The Lovely Reckless (26 page)

“I don't give a shit who Marco screws.” Deacon lowers his voice. “You're not the first girl he hooked up with from the Heights. He's always had a thing for rich chicks.”

He is trying to upset me. I meet his gaze. “I guess you just don't like girls like me.”

Deacon shifts his weight. “Hey, come on now. I never said I didn't like you,
Angel
.” The word sounds toxic coming from him. “This isn't personal. You're a distraction, and me and Marco have shit to take care of.”

“What kind of shit?”

Deacon's ice-blue eyes turn dark. “With all the talking you two have been doing, I bet you know.” He doesn't blink. He's analyzing my reaction, the same way Dad does. “Don't you, Frankie?”

“Is this some kind of test? Because I'm not interested.” Lying to Deacon can't be any harder than lying to my father.

A Mazda honks, and Deacon's head snaps in its direction. The kid behind the wheel turns pale. “Sorry, Deacon. I didn't know it was you.”

Deacon brings his fist down on the hood of the car, and it leaves a dent. “Pay attention, or something might happen to this piece of shit you're driving.”

The kid nods, his hands glued to the wheel.

A line of cars forms behind the Mazda. I step out of the way, and Deacon follows. If I don't act normal, he'll figure out I know more than I'm telling him.

“I gotta take off, Frankie. I'm glad we had time to talk.” He walks toward the Firebird. “I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm just looking out for you. This thing with you and Marco will get old, and he'll move on.” He pauses, and his expression hardens. “I'd hate to see a pretty girl like you get hurt.”

*   *   *

Marco pulls in just minutes after Deacon leaves. After my conversation with his so-called best friend, my knees still feel like rubber. I must look rattled, because Marco rushes over the moment he sees me.

He slides his arm around my waist, and I lean against him. Usually, I keep my distance until we're inside the school, just in case Dad has someone watching me. Right now I don't care. As soon as he touches me, I feel safe.

“Are you okay?”

“I was worried,” I manage.

He brings his lips to my ear. “Me too. I texted you three times.”

I'm two seconds away from spilling every word Deacon said when a gut feeling stops me. Deacon isn't as stupid as people think. He's playing a chess game, and I'm just one of the pieces. But I haven't figured out his strategy yet.

I take a deep breath and run my fingers along the side of Marco's face. “Did you think someone kidnapped me?”

Marco stiffens and looks at me. “Not funny.”

I push out my bottom lip and give him my best pout. “Come on … it's a little funny.”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I'll kidnap you myself.”

“Promise?”

Marco smiles and grabs my hand, pulling me through the doors of the main building. “What were you doing in the parking lot, anyway?”

“Looking for you.”

Inside, he walks me to my locker. I bang the side of my fist against the number two on the door, and it pops open. Most days, the instant gratification puts a smile on my face, but remembering that I'm using Deacon's old locker makes me hate it all over again. I'll ask Mrs. Lane to assign me a new one as soon as I have time. If she won't let me switch, I will carry my books around for the rest of the year.

My cell vibrates.

We are leaving for Richard's
college reunion at Yale. Hope all is
well. We'll bring you a sweatshirt.
I'll see you at the gala. xo Mom

Only my mother texts in complete sentences and ignores the fact that we aren't speaking.

Marco rubs the back of my neck with his thumb. “I'd give kidnapping some thought if it was the only way to be alone with you.”

“Don't plan any kidnappings yet. I think I just figured out a way for us to get some alone time.”

He grins. “How?”

The bell rings, and Cruz turns the corner like clockwork. She snaps her fingers and points in the direction of our classroom. “Let's go. We've got poetry to destroy and a teacher to shock.”

“I'll tell you later.” I shut my locker and let go of Marco's hand at the last possible moment, rushing to catch up with Cruz.

I grab her arm just before we enter the classroom. “How well do you really know Deacon?”

“Too well. Why?”

“Will you tell me about him?” If Deacon is already playing a game, I need to catch up.

