The Lovely Reckless (22 page)

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.

He points at me. “You are not seeing Marco Leone again. Are we clear?”

Something inside me snaps.

I'm falling for Marco … maybe I've already fallen. I can't pretend he doesn't matter anymore.

I only have two choices now—deny the way I feel or admit it.

Run away again or fight.

The old Frankie wasn't a fighter, but I'm not that girl anymore.

Marco matters to me.

We
matter.

I won't let my dad take him away from me. I've already lost too much. I'm done losing.

“You can't order me around like a child.”

“I am your
father
,” he roars, the anger boiling over. “And
you
are
my
child. So you'll do what I tell you.”

“You should've spent more time with me if you wanted to pull the dad card,” I fire back.

Dad stares at me, looking defeated. “Dammit, Frankie. I know I haven't been the best parent, but you can't just clock out when you work undercover. And you've always had your mom.”

“Bullshit. The only person who has Mom is Richard.” I've never cussed at my father before—or told him how I felt about anything. But I'm not letting him off easy. Not when he's tearing my life apart.

Dad leans against the dresser. “I get it. I'm a shitty father, and you want to punish me.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighs. “I spend every day trying to bust guys who steal cars, so you decide to go out with one of them?”

Them.

Dad says it like he's talking about serial killers or mass murderers. Not a seventeen-year-old former AP student trying to hold together what's left of his family. Dad must not have any real proof that Marco steals cars, or he would've arrested him or thrown the information in my face by now. But he's already decided Marco is guilty.

“If you want to punish me, I can live with that,” Dad says. “But don't punish yourself by dating a piece of trash like Marco Leone. Haven't you hurt yourself enough?”

Knowing how my dad feels about Marco makes me wonder what he really thinks of me.

“You're right about one thing, Dad. I have hurt myself, and I've made plenty of mistakes, like driving drunk—which on your ‘everything is black or white, right or wrong' scale definitely falls into the black category.”

Jimmy Devereux the cop knows I'm going somewhere with this, but when his shoulders sag, I know James Devereux the father won out. “Frankie, you've always been a good kid. But you're going down the wrong road, and hanging out with criminals won't help you get back on the right one.”

“Is it even possible for me to get back on the right road? If we're working from your definition, I'm a criminal. Not ‘strong enough or honest enough to do the right thing.'” I do a bad impression of his voice. “Isn't that what you said?”

The color drains from his face. “That's not what I meant.”

I look him in the eye. “I don't believe you.”

 

CHAPTER 26

NO GOING BACK

I con Lex into driving me to school early on Monday, and I head straight for Lot B, where Marco hangs out with Cruz and the other street racers who idolize them.

I'm all raw emotions and exposed nerves, playing a torturous game of
what if
with myself. What if Dad and Tyson are wrong about Marco, but there's no way to prove it? What if Marco thinks I gave them information, and he never wants to speak to me again?

This situation must be some kind of mix-up, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—or, if you're Marco, having the wrong best friend. But I need Marco to tell me that himself.

I need to hear him say he's not a thief.

Pretending I don't have feelings for him isn't an option anymore, because Marco made me care. Now every feeling is that much bigger, stronger, and more dangerous.

I spot him standing next to his Mustang, and my legs stop moving. One of the guys hanging out with him and Cruz says something, and Marco laughs. All I see is the boy who gave up everything for his sister, who held me when the flashback hit, who feeds a one-eyed stray cat … the boy who is afraid to want anything for himself.

He's not a criminal.

He can't be.

Marco notices me, and his face lights up.

What if it's true and I have to walk away? Will I be able to forget that smile?

Cruz waves, but I haven't moved. I'm not even breathing. Marco's smile fades, and he jogs toward me.

“What's wrong?” He reaches for me and I step back.

“Wait.” I hold up my hand so he'll stop talking. My mind cycles through variations of the same question, searching for one that doesn't sound like an accusation.

“Frankie?”

“Do you steal cars?” The moment the words leave my lips, I want to hit rewind and take them back.

Marco steers me away from the parking lot. “Is this a joke?”

“That's not an answer.”

A familiar numbness wraps itself around me. It feels like I'm watching the situation from the outside, the way it did when a band of idiots planted a tree for my dead boyfriend, or my mom dumped me at Dad's like a bag of garbage, or the flashbacks swallowed me whole without showing me the one piece of the story I need to see.

Marco leads me behind the gym, across from Lot B, where no one will overhear us. “Who told you that? Somebody at the rec center?”

He's not denying it.

The truth etches itself into every line on his beautiful face.

“Is it true?” I already know the answer, but I don't want to believe it.

“Shit.” Marco knots his fingers in his hair like he wants to rip it out of his scalp.

Everything I thought I knew about him—everything he said to me—was it all lies? “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Marco moves closer, but he doesn't touch me. “I wanted to, Frankie. I swear. But I didn't know how to explain.”

“There's nothing to explain. You're a
thief
. Do you know how I found out? My dad dumped a pile of surveillance photos on my bed—of you and Deacon. And me!”

