The Lovely Reckless (14 page)

“Prove it.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “Kiss me.”

I wait for him to laugh. When he doesn't, I lay on the sarcasm. “After all the girls you've hooked up with, I wouldn't want to be a disappointment.”

He doesn't break eye contact, and with just inches between us, the intensity is nerve-racking. “There's nothing disappointing about you, Frankie.”

Marco's voice is full of need and desire—the same things I'm feeling. I try to memorize the way each word sounded so I can remember them later when I'm alone, when he isn't staring at me like kissing me is more important than breathing.

The possibility hangs between us.

I want to know what his lips feel like against mine.

Just once.

Would the kiss be fast and hungry or slow and deliberate?

The old Frankie never acted on her feelings. She never kissed a guy first. Instead, she waited for him to make the first move.

But I'm not the old Frankie, and I'm tired of waiting.

I lean forward and press my mouth against Marco's. The moment our lips touch, heat sears through my veins. He hooks his arm around my back and pulls me toward him.

My hands find his chest, fists clutching at his shirt. I can't get close enough.

Marco slides his tongue in my mouth, and there's nothing but hunger right now. Him and me. I swear, nothing has ever felt this good. He trails his fingers up my neck and into my hair.

My breath hitches, and his iron grip tightens around my back. I tug on his bottom lip, and he moans. “Frankie.”

The moment my name leaves his lips, I come apart.

This is more than a kiss—too much more. I need to stop.

I break away first, and Marco stares at me glassy-eyed, his fingers still tangled in my hair.

This can't happen. Not with a guy who takes me apart with a kiss. I don't want to get attached to anybody now that I know how quickly someone can be taken away. I haven't even recovered my memories from the night Noah died. I need to be stronger, not more vulnerable. But I'm not admitting that to Marco.

I catch my breath and erase any hint of emotion from my voice, as if the kiss had no effect on me. “Was that enough proof?”

Marco smiles like he thinks I'm teasing him. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to smile back. When he realizes I'm serious, confusion flickers in his eyes. His shoulders tense, and he becomes all hard edges and sharp corners again. “So did I measure up?” he asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“Rich girls like you only kiss guys like me because you're curious. You want to see how a tattooed thug compares to a rich boy from Heights. I'm the guy you hook up with when you're pissed off at Daddy or you want to make your rich private-school boyfriend jealous.” The second he says it, Marco cringes.

But the words punch holes in me like bullets. I put both hands on his chest and shove him away. “Then you have nothing to worry about, because
my
rich boyfriend is dead.”

Marco drags his hands over his face and stares at the ground. “I wasn't thinking, Frankie. I'm an asshole.”

“You're right.” I slide off the hood and walk away without looking back.

 

CHAPTER 16

CRITICAL LIFE SKILLS

After the party and my conversation with Marco, I can't sleep.

I shouldn't want him, but I do.

Worse … I want
him
to want
me
.

I need to stop thinking about him—and the kiss. And his expression when I pretended it didn't mean anything. He looked hurt, but it was probably shock. I injured his pride, that's all.

Marco wouldn't let a girl from the Heights have the upper hand.

By now everyone in the Downs probably knows I kissed him. That will make afternoons at the rec center fun. Listening to thirteen-year-olds gossip about me ranks right below attending another tree-planting ceremony.

If I know the kiss didn't mean anything, and I'll probably pay for every second of it at school on Monday, why am I still thinking about it?

When our lips touched, my fears fell away, and I felt safe for the first time since Noah died.

Noah.

My first kiss.

My first everything.

Why didn't my body melt into Noah's like that when he touched me? Why wasn't it more intense? Maybe I'm so emotionally screwed up that I can't tell the difference. It's easier to tell myself that than feel guilty about the truth.

Noah was so many things … a kick-ass lacrosse player and a terrible speller, a guy who would never turn his back on a friend or pass up seconds at Thanksgiving, the kind of guy who seemed so perfect that you wanted to hate him until he admitted all his flaws. He should've been the guy who melted me with a kiss. Not Marco.

Intensity isn't what I need.

Guys like Marco want girls they can get into bed. I'm not that girl. So why does his kiss still haunt me?

When it comes to Noah—the real ghost in my life—I find myself turning to the journal I started for Mrs. Hellstrom's class. Maybe writing Noah's story gives me a place to put all the fears and emotions I can't express out loud.

And maybe it will help me remember.

I pull the notebook out of my backpack and turn to a blank page.

Noah died in a parking lot in the Heights, seven days before his eighteenth birthday.

Most people know that part of the story.

The son of a wealthy Washington, DC, entrepreneur being beaten to death on the pavement outside a club sent the local media into overdrive.

Every detail related to the crime became public knowledge.

Noah's time of death.

His blood alcohol concentration.

When the reporters ran out of relevant information and I refused to talk to them, they settled for whatever they could dig up. Interviews with Noah's teachers as they clutched tissues and chronicled his years of academic success. Photos of him wearing his lacrosse uniform or standing next to his father in the suits Noah hated wearing. His favorite food (Hawaiian pizza) and his favorite subject (history, according to his mom—but in reality, study hall).

The only parts of the story the press never figured out were the ones that actually mattered.

Who killed him.

And why.

*   *   *

Abel texts me way too early on Sunday morning, to ask if he can come by and talk. I'm still angry with him, but he never gets up early unless he has to, and Abel doesn't do serious talks. Those are two red flags.

I meet Abel in front of Dad's building. He sits slouched in the driver's seat of his Land Cruiser, staring blankly at a plastic tricycle on the grass. I knock on the passenger-side window, and it takes him a moment to react.

He hits the unlock button, and I climb in next to him.

