, engrossed by something found on one of the trees. The older one continues to sing as she carefully plucks a yellow banana slug from the base of the tree, proudly holding it up for the younger girl to examine. They both grin.

Ok, do you have yours ready?

The younger one nods her head and holds up her banana slug. You have to promise me that you'll do it, if I do it, she warns. The younger one nods again.

Ok, here we go. Locking eyes, they each bring their banana slug to their lips, simultaneously licking the body of it, and quickly discarding it to the forest floor. I hold my breath, completely fascinated by the unfolding activities.

What the hell are they doing? I inadvertently mumble a little too loud.

They both turn, wide-eyed in my direction, the older girl looking slightly embarrassed and the younger one looking triumphant. The circumstances leave me unprepared for polite conversation and I say the first thing that comes to mind.

Hungry?

The older girl, who I estimate to be around my age, quickly stands up, bringing a hand to her mouth, attempting to hide a smile.

No, it's a science experiment. They make your tongue numb, she says, opening her mouth and pointing to her tongue, sounding much like someone who just had dental work.

The younger one nods her head vigorously and taps the arm of the older, using sign language to eagerly communicate something to her. She responds with a shake of her head, glancing briefly in my direction.

Have a goo ay, she mumbles, now having more difficulty pronouncing her words. She grabs the little girl by the hand and leads her back in the direction they came from, silently using their hands to communicate.

I watch them, until they disappear around the bend, then slowly reach down and pick up the discarded banana slug. Turning it over, I let my tongue slide over the body. It is instantly coated with a sticky, gelatin slime which makes me want to gag. The banana slug girl was right, my tongue stayed numb well into the evening.

CHAPTER TWO

RONAN

I have been awake for hours when my alarm clock sounds. It isn't the fact that this is the first day of school that keeps me from sleeping, because events involving school rarely occupy my thoughts, and never interrupt my sleep. I haven't slept well since the conversation with my parents when they informed me that some Designers were having serious, non-specific health issues. I've never been ill in my life and feel perfectly healthy now, but nonetheless, I can't shake the feeling that my parents know more about the situation than they are telling.

I lie in bed staring out the window at nothing in particular. Although there is frost on the ground, the sun is already up, and it looks like it's turning out to be a good day to ride my motorcycle. I can hear Rhoda in the kitchen and wonder if she will be going to work soon. I hoped so-the tension between the two of us has been worse than normal lately.

I look at the clock and calculate that I have about eighteen minutes until the first bell rings, so I get up and dress quickly, not giving much thought to what I am wearing. In fact, I rarely give much thought to my appearance, but today, I pause long enough to catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark hair, olive skin and amber eyes; all cosmetic traits that were chosen for me. I supposed if I cared more, I would have appreciated my parents' choices. I had been complimented my whole life on my physical appearance and there's never a shortage of interested females vying for my attention.

My eyes are the most troubling to me. The strong yellow, golden color with a tint of copper makes me look like a wolf, and as much as I avoid making eye contact with people, they are always drawn to my eyes, like a moth to a flame.

Ronan, are you up? my mom calls up the stairs.

I detect a hint of anxiety in her voice and imagine it is taking every ounce of her self-control to not come up and check.

Coming! I grumble. The smell of bacon makes me move just a little quicker. I can see the relief in my mom's eyes when she sees that I am already dressed. She gives me the once over look, but doesn't comment on my untidy appearance. I grab a bagel and a few strips of bacon and head for the door.

Hey, Ronan, she says stopping me before I reach the door. Thanks.

I have a mouthful of bagel and can't reply, but instead nod, and give her a half-hearted smile. We are not the type of family that shows much emotion, (especially my mom and I) or displays affection, but lately I am seeing something in my parents' eyes that I am not used to...sadness.

***

In spite of the traffic, I easily make it to school with seven minutes to spare before the first bell. The parking lot is already full, but one of the perks of riding a motorcycle; there is always available parking. There are clusters of students gathered on the front lawn of the school, most of whom I readily recognize. The cool, brisk air didn't prevent most of the high school girls from showing up in short skirts with spaghetti strap tops. They look ridiculous to me, standing there with their arms folded across their chest, shivering. I would never understand how their obvious need for attention and peer acceptance could override the basic need for warmth and comfort.

The Brazier twins, Mason and Leland, are stationed near the front entrance, along with two of their sidekicks. They are by all rights, the official bullies of the school. While they have a few consistent targets that they pester all year, no one is really exempt from their harassment. I am one of the few students that the Brazier twins leave alone.

They made the mistake of cornering me once for money. It cost Leland a broken arm, and Mason a black eye and broken nose. It could have been much worse, I fought hard to control myself. The desire was there to kill them both. My strength, speed and fighting skills were no match for their gang, and from that day on, they kept a respectful, healthy distance from me. The other students considered me some sort of hero, which I find amusing considering that I am void of any noble qualities. Granted, I am fearless, but I rarely defend or protect anyone but myself.

In fact, I find the twins' terrorizing behavior to others an interesting and enjoyable distraction from the otherwise boring, mundane, school day. This is one of the reasons I refused to attend the prestigious private school like my parents had intended. I spent half of my freshman year there and found the serious academic students to be respectful and well-behaved, but dull and monotonous. I thought I should be provided with more entertainment for my efforts.

I stand and observe the Brazier twins now as they flirt with a group of sophomore girls walking up the stairs. The girls giggle and a few of the braver ones engage them in a friendly banter, likely flattered by the attention they are receiving from the notorious pair. Leland makes a few snide remarks to some unfortunate nerdish types, but lets them by without further assault. Tucker Schilling isn't so lucky.

Last year he made the mistake of admitting to his homosexuality and the Brazier twins ruthlessly badgered him all year long. It appears that the bullying will continue again this year as Mason now calls out some unflattering names, which Tucker ignores. I am not sure if Tucker's indifference sparks something in Mason, or if he is just showing off for the small group of female spectators, but in one swift movement he manages to shove Tucker hard enough to knock his notebook out of his hands, scattering all of its contents on the ground and into the path of the crowd of students now entering the school.

I feel a thrill course through my veins at the anticipation of a fight, but to my disappointment Tucker remains calm and unfazed, quietly bending down to retrieve his papers, barely giving Mason a second glance. Mason, not ready to let it drop, reaches down and grabs a fistful of papers, waving them in front of Tucker's face.

Need these you queer? he jeers,