He shrinks back. “What are you talking about?”

Anger explodes inside me. “My dad is a cop!”

My heart pounds, and I can't catch my breath.

I told him. The one thing Dad asked me to keep secret.

I crossed a line that I can't uncross.

“You can't tell anyone, Marco.” I lower my voice to almost a whisper. “Please. He works undercover, and no one can know.”

“I won't say anything, I swear.” Marco stares at the ground.

“I'm trusting you.”

“I don't know why.” Marco looks dazed. He turns toward the wall behind him and leans his forehead against the brick, his palms on the wall. “I screwed everything up. My life. Sofia's. Yours…”

“Tell me why. I deserve that much.” I shouldn't drag this out, but I can't force myself to walk away yet.

“When my father went to prison, I inherited his debt.”

“Who does he owe? The bank? Credit card companies?”

“I wish.” Marco turns around slowly, but he won't look at me. “The car he crashed—the one Sofia almost died in—it was worth sixty grand, and my old man never delivered it. So the guy he worked for came looking for me. He gave me a choice. Work off the money my dad owed him, or watch Sofia grow up in a foster home. He threatened to report us to Child Services. It would take a social worker about ten minutes to figure out that our legal guardian doesn't live with us.”

“Who is your guardian?”

“My aunt. But she had no idea until my dad was arrested and the court contacted her.” Marco shakes his head, eyes still trained on the ground. “I guess my parents just wrote down her name.”

“If she knows, why isn't she living with you?”

“She manages an estate for a big shot on Capitol Hill and his family. My aunt is in charge of everyone who works there, and she loves it. But it's a live-in position. What could she do? Ask her boss to let her niece and nephew move in?”

Or quit and take care of them.

Marco takes a deep breath. “I know it sounds like an excuse, but I didn't have any options.”

“So you started stealing cars?” I try to imagine the kind of choice he's describing, but I can't. Dad was right about one thing. Working at the rec center in the Downs isn't the same as living there.

“At first I tried to pay off the debt with the money I made working at Kong's, but the guy my dad owed kept tacking on interest. So I started stripping cars, but it still wasn't enough to cover the debt.” Marco's shoulders shake. “I didn't want to do it. But I couldn't let them take Sofia.”

At my old school, none of my friends had trouble paying their bills. They bought whatever they wanted. Nobody at Woodley had a parent in prison. Their lives were easy—and until Noah died, mine was, too.

Marco didn't start stealing cars because he wanted extra money to burn. He was trying to protect his sister, the person he loves more than anyone. I don't have any siblings, but if I had to choose between stealing and watching Lex or Abel get hurt, I would steal almost anything.

Unless …

“Is there anyone in the cars when you take them?”

Marco's head snaps up. “I'm not a carjacker, if that's what you're asking. I would never hurt anyone.” The shame in his eyes makes me feel guilty for asking, but I needed to know.

There's a difference between stealing
things
and hurting
people
. It's the line I wouldn't cross, and Marco hasn't crossed it.

Eight steps.

That's how many it takes to reach him.

I slip my arms around Marco's waist and rest my cheek against his chest. He freezes, muscles tense beneath his T-shirt.

“It's not your fault. I'm not saying that what you're doing is right, but I understand why you started doing it.”

He wraps his arms around me. “I know I don't deserve you, but I just found you. I don't want to lose you.”

My heart stalls. “I don't want to get lost.”

He traces a path along the side of my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. “The way I feel about you, Frankie … there's no going back.”

 

CHAPTER 27

THE CHEMISTRY OF TRUST

It's been six days since Dad showed me the surveillance photos, and we still aren't speaking. Though he makes an exception every morning to remind me that I'm grounded indefinitely. I don't say a word.

I'm not interested in talking to my father—not even to tell him things are over between Marco and me. Instead, I left him a note on the kitchen counter.

It won't stop Dad and Tyson from watching Marco, but if they thought we were still seeing each other, Dad would have S.W.A.T. camped out in Lot B.

Now spending time with Marco requires a covert operation. Sneaking out isn't an option. I'm sure Dad has someone keeping an eye on the apartment to make sure I don't leave at night—the neighbor who offered to babysit me.

Inside the school is the only place safe from police surveillance, but after Marco's confession Monday, I need to talk to him one-on-one.

I walk into the kitchen, and the smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air. Dad sits at the dining room table, reading the
Washington Post
and tossing Cujo sugarcoated pieces of Trix cereal. He's drinking his coffee from a mug with #1
DAD
scrawled across the side in messy kid handwriting. I made it for him in first grade as a Father's Day gift.

That mug will mysteriously disappear by tomorrow.

“Come straight home from the rec center.” He doesn't look up from the newspaper.

“I'm having trouble in chemistry, and Lex offered to help me at her house after she picks me up.” The chemistry part is true. A lie is more convincing if it's rooted in the truth. Dad taught me that.

He puts down the paper. “Lex takes chemistry?”

“Yeah, and she's good at it. Why?” I crack open a can of double-shot espresso from my stash in the fridge.

“She doesn't look like a science whiz.”