The Lovely Reckless(40)

He’s so close. The scent of leather and citrus envelops me.

The only interaction we’ve had since the kiss and the disaster that followed was with Cruz before school yesterday, and it didn’t involve talking to each other.

“I have to go.”

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, warm breath tickling my neck. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why?” I pretend he isn’t inches from nuzzling my neck.

“To say I’m sorry.” For yelling at me or kissing me? Marco shifts, and his chest brushes my shoulder.

Why does the slightest physical contact with him send my pulse into overdrive?

Because you made out with him on the hood of a car, and it was the most amazing kiss you’ve ever had.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Does that mean you accept my apology?” he asks. “Only an asshole would make a comment like that after what happened to your boyfriend. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” I try to maneuver around him, but Marco steps in front of me and I plow into him.

He catches me by the shoulders. “It’s not fine—not what I said or what happened to him.”

The hallway is packed. Footsteps echo. Locker doors slam. Voices become muffled and distorted. I can’t have a flashback now—not in the hallway in front of everyone. Not in front of Marco.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s a plea.

Marco nods and lets his hands slide down my arms, his brown eyes locked on mine. “Why did you kiss me, Frankie?”

It’s the last question I expected him to ask, and I don’t have an answer—not one I’m willing to say out loud. The bell rings, and students rush down the hallway like the building is on fire.

“Because you were drunk, right?” he asks.

Say yes and he’ll leave you alone.

“It doesn’t matter.” I step around Marco and walk into the crowd, but I hear him call out behind me.

“What if it matters to me?”

*

“What’s going on between you and Marco Leone?” Lex asks the minute we pull out of Lot A. “And don’t say nothing, because everyone is talking about you two.”

Perfect.

Lex tightens her grip on the wheel. “If you don’t want to tell me, then just say so. But don’t lie to me.”

I pull at the loose threads on my shoelaces. “I’m not sure.”

“But something is going on?”

I lean back against the headrest. “We kissed. Once.”

And I’ve thought about it a hundred times since then.

Lex chews on her bottom lip. “Were you going to tell me at all?”

“Were you going to tell me you slept with Abel?”

“Fine. We’re even.” Her shoulders sag. “But you don’t want to get involved with Marco. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

“We’re not involved. We kissed one time.” Knowing how Lex feels about Marco, I’m uncomfortable talking about him with her. We ride the rest of the way in silence, something Lex used to hate.

*

“How’s your hand-eye coordination?” Cruz asks later that night. We’re on a dead-end street behind an old recycling plant for more street-racing prep. The whole place reeks of wet newspaper.

“Why? Are we playing tennis?” I’m in a rotten mood. At school today, I overheard Abel on his cell talking about bidding on something.

Cruz gives me a strange look. “My racket is in the shop.”

“Stupid joke.”

“You think?” Cruz angles her body toward me. “Back to the original question. Do you have good hand-eye coordination or what?”

“I can play treble and bass clef scales on the piano simultaneously, which, musically speaking, is pretty badass.”

Cruz taps on the gearshift. She’s all business tonight. “Then it’s time to teach you the hard part.”

“Wait. I thought the ramp was the hard part.”

“Getting off the line will make or break you in a race. But even if you don’t stall, you’ve still gotta shift from first gear to sixth as fast as possible.” She taps on the plastic in front of the speedometer and gas gauge. “The tachometer will let you know when it’s time to shift into the next gear.”

Don’t stall on the line. Watch the street and the tachometer. Get to sixth gear fast. That’s not complicated or anything.

“Frankie? You ready?” Cruz watches me expectantly.

Will she kill me if I say no? “Yeah.”

“I’m gonna count to three.”

I position my feet on the pedals and shift into first. A little gas, and the six-cylinder engine roars to life.

“One.”

The tachometer reads five thousand RPMs. Exactly where I want it.

“Two.”

“Three.”

I dump the clutch too fast, and the car jerks to a stop. “Shit.”

Cruz taps on the dashboard. “Back up and try again.”

I stall two more times before I start listening—not to Cruz but to the engine.

On my fourth attempt, I hold the GT-R at five thousand RPMs as Cruz counts down.

The engine revs.…