Read The Lovely Reckless Online
Authors: Kami Garcia
I check my cell.
10:40.
Cruz is eating maraschino cherries out of a bar glass. “Have you seen Lex?” I ask her.
“Someone else is looking for her, too.” Cruz points a cherry stem at the ballroom entrance.
Abel walks in wearing a tux without a tie or cummerbund, and with the first two buttons of his shirt open. He looks amazing.
Cruz cracks a smile. “Go say hi. I'll be here until all this netting cuts off my circulation.”
As I walk toward Abel, I catch a glimpse of Lex's blond hair. She's on the other side of the dance floor, trapped between two guys jockeying for her attention.
“Hey.” I nudge him. “Are you okay?”
Abel shrugs. “Getting there. I met with a therapist this morning, and my father's manager rented a storage unit for Dad's stuff.”
“It's hard to lose someone you love.”
He glances at Lex. “I almost lost her, too.”
“Lucky for you she doesn't want to be lost.” I remember telling Marco I didn't want to get lost. I still don't.
Abel grins and crosses the dance floor.
When we make it over to Lex and her admirers, he pushes his way past them. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He hooks his arms around Lex's waist and pulls her close. Abel winks at the guys. “Thanks for keeping her company.”
She smiles at him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Thanks for the rescueâI almost died of boredom.”
He kisses her on the cheek. “I owed you a rescue.”
I check the time.
10:51.
Cruz walks up beside me and I jump. “Your mother just asked me how you're doing in an urban school setting. Is she for real?”
“Unfortunately.”
Cruz nods at Abel. “How's it going?”
He looks at Lex and smiles. “Pretty great.”
My cell vibrates again.
go to valet station & ask for Brian
say u lost ur ticket
I stare at the words in the message field.
I'm about to steal a car, and I'm taking orders from a violent criminal who already killed one person I love and has threatened two others.
Things just got real.
Â
I tell my friends I'm going to the restroom and leave through the back entrance. I can't risk anyone following me. I circle around to the front and find the valet station.
The guy who parked Lex's car notices me and quickly stubs out his cigarette. “Can I help you with something?”
“Is Brian around?”
“You're looking at him.” With his brown hair brushed to the side and his whitened teeth, preppy Brian doesn't look like someone involved in a car-theft ring. But I guess that's the point. Neither do I.
“I lost my ticket.”
“Give me a minute.” He jogs away and returns moments later with a silver Mercedes. It's a sleek two-door that looks vintage. Brian gets out and my jaw drops. The door opens straight up, like the doors on a Lamborghini.
“Most people never see a Mercedes Gullwing, let alone get to drive one.” He helps me into the car and pushes the door closed.
Before I can ask him if he knows where to find Deacon, the passenger-side door opens and Deacon gets in. He's wearing a tux jacket and a white dress shirt that hides his scars, with a black bow tie hanging loose around his collar. I want to strangle him with it.
“Have fun at the party?”
I'll have more fun when we get to the dockyard and the cops drag your ass to jail.
“I just want this over with.” I hate sitting so close to him. “Where are we going?”
“Let me worry about that. Your job is to get us out of the Heights.”
“Fine.” I act annoyed.
“Just remember, Marco's ass is on the line.”
As if I could forget.
Deacon taps on the dash. “Let's go. We're on the clock.”
I drive out of the lot. I'm officially a car thief.
A light glows in the guard station up ahead. I take a deep breath. The guard leans out of the open window, looks at me, and waves us through.
“Nice job.” Deacon relaxes. “I knew you were a smart girl. Keep doing what you're told and we'll get along just fine.”
I'm done taking orders. Tonight I'm calling the shots, even if he doesn't know it yet.
I'm going to do the wrong thing for the right reason.
I follow one of the main roads out of the Heights and keep heading east toward the docks while Deacon texts. Anything is better than talking to him.
We're only a few miles away.
At the intersection, Deacon looks up. “Turn right.”
“You mean left, don't you?” The dockyards are east. If I turn right, we'll be headed west.
Deacon narrows his eyes. “I mean take a right.”
“Marco mentioned he takes the cars to the docks.”
“Oh, he did?” Deacon tucks a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Well, Marco is being tailed by the cops. Plans have changed.”
Including mine.
I am trapped in a stolen car with a murderer, and I'm not delivering him to the police anymore, like I thought. Instead, I have no idea where we're going. My pulse races, and I flash on an image. Deacon pounding on Noah. Bones cracking and blood everywhere.
Don't panic.
I fight to stay calm. “Do you want me to get on the beltway?”
Maybe we'll pass a police station or state police barracks.
“No. We're gonna take Old Bering Highway.” He pauses, giving me time to absorb what he's saying. “Fly under the radar. You know what I mean.”
If Old Bering was ever a highway, it must've been a hundred years ago. The curvy two-lane road runs through the woodsâno streetlights or traffic signals. At night, the road is so dark people rarely use it unless they live nearby.
So I know exactly what he means. He wants me to drive out to the middle of nowhere and leave me there or kill me.
The exit is a mile away, maybe less. That's all the time I have to get out of this situation. I can't open the door and throw myself out of the carânot when the door opens
up
instead of
out
.
I hear Dad's voice in the back of my mind.
Critical life skill: If someone tries to move you from one location to another, odds are they're planning to kill you or do something a lot worse. Do whatever you can to get away.
The street narrows, and construction signs and sawhorses line the shoulder on the right side.
Do whatever you can to get away.
My only option is a dangerous one, and it involves precision timing, expert driving, and serious gutsâwhich, given my lack of stunt-driving experience, means it's crazy.
