The Lovely Reckless (20 page)

I'm still trying to make sense of it when I walk into the room where my group meets. The kids are hanging out. I tell them it's time to start working, and I take out my chemistry book.

Daniel points at my book. “Need any help?”

I flip it around so he can see the cover. “Are you any good at chemistry?”

Carlos laughs. “Daniel can't even add.”

Daniel punches him in the arm, clearly embarrassed. “Shut your mouth, or I'll do it for you.”

“All right. Let's get to work,” I say. “Or Miss Lorraine will kick your butts, and mine.”

While the kids pretend they're doing homework, I tackle my own. Without my overpriced science tutor to interpret the foreign language in my textbook, just copying the equations correctly feels like a win. Unfortunately, I doubt my chemistry teacher will agree.

Mom would hire me a tutor if I asked. But I'm not calling her. She's still texting and leaving messages about the Stanford interview.

Three hours later, Sofia and I are alone, as usual. She pulls her chair next to mine, and we wrestle with our homework side by side. What I remember from eighth-grade algebra would fit on an index card, but I do my best to help her.

I'm not as lucky. After four failed attempts at solving the same chemistry equation, I shove the textbook over the edge of the desk, and it smacks against the floor. “I officially give up.”

“Shouldn't you give an impressionable young mind a more positive example?” Marco stands in the doorway grinning, his muscular arms crossed over a chest I've imagined shirtless more than once. He's the perfect combination of strong and cut without being overdeveloped—the kind of body most guys spend all day in the weight room to achieve. Marco probably doesn't even work out.

But I'm still not happy about the way he acted after the race, even if he did say something that might mean he has feelings for me.

“Don't give Frankie a hard time,” Sofia says as she puts away her homework. “Her science class seems really awful.”

Marco strolls over and picks up the book. “Chemistry, huh? Want some help?”

Is he joking?

Sofia slings her backpack over her shoulder. “He's good at science.” She turns to Marco. “Can I hang out in the gym until you're done? There's a basketball game.”

He nods. “Don't go anywhere else.”

“Got it,” she says and takes off down the hall.

Marco holds up my chemistry textbook. “Want me to take a look?”

“You're serious?”

He puts the book on my desk and places a hand over his heart. “You doubt me? There's a lot more to this package than a killer smile.”

Marco comes around to my side and glances at the top of my paper. Then he flips to the page that has been taunting me all afternoon. He skims it quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration. “This isn't that bad.” He sits in the empty seat next to me and reaches for my pencil. He holds out his hand. “Paper?”

Handing him the paper, I rack my brain for a smart-ass comment—until he starts writing.

“It's not as complicated as it looks. You're just balancing equations.” He points at the directions at the top of the page. “You need to end up with the same number of atoms on both sides.”

I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “How do you know all that?”

Marco copies the first problem, which I had solved incorrectly. “I took AP Chemistry last year.” He stops writing and studies me. “Let me guess—you assumed I was stupid because I'm from the Downs?”

“I didn't expect you to be in AP classes because you got suspended the first day we met.” I don't want him to know that Chief mentioned anything to me.

Marco seems satisfied with my response and works through the first three problems with me. Sofia is right; he's a good teacher. He frowns a little when he concentrates, and I'm having a hard time keeping my mind on chemistry.

“Are you in any other AP classes?” I want him to tell me why he dropped them.

Marco clenches his jaw and draws triangles in the margin of the scratch paper we're using. “Not since last year.”

“Why not?” It's none of my business, but the more I learn about Marco, the more I want to know.

He pushes his chair back and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “My life got screwed up, and last year it all caught up to me.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes it seems like the wounds are still fresh.

Without thinking, I touch his shoulder. Marco's pain feels familiar, like we're haunted by similar ghosts. He flinches beneath my fingers, and I start to pull my hand away. He catches my wrist and lets his thumb drift to my palm, tracing tiny circles on my skin.

“If I asked what happened, would you tell me?”

Marco pulls my hand in front of him along with his and slides his fingers between mine. My skin tingles.

I'm afraid to move. We're holding hands. What if it was an accident? But he closes his other hand on top like he's worried I'll let go.

I won't.

He takes a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer when I was thirteen.”

“I'm sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

“It happened fast, which is good, I guess, because she didn't suffer long. But my old man was already screwed up, and her death threw him over the edge.”

“What do you mean by ‘screwed up'?” I'm praying he doesn't tell me his father is a drug addict or an alcoholic who beat his kids.

“My dad used to street race in high school. Someone on the NASCAR circuit heard about him, and my dad ended up racing for real. But his career didn't last long, and he came back here and married my mom. He always drank, but when she died, he started racing again—on the street, at the track. Anywhere he could lose money.”

“Is that who taught you to race?”

Marco clings to my hand. “Yeah. But only because it's easier to con people into racing a fourteen-year-old.”

What kind of father pimps his son out to race for him? My mom always chose Richard over me, Lex's parents have no idea where she is 90 percent of the time, and Abel's mom drinks her way through life one glass of wine after another. But none of them have ever used us to make money.

“I'm sorry.”

Marco's frown deepens, and he runs his fingers over our joined hands. He raises his eyes and looks at me for the first time since he started talking about his father. “You know what sucks? That's the happiest part of the story.”

I know how it feels to carry a story inside you—one that you want to share with someone, but you can't find the words. “If you don't want to talk about this anymore, I understand.”

“This might not make any sense, but I want to say it out loud. Deacon, Cruz, people in my neighborhood—they know what happened. But I've never told anyone else.”

And he chose me.

Marco clears his throat. “Racing didn't satisfy my dad for long. He wanted more money and the respect he lost when his NASCAR career ended, so he upped his game. He stopped racing cars and started stealing them.”

