Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  Her balcony door is cracked open. I push it and enter.

  Dunno what I’m doing. The light may be her mom, having a late-night snack. Or her dad, for all I know, though she never mentioned him.

  Or a thief who broke in and will shoot me the moment I knock on the door.

  My chest squeezes, the adrenaline mixing with the lingering effects of the weed, turning my stomach. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here.

  But I keep going, a strange need to see her, talk to her driving me on. Stepping in the half-darkness, around her sofa and a side table, I reach the kitchen door and look inside.

  She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking, so slightly I’d have missed it if I’d been able to take my eyes off her.

  I’m staring at her crying, a pressure in my chest that I don’t understand. What do I care if she’s sad, right? The world is unfair, I’ve experienced that first-hand. Plus, I barely know her. This has nothing to do with me.

  I shouldn’t be here. I should just walk away. Away from her, from this neighborhood, these complications. She probably doesn’t want me here anyway. Who wants a virtual stranger to see them crying, invading a private moment they have no business being a part of?

  But then she wipes at her cheeks and looks up, gasping and surging to her feet.

  Our gazes lock.

  Her lower lip trembles, but she presses her lips together.

  And that little show of determination clinches something for me, something I don’t understand.

  I walk into her kitchen, my bare feet padding silently on the floor. Her chair screeches as she pushes it back to stand, and then I have my arms full of trembling, pretty girl.

  “You okay?”

  “No,” she breathes.

  “Where’s your mom?” I whisper.

  “Not here.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Neither.” A hiccup escapes her. “Kash…”

  She doesn’t ask me how I got in or what I’m doing here. I don’t ask her why she’s crying. I don’t tell her it will be okay.

  What’s the use? Pulling her closer, I hold her, and she holds me. Her touch unlocks me. Moves my pieces as if I’m a puzzle and only she knows the final picture. I never realized how much I needed someone to hug me like this, to need me.

  I came to comfort her, and she’s comforting me.

  Whatever this is, I can’t walk away from it, not tonight, and fuck the consequences.

  Chapter Nine

  Sydney

  Kash smells of tobacco and leather, of clean soap and underneath it all, of hot, sexy boy. Pheromones, I think, shamelessly drawing in the scent. He smells all male, and it makes my toes curl on the rug and my breath catch.

  He has one hand pressed to my back, the other tangled in my hair, and I can feel his breath on top of my head. It’s… intimate.

  Tears are still spilling from my eyes, but he feels so good, his tall, lean body pressed to mine, his touch soothing, the strength in his inked arms reassuring.

  It takes me a long moment to realize he’s shaking, too.

  Startled, I pull back just enough to see his face. “Kash?”

  He draws an unsteady breath. His gray eyes glitter but his cheeks are dry. “You okay now?”

  I nod.

  His hand trails down the side of my head, twisting in my curls, then it cups my cheek, and I can’t help but lean into his rough palm.

  In contrast, his voice is soft like kitten fur. “What happened?” His thumb brushes across my cheekbone and a deep shiver goes through me. “What’s wrong?”

  All of it, I want to say. Everything. Too much, it’s all too much to bear.

  But the last straw was… “West and Nate had a fight.”

  His ash-blond brows knit. “They did?”

  “They’ve never fought before. Not like this.” And the lump returns to my throat. “They won’t talk to each other. And… and…”

  His thumb brushes away a stray tear, his clear eyes pensive. “And so you don’t spend so much time together anymore?”

  “No. I mean yes, that’s it. We used to play videogames together, and I’d watch them spar, and West would make us pancakes, and we’d hang out watching movies…”

  “You miss them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’ll get over it. Give them time.”

  “It’s been more than a week already.”

  “Since the brunch.”

  “Yeah.” God, I wish I’d never gone. I wish I hadn’t reacted to Nate’s jabs, that he hadn’t provoked West somehow—I still don’t know what it was he said that set West off like that.

  I wish that he and West had never fought.

  “That’s not all that long.”

  “It is. For them, for us… it is. I just… miss them.” God, I hate how my voice ends in a wail. I’m not that girl—weepy, whiny, entitled. Cringing, I put my hand over his, tugging it down. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s not that long.”

  “Sometimes a week can feel like a year,” he whispers, letting me pull his hand down, between us. “Like a century.”

  “Like a lifetime,” I whisper back.

  What’s this dark connection between us? He’s not supposed to get me like this, so easily, to follow my thoughts so easily, as if he’s known me for years.