But it's the only shot I have at getting away from Deacon.
I think about the photo of Noah and me.
Noah, if you're a guardian angel or something now, I could use some help. Let's take one more big hill together.
The street inclines, and when I reach the top, a row of orange-and-white construction barrels stretches below me.
The Gullwing crests the hill.
Am I really going to do this?
I jerk the steering wheel to the right.
“What the fuck?” Deacon grabs for the wheel, and I slam my foot down on the gas pedal.
“Bitch!”
He grabs at me, but there's no time.
The Gullwing crashes into the barrels. I hear the sound of metal scraping, then crunching, and Deacon yelling.â¦
My body slams against the driver's-side door.
The back corner of the car hits another barrel, throwing the Gullwing into a tailspin. I try to turn into the spin, but I can't hang on.
Rubber squeals.
Lights blur and stretch into colored ribbons. The glove box pops open, and a pack of gum whips by me. It's like I'm trapped on a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair, seconds away from puking. I squeeze my eyes closed and press my palm against the steering wheel to brace myself.
The car whacks against something hard and flings my body sideways again. The shoulder strap slices into my neck. I brace myself for another impact. It never comes.
The Gullwing is facing the wrong direction on the street.
Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, I struggle to catch my breath.
I'm not dead.
Deacon's head leans against his chest. He isn't moving.
Get out. Fast. Call 911.
My ribs and right shoulder ache, and pain shoots up my neck when I lean over to grope for my purse. My hand catches the strap and I drag the bag into my lap. Dumping out the contents, I feel around for my phone while I try to figure out how to open the door at the same time.
Come on. Where's the handle?
A rush of dizziness hits.
What if I pass out?
I run my hand across the door panel until I find the handle and yank hard. The door opens and I manage to get my legs out of the car.
Leather squeaks and I see a flash in my peripheral vision.
“Where do you think you're going, bitch?” Deacon grabs for me. His nails rake across my skin. My hand closes around something in my lap, one of the items from my purse. I throw my body forward and hit the ground hard. I tighten my grip on the metal cylinder in my hand.
Get up!
I scramble across the asphalt, pushing myself upright as I gain momentum.
Cars slow on the opposite side of the road, and I run toward them.
Is Deacon still behind me?
I look back.
Deacon's ice-blue eyes lock on mine from only a few feet away. The Deacon Kelley with rage and hate in his eyes. The Deacon Kelley who murdered Noah the parking lot of the Sugar Factory.
This time his rage is focused on me. Deacon swings his arms over his head, and that's when I see the metal and realize what he's holding.
A tire iron.
“You little bitch! I'm going to bury you in that car!”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
The sound of Deacon's boots hitting the pavement gets louder.
He's going to kill me, too.
I have to get away from him.
Sirens pierce the silence. Red and blue flashing lights turn at the end of the street behind me.
Fingers dig into my wrist and I wheel around, holding the pink cylinder. I aim it at Deacon and press down. A stream of pepper gel shoots out.
“Shit!” He drops the tire iron and tries to shield his eyes, but they are already swelling shut.
The flashing lights grow brighter and brighter as a police car pulls up beside me. A door slams, and a cop with a handlebar mustache rushes toward me.
“Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head,” a younger-looking cop calls out.
I start to get down when the cop with the handlebar mustache takes me by the arms. “Are you hurt?”
“I'mâI'm fine,” I stammer.
I need Dad.
“Why don't you give me that?” He takes the pepper gel out of my hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We hit the barrels.” I point behind me. “He attacked me.”
“An ambulance is on its way.”
“I don't need to go to the hospital.”
“Is that your car?” Handlebar Mustache asks. “Were you driving?”
“No ⦠and yes.”
“It's not your car?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I need to call my father.”
“We're going to take a ride,” I hear the other cop say to Deacon.
Translation:
You're under arrest.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Fuck you,” Deacon snarls.
“I'll take that as a yes.” The cop opens the back door of the squad car and shoves Deacon inside.
Handlebar Mustache leads me to a second squad car and opens the back door. I sit down with my legs hanging outside the car and my red satin prom dress puffed up around me.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Handlebar Mustache bends down to my level.
The other cop walks over, and Deacon leers at me from the backseat of the other squad car. “I ran the plates. The car is registered to a William Lords the Third. We're trying to track him down now.”
“He's at the country club. The car is stolen.”
“How do you know that?” the younger cop asks.
“I stole it.” I look at them. “My name is Frankie Devereux, and my dad's name is James Devereux. He's a state trooper. Badge number 14755.”
“Shit,” the older cop says under his breath. “I don't need a badge number to recognize that name.” He turns to his partner. “Do you know Jimmy Devereux? He's a state trooper on RATTF.”
“Not personally, but I hear he's a tough son of a bitch.”
“He is.” Handlebar Mustache points at me. “And that's his daughter.”
It only takes the officers two calls to get my father on the phone. The paramedics arrive and check me out while Handlebar Mustache talks to Dad. “Yeah. She seems okay. We'll bring her in.”
I hold out my hand. “I want to talk to him.”
The cop gives me his phone. “Dad?”
“Are you all right?” He sounds rattled.
“Yeah.”
“What the hell happened? Why were you in a stolen car with Deacon Kelley? One of the officers said you told him that
you
stole it.”
“I did. I'll explain when I see you, Dad. But for once, I need you to trust me.”
He's silent for too long.
I imagine the best version of this moment. Dad taking me at my word, because he knows I'm not capable of stealing a car.
But my father doesn't know me.
“You just told me that you stole a car, Frankie. Why should I trust you?”