The Lovely Reckless

by Kami Garcia

  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.”

  “He wants you to come over tonight,” Sofia yells louder this time. “For dinner.” She squeals, and a door slams.

  “I guess you heard all that,” he says sheepishly. “Any chance you want to come over later? I’ll make dinner.”

  Dinner at his house … he’s asking me out. “You’re going to cook?”

  “Yeah. I have to feed Sofia. I hope you don’t mind hanging out here.”

  “That’s fine, especially if I’m getting dinner out of it,” I tease. “Let me check with my dad. What time?”

  “Six? Whatever works. I just want to see you.”

  “I’ll text you after I talk to him, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Or I’ll make it fine.

  After we hang up, I sit on my bed and stare at the phone, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. Marco called me at ten in the morning, told me my voice was sexy, and invited me to his house for dinner. In any universe, that sounds like a date. Right?

  * * *

  I change three times before settling on dark jeans and a violet top that skims my small curves. I try on a pair of black flats, but my sneakers have become part of my look. I twist my long hair into a messy bun and I’m ready.

  Except I’m not … because I’m going to Marco’s house. Where he sleeps.

  Marco knows I don’t drive (unless, I’m in an illegal street race). He offered to pick me up, but I’m pretty sure Dad wouldn’t be okay with me dating anyone right now, and I don’t want to put a street racer on his radar. Dad thinks I’m going to Lex’s, so I make a quick exit when he holes up in his room on a call with Tyson. I cut through the back of the apartment complex to catch the bus and take it three stops to where Marco is waiting.

  I get in the Fastback, and the scent of leather and citrus hits me. The whole car smells like I’m pressed against his chest.

  “Hi.”

  Marco stares at me, lips parted and eyes dark. “I’ve never seen your hair up before.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Everything about you is good.” He reaches out and touches the back of my neck. The contact sends a tiny shiver down my spine. I bite my lip as Marco’s eyes move to my mouth. “If you keep doing that, I’m won’t be able to stop myself from kissing you.”

  I want him to kiss me … a lot.

  As he drives, I steal glances at him. His gorgeous profile, the way the muscles in his arm flex when he shifts gears, and how the ink of his tattoos seems to move. I catch him looking at me, too. He touches my neck again at a stoplight.

  “Do you miss your old school?” he asks as we pass Monroe.

  “No.”

  He grins. “I don’t miss you being there, either.”

  Marco parks in front of an old three-story apartment building. The windows are barred, but the freshly painted white brick and the houseplants on the balconies make the building feel welcoming.

  Marco walks around to my side of the car. When I get out, he’s standing so close that my body almost touches his. He takes my hand and leads me up the steps to the second floor.

  He hesitates at the apartment door. “It’s nothing fancy.”

  “I’m not into fancy. I prefer real.” His hand is over mine, and I brush my knuckles against his palm. “And I’m not judging.”

  Marco squeezes my hand. “Sofia might act a little weird. I’ve never brought a girl home before, except Cruz.”

  Is he serious? I want to ask, but I’m not sure how to do it without giving away my feelings.

  “And she’s not really a girl,” he adds.

  I nudge him in the ribs. “Cruz would kick your ass for saying that.”

  He grins. “You really do know her.”

  The minute Marco unlocks the door, Sofia comes running. She hugs me and pulls me inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  The apartment is warm and cozy—white walls with framed family photos and faded children’s artwork, a round oak kitchen table with four chairs. The cushions on the brown sofa in the living room are sunken in from use, and two bed pillows are stacked at one end.

  White Christmas lights outline the inside of the door, and a drinking glass with pink and yellow flowers sits on the coffee table.

  I touch the lights. “Your apartment is so pretty,” I tell Sofia, who stands expectantly in front of a hallway.

  “Thanks.” She smiles, bouncing on her heels, then turns to her brother. “Marco, I think the chicken is done.”

  “Thanks, Sopaipilla. Why don’t you show Frankie your room?”

  Sofia beams and drags me by the hand down the hallway. We pass the photos on the wall. Most of them are ripped down one side, where someone was torn out of the picture—Marco’s dad, I’m guessing. Then each photo was returned to its frame, minus one family member.

  “Here it is.” Sofia opens the door proudly. Her lavender walls are covered with posters of boy bands and concept cars. She has two photos on her nightstand—one of a beautiful woman who must be her mom, with the same tan skin and mass of black curls as Sofia, and the other of Marco standing outside the rec center with Sofia.