“Sorry. Rough night.” Abel runs a hand over his face. He looks like crap. The shadows under his eyes are dark enough to pass for bruises, and there's no sign of his easy smile.

“What happened?”

Abel tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Lex told me she doesn't want to see me anymore. I've never been dumped by someone who refuses to be my girlfriend.”

“You lied to her more than once. What did you expect?”

“I screwed up. I get it. But this is about more than that. She's been looking for an excuse to bolt.” Abel picks at a hole in his T-shirt. “After everything that happened this summer, I thought things would finally work out with us.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything that happened this summer'?”

He shakes his head. “I figured Lex told you. I guess it didn't mean anything to her.”

“
What?
You have to give me more than that.”

“We hooked up … more than hooked up.” He hesitates, like he wants to get the next part just right. “We were together, like a real couple. Even if we never talked about it. But the closer we got, the more it scared her. She used the gambling as an excuse to walk away.”

Together, like a real couple.

They slept together. That's what he means.

It's the part Lex keeps leaving out. My best friend lost her virginity with our other best friend, and she didn't tell me.

Why am I surprised? I spent the whole summer avoiding them both. But Lex kept calling and e-mailing. She never gave up. She even picked me up on the first day of school and acted like nothing had happened.

Abel rests his forehead against the steering wheel. “Who ends a relationship before it even starts?”

His question plays on repeat in my mind, daring me to answer.

*   *   *

It's after midnight, and I'm in the kitchen getting a drink when I hear the apartment door close and the sound of keys hitting the counter. Dad is home.

I'm not in the mood for an argument.

I'll just ignore him.

When I see my father, I stop short.

His perpetual five-o'clock shadow resembles the beginning of a patchy beard, and the long hair around his face that he normally slicks back hangs in his eyes. He looks like the kind of guy I would cross the street to avoid walking past. Dad slouches deeper into the dark hoodie he's wearing over a pair of baggy jeans and boots.

“Sorry about this.” He gestures at his clothes. “I always changed out of my work clothes before I picked you up at your mother's. But if you want to catch criminals, you have to look like one of them.”

“It's fine.” I shrug.

“How about a truce? Maybe we can talk like a regular father and daughter.” He's offering me an olive branch. Dad kicks off his boots and puts them in the hall closet.

“You said not to put shoes in there.”

“I said not to put
your
shoes in there. That's where I keep my work clothes.”

Now I'm curious.

When I was young, the hall closet was off-limits because that's where Dad kept the lockbox for his gun. I've peeked in the closet a few times since then, usually around Christmastime when I was searching for my presents. But it's always the same old stuff—ugly jackets and what I assumed were Goodwill donation boxes.

I take a closer look.

The ugly coats hang crammed together on the rod—canvas construction coats, hoodies, and a tacky leather jacket. The boxes are still there, too. One is full of shirts and thermals, and the other holds shoes and belts. The only new additions are the stack of jeans and a black knit hat on the shelf above the rod.

“Why do you keep all this ugly stuff in here?”

Dad turns on the kitchen faucet and digs his nails into a bar of green soap he keeps next to the sink. “I can't wear my regular clothes when I'm on the street.”

I understand why he needs a different car when he's working, but different clothes?

“If RATTF raids a chop shop or we make a home arrest, undercover troopers like me wear ski masks. But criminals pay attention to details, especially if they can't see your face. A jacket with a patch or a rip in a specific spot, a discontinued pair of sneakers—that's how they ID us. A trooper on the Homicide Team had his cover blown because a suspect recognized his high-tops.”

I sit down at the table. “Were they an unusual color?”

“Nope. Just red and white. But one of the sides was worn down from the way the guy walked. Combined with the color, that was all the suspect needed.” He dries his hands and grabs a Diet Pepsi.

“Why haven't you told me about anything like that before?” I know the basics.

My father is a Maryland State Police trooper on a task force that targets auto theft rings and chop shops. On the street, people think he and his partner, Tyson, are car thieves. But I had no idea that Dad has two separate wardrobes or that he wears a ski mask during busts.

He shrugs. “You never asked.”

It's true.

“Your mom wasn't a big fan of talking about my job. I just assumed you wouldn't be, either.” Dad finishes off his Diet Pepsi and grabs another can. “There aren't a lot of happy endings. We bust a lot of crews, but it's hard to nail the brokers who make the deals to sell the stolen cars and parts. Unless we catch them and break the chain, a new crew will crop up, and it starts all over. You don't want to hear about depressing stuff like that.”

“Wait. You quiz me about things like how to track the route a kidnapper drives if I'm blindfolded and the fastest way to get out of handcuffs before he kills me, but you think your work stories are depressing?”

“Those are—”

“Critical life skills,” I finish for him. “I know. But practicing serial killer evasion isn't exactly a mood booster.”

“I worry, that's all. I wanted to be home more while you were getting settled, but we're in the middle of an investigation.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don't usually work this many nights. I never asked if you were uncomfortable staying alone.”

“I'm not alone. Cujo is here.”

“Your mother called to check on you, and she wasn't thrilled when I mentioned it.”

“Since when do you take orders from Mom?” It's an obvious move on my part, but it usually works. “If something happened, Cujo would protect me, right?”

The Akita barks when he hears his name.

Dad nods. “He won't let anyone come through the door unless you let them in.”

“Then everything is fine.”

“Would you tell me if it wasn't?” He leans against the counter, watching me.

It's a cop thing. He's looking for a gesture or an expression that will reveal what I'm feeling. But what Dad knows about me is surface-level stuff. That's how well he knew the old Frankie. When it comes to the new Frankie, he doesn't have a clue.