She gives me a strange look. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

 

CHAPTER 31

THE ALWAYS KIND

When I slide my key into the lock and the door opens, I'm surprised it still works. The strange landscaping along the driveway and the newly painted green door made me wonder if I had walked up to the wrong house. Disney World–esque sculpted trees have replaced the cherry blossoms all the neighbors envied.

Mom loves taking a chain saw to the past and starting over. The house has been redecorated so many times that I can look at the wallpaper in a photo and pinpoint the year it was taken. But this is another level. Even Lex looked shocked when she dropped me off in front of the fawn-shaped bushes.

Lex agreed to lie for me again—well, technically her mom was doing the lying, but Lex had to physically hand her mom the phone to make it happen.

I walk across the marble entryway, relieved that Mom hasn't changed anything inside. As far as I can see, anyway. She probably converted my bedroom into a gift-wrapping room or something equally pretentious.

The front of the house faces the driveway. I sit on the bottom step of the main staircase and wait.

Within minutes, my cell vibrates. It's him. He's walking up the driveway. I catch a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror Mom shipped home from Venice a few summers ago. Moonlight from the skylights streaks the glass, giving my skin a pale glow. I shake out my dark waves.

Two light knocks on the door, and my stomach flutters. I open the door and Marco slips inside, pushing it closed with one hand and sliding the other around my waist. “Hey.”

The desire in his eyes is only a fraction of the tension building inside me. “Hey.”

“I missed you.” He brushes the hair over my shoulders and away from my face. His thumb grazes the sensitive skin along my collarbone, and the tension coils tighter.

“You saw me a few hours ago,” I say, as if I didn't miss him just as much.

Marco tugs on the belt loops of my jeans, pulling me against him. “Four and a half, if we're counting.” He licks his lips, staring down at me. “Which I am.”

“Me too.” I rest my hands on his hips, wishing it were raining outside so I'd have an excuse to make him take off his shirt again.

“You're sure you won't get in trouble?” he asks. “What if Lex's mom figures out you aren't there?”

“That would require her mom to pay attention. If that happens, we should prepare for Armageddon.”

“How much time do we have?” He tunnels his hand through my hair.

Not enough.
“Two hours.”

A week ago, that would've felt like plenty of time. Now it seems like seconds. It's crazy how much your life can change so fast. How someone you like can become the person you can't live without.

Tugging on Marco's shirt, I walk backward to the marble staircase. “Come on.”

He looks up at the massive crystal chandelier hanging above our heads. “I'm not arguing.” He takes my hand, and I lead him up the steps and down the hallway toward my bedroom. Marco takes in the surroundings—colorful oil paintings, Impressionist landscapes, and a charcoal Miró sketch; stained red cherry floors; and Turkish rugs worth more than his car. I walk faster, embarrassed by the extravagance.

Marco has never seen this part of my life. I can't help but wonder if it will change what he thinks of me.

I stop at my bedroom door, hand on the knob and my heart beating wildly in my chest. I've never had a boy in my room before—except Abel, and he doesn't count, because we were never more than friends. Noah and I had to hang out in the living room or the basement—rooms without a bed.

“What's wrong?” Marco senses my hesitation. “You don't have to take me in your bedroom.” He wraps his arms around my waist from where he stands behind me.

“I want to.” I turn the knob and press the pad that switches on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling, sending dots of light dancing across the pale blue walls. Blue and silver. Velvet and silk. Mom wanted my room to look like the inside of a Tiffany's little blue box.

Marco walks over to my dresser and picks up one of the silver frames I left behind. It's a shot of me playing the piano at a showcase concert last year. “I didn't know you played the piano.”

“I don't anymore.”

He reaches for one of the frames lying facedown.

“Not that one.” I rush to stop him.

“Is that him?” He keeps his hand on the frame but doesn't pick it up.

“Yeah. I haven't turned it over since…” I look down and study the pattern on the rug. It's hard to distinguish between the blues and greens in the dim light.

