The Lovely Reckless(44)

Threads of blood and saliva splatter across his shirt.

My body convulses, and I cover my mouth to keep from gagging.

Another hit from the side. Noah sways and falls. His back slams against the asphalt with a sickening thud. The guy with the blurred face grabs Noah’s collar and pulls him up so he can hit him again and again and again.

Blood. Everywhere.

The pink glow from the club marquee and the stench of stale beer and copper pennies.

The bastard’s arm cocking back over and over and sounds I will never forget—the crunch of bone against bone, the back of Noah’s head cracking against the shiny black asphalt.

The guy with the blurred face stands, his hands coated with blood so dark it looks black. He wipes Noah’s blood on the front of his hoodie.

Noah isn’t moving. He’s lying on the ground, bleeding and broken, arms splayed out at his sides.

The bastard laughs and says something to Noah.

Why can’t I hear him?

I want to close my eyes—to stop seeing.

“Frankie?” Someone calls my name.

“I think she’s gonna pass out, bro.”

“Move!” Another voice.

The room tilts, and I force my eyes open.

Black splotches … white cardboard ceiling tiles. I feel myself being lifted, or maybe I’m falling.

“Hang on, Frankie.” A guy’s voice.

The sound of metal scraping against concrete, followed by a blast of cool air on my skin. I suck in a long breath, and the dizziness settles into ripples instead of waves.

I’m leaning against someone’s chest, and the familiar mix of leather and citrus clings to his skin. Marco. His heartbeat races, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.

“I’m okay,” I mumble.

“Bullshit.” It’s definitely Marco.

“Frankie, I need you to look at me.” Miss Lorraine.

My eyelids flutter.

It’s dusk, and darkness spreads across the blue-black sky like spilled paint. Miss Lorraine and Sofia kneel next to Marco, whose arms stay clamped around me.

Miss Lorraine brushes the hair away from my face. “I’m going to call your father.”

“No.” I bolt upright, almost smacking my head into Marco’s chin. “My dad’s at work, and he’s already worried about me.”

Miss Lorraine touches Sofia’s shoulder. “Go inside, sweetheart. She’s okay.”

Sofia nods and walks toward the emergency exit. When she’s inside, Miss Lorraine presses her fingers against her temples. “You need to see a doctor. You almost passed out.”

If I don’t explain what happened, she’ll call my dad. But if I do, Marco will find out how screwed up I am.

“Please don’t call.” I rub my hands over my face.

Miss Lorraine’s expression darkens. “Did you take something? Pills or—”

“I don’t do drugs.” I’m out of options. “I have PTSD.”

Marco smooths my hair, and I realize how much he saw. He carried me outside and had a front-row seat to the Frankie Devereux Show.

“I have flashbacks from the night—” I don’t want to say this in front of him.

She rests her hand on top of mine. “I know what happened. You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

I never want to talk about it again unless I can identify Noah’s killer. My eyes burn, but I won’t let myself cry. “When the flashbacks hit, I get dizzy. I’ve seen tons of doctors, and they all say it’s normal.”

Normal if you’re broken and glue isn’t strong enough to hold you together.

“Are you being straight with me, Frankie?” Miss Lorraine’s eyes drill into me.

“I swear.”

“I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret my decision.” When Miss Lorraine reaches the exit door, she points at me. “And I want to see you before you leave tonight.”

My cell vibrates in my pocket, and I slide off Marco’s lap and sit in the dirt next to him. It’s a text from Lex.

running late. senator’s fault.

Great. Now I get to stay here and answer questions. I chuck the phone, and it lands in a patch of dirt in front of me.

Marco touches my shoulder.

I shove his hand away. “You can go inside. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not leaving you alone.” Marco hesitates. “That’s what happened the first day we met, when I got into the fight in the quad. You had a flashback?”

Just hearing the word makes me cringe and reminds me that I can’t leave the old Frankie behind. The flashbacks are proof, and now Marco knows they happen all the time.

He knows what a mess I am.

I jump to my feet, desperate to put space between us. “Why do you care if I’m alone or if I have flashbacks? I’m not your problem.”

He stands, too. “What if I want you to be?”

It hits me, and I realize what’s going on. “Why? So you can add me to the list of girls you’ve slept with at Monroe? I hear it’s a long list.”

“Who told you that?”

“Are you saying it’s not true?” I ask as Marco walks toward me. “Or was the Frankie Devereux freak show a turnoff? At least you can tell your friends why the new girl lost her appeal. I don’t want to ruin your track record.”