  “I love it in here,” I tell her. “Did you decorate it yourself?�
�

  “My mom painted the walls before she got sick, but I picked out everything else.”

  I let her walk me through and point out all the details. Marco appears in the doorway and watches us, his strong arms folded across his chest. “Are you two ready to eat? The chicken is done.”

  “We’re coming,” Sofia says.

  Marco walks ahead of us to the kitchen. I pause at the door across from Sofia’s. “Is that your brother’s room?”

  “No.” Sofia lowers her voice. “It was my parents’ room, and then after my mom died, just my dad’s. Marco hates our dad, so he won’t take it, and he wouldn’t let me switch with him. He still sleeps on the sofa, like he always has.”

  I nod, but I hate the thought of Marco not having a bedroom because of his father. How much can one person take from you? On my way back through the living room, I look closer. Car magazines are piled on the floor. An alarm clock and a picture of a little boy in overalls holding a woman’s hand sit on the end table next to the sofa. Marco and his mom.

  Dinner is amazing. Marco made arroz con pollo, a garlicky chicken with rice. I never would have pictured him cooking. We eat and laugh, and afterward we play board games with Sofia. She’s a real-estate tycoon when it comes to Monopoly, and she beats us in half the time it normally takes to finish the game. Once she’s settled on the sofa with a movie, Marco walks me out to a small balcony at the far end of the living room.

  He drops down into a big plastic chair and pats the seat between his legs. “Come here.”

  I sit in the empty space, and he pulls me back against his chest.

  “Thanks for coming. I haven’t seen Sofia that happy in a long time.” His breath tickles my bare neck, and I have to fight to stay focused. “She really likes you.”

  I snuggle against him. “I like her, too.”

  A question lingers in my mind, but I’m not sure how to ask him without making a fool of myself.

  Stop overthinking it.

  I take a deep breath. “You said you’ve never brought a girl home before … so why me?”

  In a fluid movement, Marco hooks his arms under my leg and flips me around so I’m facing him and my legs are hanging over the sides. The position is intimate—the way our bodies are pressed together and I feel parts of him against me that make my whole body buzz, the way his hand rests on my hip and our faces are so close that I have to lean back a little to keep from seeing double.

  Marco’s other hand moves to my neck, and his fingers drift across my skin, teasing. “When I saw you in the parking lot on your first day at Monroe, I couldn’t stop staring because you were so damn gorgeous. I figured you were just another rich girl from the Heights. When you jumped into the fight on the quad, I knew you were different. Then you showed up at the races to help your friend. Most girls wouldn’t do that, Frankie. Most guys wouldn’t.”

  It feels like he’s talking about someone else.

  He frowns. “When I saw Sung with his hands on you, and I thought about what could have happened if Deacon and I weren’t there … that’s when I knew I felt something. And I couldn’t make it go away.”

  “Did you want to make it go away?”

  His lips brush mine. “Yes and no. I wanted you, but it seemed like I always said the wrong thing. And I didn’t want to fall for anyone.”

  My breath hitches. “Is that what’s happening?”

  He tugs on the knot in my hair, and it spills over my shoulders. “It already happened.”

  “We’re not as different as you think, Marco.” He tightens his hold on me when I say his name. “We both have things in our pasts that we would rather forget, and we’ve both made mistakes. We look at the same stars and see the same sky.”

  “I wish that was true. But the stars don’t look the same in the Downs. It’s tough to see past the projects to notice the sky.”

  I take his face in my hands. “You just have to look harder.”

  CHAPTER 25

  CRIMINAL INTENT

  I’ve been in my bedroom since I got back from Marco’s, replaying every detail of the night—especially the part that involved his hands and lips touching me. The apartment door slams. Cujo raises his head, mildly interested.

  Dad walks into my room without knocking, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring.

  Something is wrong.

  He tosses a stack of papers on the bed next to me. Not papers. Photographs.

  Glossy black-and-white images of Marco and Deacon—in the parking lot at the rec center, on the steps of an apartment building in the Downs, behind the wheels of their cars on V Street. I fan out the photos.… There must be at least twenty.

  One catches my eye. A picture of me folded in Marco’s arms behind the rec center from the day I had the flashback.

  “Are you spying on me?” I stand, holding the photo between us.

  “Cops aren’t allowed to use department resources to spy on their daughters.”

  “Then how do you explain these?” I gesture at the pile.

  “They’re surveillance photos from an ongoing investigation. Tyson pulled out the ones you’re in before anyone else saw them.”