  He’s not supposed to be standing so close to me, the light catching on his blond lashes and the small freckles on his nose and cheeks, on his nose ring and the silver in his brows.

  I place his hand, so much bigger than mine, over my heart. It thumps away, too fast, and he sucks in a harsh breath.

  And then he’s kissing me, his mouth coming down on mine, warm and rough like his hands, tasting like root beer and rainfall and the night.

  It’s my very first kiss—not counting Jimmy Osbourne’s pathetic attempt in elementary school—and my hands come up to fists in his T-shirt, curling over his taut pecs. He presses his mouth more firmly to mine, groaning quietly, one of his hands still caught between us, the other coming to rest on the back of my neck.

  He’s hard. The realization is a whisper in my mind, long after I’ve felt his length pressing into my stomach. He’s aroused.

  Because of me.

  Kash Graham is kissing me in my kitchen, and the whole world and its complications fade in the background, nothing but white noise. I’m dizzy, his mouth, his hands, his hard body against mine the only reality I need.

  He walks me back a few steps, his tongue pressing into my mouth when I gasp. French kissing, I think, and then my brain stops because his tongue is magical, sending electric jolts of pleasure through my body. Heat pools between my legs, and I want…

  I want…

  Breaking the kiss hurts, but I push on his chest anyway. My lips burn. My heart aches. “I can’t… West, and Nate. I can’t.”

  I thought I could. I thought this was what I needed. And it felt good. It felt right.

  So why do I still want more?

  He touches his mouth, dragging his fingers along his full lower lip, and the heat in my belly coils into a heavy knot. It’s a struggle not to pull him to me for another taste. He looks so beautiful in the low light, more than ever before—with his high cheekbones and wide mouth, his strong shoulders and tall, graceful body.

  Like a dancer, I think. Like a fighter.

  “I’ll help,” he whispers, letting his hand fall to his side. “I’ll help you bring your friends back together. I’ll do it. For you.”

  I sleep-walk through school the next couple of days, Kash’s words ringing in my ears long after he walked out of my apartment, returning to the night where he came from.

  At least it’d felt that way when I’d raised my head and seen him standing there, at my kitchen door, when he walked in and took me in his arms.

  So romantic.

  So stupid, Sydney, thinking you can combat lust with lust, erase what you feel, what you need from Nate and West by kissing Kash.

  Thou
gh he was the one who kissed me.

  And you kissed him right back.

  Jeez. Not even my subconscious is on my side tonight. I touch my fingers to my lips the way he did, and the ghostly memory of his mouth on mine replays in my mind, lighting up my blood and heating my skin.

  Just what I needed on top of my two super-hot buddies: another hottie to take over my thoughts and make me question myself at every turn.

  I’m so frigging confused right now.

  He was so right, about how time feels when you’re alone. So sweet, coming in to check on me, offering to help me.

  As if crushing on my two best friends wasn’t enough.

  Crap.

  In any case, no matter what Kash said about helping, my best buddies are still at war. Or so it seems, when I never find the two together during between classes, like I always used to. They’d be discussing a new videogame, or sparring techniques, or laughing about something the teacher said in class, and I’d join them.

  It’s been two weeks now since that fateful brunch, and I still don’t understand what exactly happened.

  West is staring at the whiteboard, scribbles something in his notebook and glances at me. “You okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he says, and I swear, those blue, laser-beam eyes can see right through me. I imagine he can see the kiss Kash left on my lips like a brand, glowing hot red.

  “Dunno. You seem distracted. And with Nate acting up and getting into trouble…”

  “How do you know that?” I pick up my pen but can’t even pretend to pay attention to what the teacher is writing. “I thought you and Nate weren’t talking.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Why aren’t you? When are you going to tell me what went down between you two that day at your apartment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Whatever, West.”

  He shrugs. “It was really nothing. He thought I’d kissed you, and was acting like a moron, and in any case, me not talking to him doesn’t give him excuses to get into fights.”

  “He thought you kissed me? Why would he….? Wait.” The rest of what he said sinks in, and while I want to hear more about why Nate thought what he thought and how that got them fighting, there’s another bit that seems to matter more right now. “He got into a fight? Nate? He’s never done that before.”

  “You only moved here a year ago,” West mutters. “Never is a long time.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Only that he used to get into fights a whole fucking lot. It got better for a while, around the time you appeared. And now…” He stabs his pen into the paper, leaving a black smear over his notes, his mouth flattening. “Now he’s backsliding. First the bruises, and now the fights.”