His father is a car thief—the kind of criminal my dad spends every day trying to catch.

“That's what he was doing the night of Sofia's accident. The asshole was delivering a stolen car. It was Sofia's birthday. He promised to take her out for ice cream after they dropped it off. But the cops caught up with him first.” Marco lets my hand slip out of his and folds his arms over his head, shielding himself. “He crashed the car. All those NASCAR races he won … and he crashed the car. Maybe if the cops weren't chasing him, he wouldn't have crashed.” His breathing grows heavy, and he shoves the desk in front of him. The metal legs screech across the floor.

“Is that how she got the scars?” I ask softly.

He nods. “It was a vintage car, so the windows weren't made of safety glass. The windshield sliced Sofia up when it shattered, and she was trapped inside.” Marco jumps out of the chair and paces, as if it's physically painful for him to stay still.

“What about your dad? Was he all right?”

He slumps against the whiteboard behind him. “The asshole walked away with a few bruises. Actually, he
ran
away.” Marco takes a deep breath. “He left her, Frankie. And the cops didn't know Sofia was in the car. Her head didn't reach the top of the seat, and by the time the cops caught up to the car, my dad was already running.”

Without thinking, I'm out of my chair and across the room. I pull him against me and wrap my arms around him. His heart pounds against my cheek.

“The car flipped, and it was crushed. She couldn't get out.” Marco buries his face in my neck and leans against me, his breathing ragged. The weight he's carrying bears down on me, heavier than my own.

“Did the police figure out she was in the car?”

“No. Deacon lived up the street from where they crashed. His dad used to beat the crap out of him, and they got into it that night. Deacon was walking it off, and he saw the accident. He had to climb through what was left of the windshield to get her out.”

The scars on Deacon's neck and arms—the ones that look like someone slashed him with a knife.

“I wasn't there,” he says softly. “I should've been there.”

“It's not your fault. Sofia is okay. More than okay. She's smart and funny and beautiful. She's fine.”

Marco pulls back and looks at me. “You think she's beautiful?”

“Don't you?”

“Of course I do. But not everyone sees past her scars. What happens when some guy won't go out with her because of them?”

“Sofia can handle it. Sometimes scars make people stronger.”

Before I realize what he's doing, Marco presses his lips against mine.

My mouth tingles, and the sensation travels all the way down to my toes. The Night Train must have dulled my senses the first time we kissed, because as incredible as that kiss was—this one sets every nerve in my body on fire. My hands move to his chest, and his heart pounds beneath them.

Marco responds by drawing me closer. His tongue finds mine, exploring and teasing. He tugs on my lip with his teeth, and I fall apart.

Our bodies melt like they belong together.

Like
we
belong together.

But I can't belong to anyone again.

I pull back and turn to lean against the whiteboard next to him, breathless. “This isn't a good idea … whatever we're doing.” Making out?

Kissing Marco feels like more.

He pivots in front of me and cages me against the whiteboard with his arms. “Why does it feel like you're always running away from me?”

Because I am.

If I was braver, I'd tell him the truth—that I'm scared to feel anything or need anyone.

He runs his hand along my cheek, and I close my eyes. I'm feeling too much again, and all I want to feel is nothing. “I can't do this.”

“Why not?”

Because if I let myself feel one thing, I'll feel everything. Because if my walls come down, the dam inside me will break, and I'll drown. Because I can't risk losing someone else I care about.

I stare at the ground, hiding behind the long waves falling over my shoulder.

Marco tucks my hair behind my ears and raises my chin. “I don't want to stay away from you, Frankie. I'm not even sure I can. But I'll try if that's what you want.”

The thought of not seeing Marco—of not touching him—rips at the seams holding me together. I suck in a trembling breath. “It's not.”

He pulls me against his chest and kisses his way up my neck until he reaches my ear. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Everything,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

 

CHAPTER 24

THE SAME SKY

I don't want to stay away from you, Frankie. I'm not even sure I can.

I replayed my conversation with Marco over and over last night instead of sleeping, and those are the words that make me smile into my pillow. With his arms wrapped around me and his breath against my skin, he seemed so vulnerable.

Burrowing deeper under the covers, I close my eyes and remember kissing him. Our hands aren't the only parts of our bodies that fit perfectly. When we kissed, it felt like we were made for each other.

My cell phone rings, and it takes a few seconds to untangle myself from the covers. It's probably Lex. “Hello?”

“Frankie?” I hear Marco's voice at the other end of the line, and I sit up with a jerk. He asked for my number last night, but I didn't think he would call. Not right away, on Saturday morning, while I'm daydreaming about him.

A rush of warmth spreads through me.

“If it's too early, I can call back later.”

“Don't call back,” I blurt out. “I mean, it's not too early.”

“You sound like you just woke up.”

And he sounds amazing.

“How can you tell?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Your voice is even sexier than usual.”

Sexy? I've been called cute and pretty and, once in a while, even beautiful. But not sexy.

I laugh. “I think you might need a hearing aid.”

“There's nothing wrong with my hearing. You have the kind of voice that keeps guys up at night.”

I'm speechless.

“So … I wanted to ask you something.” He hesitates. “Were you serious last night about not wanting me to stay away from you?”

I wind a section of my long hair around my finger. “Were you?”

“I wouldn't be calling at ten in the morning if I wasn't.”

“I was serious.”

“Are you ever going to ask her?” Sofia whisper-shouts in the background.

Scratchy muffled sounds come through from Marco's end, like he's covering the speaker. I hear him say, “Close the door.” Marco returns to the line. “Sorry.”