Page 2 of Reckless Hearts

“I’m Marcus,” he says to Eugene.

Eugene and I stare helplessly as Marcus wraps his lips around the straw and takes a deep suck of his milkshake. Honestly, that action should come with a ratings warning.

Marcus’s lips are works of art. Pink, plush, and perfectly crafted. They are lips you could spend your entire life obsessing over. Or at least four years of your life, from age fourteen to eighteen. Marcus’s lips have even inspired me to write somevery, very bad poetry, the type that would make Wordsworth and Yeats turn over in their graves in horror.

The rest of Marcus is just as attractive as his lips. Dark hair with a hint of a curl. Perfect, high cheekbones that somehow have a natural blush to them, along with smooth, unblemished skin.

Marcus Johnson is the single occupant of the space where the Venn diagram of stunning prettiness and masculine beauty overlap.

Marcus finishes his long, slow suck and licks his lips, which embarrassingly causes one part of me to twitch.

He gives us a huge wink. “Enjoy your date, boys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which rules out pretty much nothing.”

With that, he gets to his feet, sauntering out, his swagger even more pronounced than it was on his way into the cafeteria.

Eugene’s mouth still hasn’t completely closed as he stares after Marcus.

He blinks a few times like one does after staring at the sun for too long before swinging his attention back to me.

“How do you know him?” Eugene’s voice is slightly breathless. I can’t blame him. I have my usual post-Marcus hangover caused by the feeling of brushing against someone beautiful, untouchable, and way out of my league.

I try to answer in a neutral voice. “He’s my sister’s best friend.” Then, feeling like I should explain the encounter we just had, I add, “He just likes to mess with me.”

I reach for my Coke and use the metal straw to stir it slightly more vigorously than necessary.

“He’s the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen,” Eugene says.

“Yeah.” Despite myself, I can’t help the longing in my voice. It’s the type of deep longing that comes from having spent years categorizing everything about Marcus, from the exact way he tilts his head whenever he’s about to say something sarcastic tohow his dark hair falls in a perfect taper at the nape of his neck to the way he possesses the extraordinary gift of making Saskia laugh when she’s in one of her moods that usually has everyone else running for cover.

“Yeah, he is.”

2

Marcus

The party thrums around me.

It’s so crowded that it’s difficult to navigate through the pulsating throng of sweaty bodies in the living room. The strobe light flickers erratically while the bass-heavy music vibrates through my skull.

Normally, parties like this are my happy place. Saskia throws awesome parties when her parents are away, and they don’t even mind as long as she pays for the cleaning service afterward.

It’s a chance to cut loose, drink and dance, hook up with some people, and be merry.

But tonight, things aren’t going to plan.

Saskia’s pissed. At me.

Apparently, I hadn’t backed her up fast enough earlier when Jemma Samson called her spoiled.

The thing is, Saskiaisspoiled. It’s one of the things I like about her. She’s so confident and charming, and it comes from having always been beautiful, smart, and talented, always being the adored daughter of two doting parents who seem to constantly marvel over the fact they managed to create such an amazing child.

Saskia’s perfect life is like a beacon to me in the darkness.

But apparently, she doesn’t like to hear about it.

I’m not too worried though. In the four years we’ve been friends, I’ve been in Saskia’s bad books often enough to have a whole chapter named after me.

But it’s boring when she’s mad and doesn’t want to play.