  An investigation that involves the boy I’m falling for.

  A boy Dad won’t want me to see, now that he knows Marco races. I know it’s illegal, but there are worse things.

  “When did RATTF start investigating street racers?” Does he know I was racing?

  He gives me a strange look. “When they started stealing cars.”

  “What?” The world around me stops.

  Dad snatches the picture out of my hand. “He’s a car thief. Do you want to explain what the hell you’re doing with him?”

  It’s a mistake.

  “Marco doesn’t steal cars.”

  “A month ago high-end cars started disappearing—the kind you can’t resell on the street. Somebody was brokering stolen cars and selling them overseas. So Tyson and I started watching all the major crews to figure out who was actually stealing the cars. We weren’t looking for a high school kid and a dropout. Not until a witness remembered seeing a kid with scars on his neck hanging around before one of the cars disappeared.”

  “That doesn’t mean Marco had anything to do with it.”

  He holds up the photo in his hand. “Are you involved with this boy, Frankie?” Dad eyes flicker to the image of Marco holding me, and his jaw twitches. “Is he your boyfriend? I hope you don’t hang all over your friends like this.”

  My mind races, and I’m only half listening.

  Dad takes my silence as a yes and crushes the photo in his hand, crumpling it into a ball. “Have you been listening to me? We’re building a case against Marco Leone and Deacon Kelley, and whoever the two of them are working for.”

  “You’re wrong about Marco.”

  “No. You’re wrong about him. Did you know Marco’s father is serving ten years in Jessup for grand theft? He liked to steal cars, too. Maybe they’ll let him share a cell with his son.” Dad turns his back on me and hangs his head, gripping the sides of my dresser.

  “You’re judging him because of his father? Marco is a good person. His mom died, and he takes care of his younger sister. If something happens to him, she has nobody.” I’m panicking, but I don’t know what to do. Not with surveillance photos scattered all over my bed and Dad talking about Marco going to prison.

  My father raises his head and looks at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. “He should’ve thought about that before he broke the law.”

  “Do you have any real proof? Things aren’t always black and white. Sometimes they’re gray.”

  He turns and faces me, his eyes full of rage. “Gray is what happens when people aren’t strong enough or honest enough to do the right thing. Gray is the list of bullshit excuses criminals give me when they’re cuffed in the backseat of my car. And you”—he points at me—“have no idea how the world works, or you would realize that hanging out with a bunch of kids at a rec center in the Downs does
n’t mean you understand what it’s like to live there or how dangerous it is for the people who do. Monroe and that rec center might as well be Disneyland, compared to the rougher neighborhoods.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m not so sure.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Innocent people in the Downs get hurt every day. They can’t walk to work or take a bus without worrying about getting mugged or worse. Crime is completely out of control, and there aren’t enough of us on the street to make a dent.”

  Us.

  Dad means cops—the good guys. Which makes Marco one of the bad guys.

  I know Dad is wrong about Marco, but I’m supposed to … what? Pretend he’s right? Act like an obedient daughter and do what I’m told?

  He grabs the photos off the bed and shakes them in front of me. “These boys are criminals. Is that black and white enough for you?”

  “Actually, it’s not.” I retrieve the photo Dad wadded up of Marco hugging me and unfold it. “These boys don’t have anyone to take care of them. They’re just trying to survive. And I’m not ‘hanging all over’ Marco in this picture. He’s helping me through one of my flashbacks, a really bad one.”

  I pluck another photo out of Dad’s hand. “I don’t really know Deacon. But I do know that he crawled through a shattered windshield to pull Marco’s sister out of a car wreck. He even has the scars to prove it. That sounds pretty black and white to me.”

  “Do you know what else your friend Deacon Kelley has to go along with those scars? A record. His most recent arrest was for robbing a 7-Eleven.”

  Shit.

  So much for my brilliant argument. “I just told you that I hardly know Deacon, and Marco is nothing like him.”

  “But he’s friends with Kelley, isn’t he? ‘As close as brothers,’ some of their old teachers said. Honest kids don’t hang out with convicted felons. What does that tell you about Marco?”

  Nothing. But it tells my father everything. “It tells me Deacon saved his sister’s life,” I say, but I know it’s useless.

  Dad lives by a code. It’s the foundation of everything he believes, the way he has survived working on the streets for the last eighteen years. Asking him to believe it’s possible for somebody to hang out with a criminal without being one themselves is asking him to take a sledgehammer to that foundation.