The Lovely Reckless(33)

“You know what that means.” A guy across from us pours a shot, and everyone points at me. “Drink.”

I chug the liquid, and it burns its way down my throat. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I cough, and the burning sensation moves into my nasal passages. “What’s in that stuff?”

Cruz smiles. “You don’t wanna know.”

She nails her target, round after round, banking the quarter into the shot glass so many times I stop counting. I’m on a roll, too. The kind that ends with me drinking what I’m 99 percent sure is lighter fluid on every other turn.

“How are you holding up, Frankie?” Cruz nudges my shoulder, and it throws me off balance. She catches my arm and laughs. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Yeah. I’m done.” I get up and squeeze past Cruz as gracefully as possible. Okay. I’m not exactly graceful, but I don’t trip.

“Where are you going?” Cruz asks.

“I’ll be in there.” I point toward the front room with the deejay.

She nods. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll catch up with you. These guys still have some money left in their pockets.”

“Come on, don’t go,” another guy says. “You were starting to get the hang of it.”

Cruz waves her hand over the table. “All right, all right. Settle down. She’ll be back. And I’m not going anywhere yet, losers.”

I squeeze past the crowd at the keg and the couples making out against the wall. The inside of my mouth tastes like cherry cough syrup. A wave of dizziness hits before I make it to the living room.

I need some air.

Outside, smokers gather in a pack on the sidewalk. Someone whistles at me, but I keep moving.

My head is fuzzy in a good way, but I can’t say the same about my stomach. The Night Train shots live up to their name. It feels like a train wreck in there.

A hunk of metal with no tires and a missing window is parked next to Cruz’s car. Judging by the white-and-blue primer covering the car and the missing parts, it looks like it’s either abandoned or getting an overhaul. When my head goes from fuzzy to woozy, the hood of the junker seems like the perfect place to sit.

Cool air settles my stomach enough to keep me from throwing up.

Even if I do, I’m glad I came tonight. I wasn’t calculating my every move or feeling guilty about the choices I made—or didn’t make. Maybe I can start over.

My stomach rumbles, and I take a deep breath.

Don’t puke in the street at your first Monroe party. Definitely not cool.

The stars are out tonight. I close my eyes and pretend the last three months never happened.

Where would I be right now?

Who would I be?

A stressed-out senior at Woodley, playing a piano I don’t miss and torturing myself over college essays to get into a school I can’t even remember if I liked? Instead of a sleep-deprived senior at Monroe, hanging out with a girl who street races and drinking shots of Night Train?

If Noah were still alive, I can’t think of a single scenario that would end with me at a party in the Downs.

“Frankie?”

I know that voice.…

Marco.

My eyes fly open. He’s standing on the sidewalk in front of the fender, less than two feet away from me. His black shirt clings to his arms and chest, outlining his muscles. He really is gorgeous.

“What are you doing here?” He asks the question as if I don’t belong at the party, which immediately annoys me.

“I was invited.” I press my hands against the hood of the car to brace myself.

“Are you alone?” He looks around. “Where are your friends?”

“Cruz is inside.” I point at the house and realize too late that my aim is way off, and I’m pointing at the street. So much for acting cool.

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, and I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. Trying to act cool in front of a hot guy while I’m wearing ratty jeans and my eighth-grade soccer sneakers is ridiculous.

“You came with Cruz?” Marco cusses under his breath.

“I met up with her at the party.” Now he’s pissing me off. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re drunk and she let you come outside alone.” His jaw twitches.

“Ugh…” I fall back against the hood for a second. “She doesn’t even know I’m out here.” I push myself back up, my legs dangling over the front bumper. “And I’m not drunk. I only had a few shots.” I hold up two fingers in the shape of a V. “Girl Scout promise, or two-thirds of it, anyway.”

Marco steps closer, and we’re practically nose-to-nose. “Can you be more specific? Because you look pretty wasted, Angel.” He closes his hand over my fingers and lowers my arm. My skin burns beneath his touch, and when my palm grazes the hood of the car, the nerve endings tingle.

How many shots did I drink? I lost count. “Five or six. And stop calling me that.”

“Why?”

I push the hair out of my face and tuck it roughly behind my ear. He knows what happened. Everyone does. “I’m sure you heard that I got kicked out of my old school. I’m about as far away from being an angel as you can get.”

“So you made some mistakes.” Marco jams his hands in the pockets of his low-riding jeans, his eyes trained on the ground. “Compared to the crap I’ve done, you’re a saint.”