Marco lifts my chin with his finger. “If you need more time because … you're not over him.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I'm an idiot. Of course you aren't over him. Maybe you're still in love with him?”

“Stop.” I touch his lips with my finger. “I miss him, but it's not what you think. We grew up together, and Noah was one of my best friends. But he feels so far away.” I feel guilty admitting it.

And you're my right now.

The corner of his mouth turns up. “I like your room.”

It looks like a page out of a trendy magazine. “No, you don't.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the end of the bed. We sit on the edge and he smiles sheepishly, planting a quick kiss on my lips. “Okay. I don't. It doesn't feel like you in here.”

“I know.” Mom decorated every inch, and except for a few framed photos, there's nothing personal in this room.

“Sofia would love it.”

I try to imagine how it looks from his point of view.

“What's going on in your head?” Marco asks.

“My bedroom—this house—it must make me look like a spoiled rich girl from the Heights. But I'm not that girl anymore.”

“I know who you are, Frankie.” He reaches out and traces a line down the center of my lips, and my breath catches. “You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you. And you're even more beautiful on the inside.”

I touch his chest and feel his heart pounding. He's the beautiful one. I tug on his T-shirt, needing him closer. “Come here.”

He watches me from beneath long lashes, drinking me in. I clutch his shirt tighter and press my forehead against his. Marco's response is immediate—his fingers slip under the hem of my T-shirt and press against my sides.

“I'm scared.” Finally, I say something true.

“Me too,” he whispers. “Whenever you're one minute late, I think you aren't going to show. That you finally figured out I'm not good enough for you. I used to be different. Maybe if you'd met me back then … before my mom died and my dad got locked up. But after the accident, things changed, and I can't go back.”

Every word feels like it could have come from my lips. I'm not the same person I was before Noah died. If anyone understands how one experience can change your entire life, it's me. “I used to be different, too. Noah's death changed me. I'm broken, Marco.” A knot forms in my throat, and I can't choke it down. “And there's no way to fix me.”

His lips graze mine, and he pauses to suck my lower lip. The ice inside me melts, and a sigh escapes my lips. “I don't want to fix you, Angel. I just want
you
.”

He kisses me again. Suddenly, anything seems possible. I feel it every time we're together now—possibility.

When we come up for air and he grabs the waistband of my jeans to tug me closer, every part of me is on fire. I never imagined feeling the way I do right now—like nothing matters more than the boy in my arms. Like no one has ever understood me the way he does.

Marco runs his hand across my stomach and presses his fingers against my back, urging me closer. I drag my fingers over his side, feeling goose bumps spring up beneath my touch. Our legs twist together and Marco rolls onto his back, taking me with him. I feel waves of heat, and a tingling sensation that starts in my belly travels down to my toes, dragging me to the edge and then releasing me again just before I break.

“Marco.” The need in my voice when I say his name creates an unbearable tension.

“Frankie…” My name sounds like a moan, and I feel how much he wants me as I press against him.

“Maybe we should slow down. I—”
What? Want you more than I've ever wanted anyone, and it scares the crap out of me? And I'm feeling things I've never felt—sensations I never realized my body could feel—and I'm terrified to lose control?

I can't tell him the truth.

Marco freezes, his fingers touching the silky strip of fabric underneath the zipper of my jeans. His chest heaves against mine, and without his hands and lips to distract me, I realize how fast my heart is beating. He has probably slept with dozens of girls. Maybe more. He's not the kind of guy who takes things slow.

He slides his hand up to the curve of my waist, just above the waistband of my jeans, and pulls back so he can look at me. His dark eyes lock with mine. “Have you ever done this before?”

I know what he's asking, but I don't want to answer. I bite my lip and turn my head away.

“Don't do that, Frankie. Look at me.” His voice is low and raw from kissing me. It's crazy how much I love the way Marco says my name. He moves his hand away from my waist and brings it up to my face, tracing a path along my jawline. He turns my face toward him gently. “Look at me.”