  I open my mouth to ask what the bruises have to do with anything, when the teacher comes to stand over us.

  “Ms. Carvajal, Mr. Brady. Anything you wanted to share with us? Maybe something about Boyle’s Law?” She gestures at the board behind her.

  All I can think of is that she’s interrupting a really important discussion, and then I think, God I hope she doesn’t ask for my parents to come to school. I’m gaping at her, and West is glaring—his default state when he’s confused or upset.

  Thankfully the bell rings before I say anything stupid, and before West starts growling. Sometimes I suspect he’s a werewolf, I swear, or at least a distant relative.

  He gathers his stuff, shoves it into his backpack and starts toward the door. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  “Did Nate walk you home yesterday?” he asks as we cross the street.

  “I took the bus. But yeah, he was with me.”

  Nate usually walks me home Tuesdays, but yesterday I got my period and seriously, menstrual cramps suck.

  He nods approvingly. “Good. Theo and his gang have been out and about a lot more lately, and I wouldn’t want you running into them alone.”

  Suppressing a shiver at the mention of the school bullies—my nemesis from day one, back when I didn’t have Nate and West at my back, just after I first arrived.

  “Talk to him, West. I saw him the other day, and…” I try to find words for the look on his face. “And he looked tired.”

  He shoves his hands into his pant pockets, gaze shuttered. “We all are.”

  I shoot him a sharp look, and yeah, he appears tired. Dark circles under his eyes, his face pale. “More bad dreams?” I venture.

  He doesn’t reply, nor do I expect him to. I guess this whole mess affected West more than he wants to admit. Nate wears his heart on his sleeve. He runs, he shakes, he pukes, he spills his guts to me about his fear that West hates him—but West doesn’t.

  He won’t talk about it, won’t let it out.

  Won’t let me in. Won’t even let me close anymore, and it hurts more than I’d like to admit to myself.

  “Those bruises on Nate.” The sun is heating my skin, and I seek the shadow of the trees that line the street. “You mentioned them again. Tell me honestly, was that your sparring?”

  West shoves sweaty dark hair out of his face, and some emotion flashes behind his sky-blue eyes. “How the hell can I know?”

  “Oh, cut the BS, West. I know when you’re lying to me.”

  At least I think so.

  He smirks at me. “I like it when you cuss.”

  “Don’t change the topic.”

  He adjusts the straps of his backpack. “I’m not.” He hasn’t offered to carry mine, and if that isn’t a sign that his mind’s a thousand miles away then I don’t know what is.

  And I shouldn’t be staring at his handsome profile, the light dark stubble along his firm jaw like a creeper.

  Again.

  Especially after kissing Kash.

  Frustrated at myself, I kick at a candy wrapper, and then a pebble, and when I find nothing more to kick, I slap at the fence of the house we’re walking next to.

  West says nothing. We keep walking, the silence rubbing on my nerve endings like sandpaper. I can’t take it anymore, not today. It’s been a miserable couple of weeks.

  “Hey, West. Want to play Assassin’s Creed later on?”

  He bows his head, winces. “I can’t today, Syd.”

  “Right. Fine.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You don’t wanna hang out with me anymore.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it, West? Know what? I’m done playing this game.” I stop and turn to him, hands on my hips. “You keep brushing me off. What’s the matter with you? I thought we were friends!”

  His mouth tightens. “We are.”

  “Then why don’t you wanna spend time with me?”

  “Christ, Syd. I’m fucking this up.”

  “Yeah, you are.” I take a few seconds to get my voice under control. It’s about to break. “This sucks. I missed you.”

  “You did? I mean, you have?”

  “Yes! You and Nate. Us.”

  “Oh.” An exhale of a sound. A flicker of pain tightens his face and hunches his broad shoulders.

  “What is it? What did I say?”

  “Nothing. Let’s just go, Syd.”

  He starts walking and I have no choice but to follow him or be left alone where the bullies can find me. “Will you talk to Nate? Please?”

  But it seems West is done talking.

  And I’m done cajoling, and pushing, and crying. I’d hate to discover that the family I found here wasn’t real, that it was all just my own wishful thinking.

  How long am I supposed to wait for this mess to fix itself?

  “This is your solution?” I hiss at Kash. “Invite us all to a party, get the boys drunk and have them kiss and make up?”

  His brows go up. “Not sure about the kissing part. Other than that… yeah, basically. Nate is the one who mentioned the party anyway. What, you don’t think it will work?”

  I keep my eyes firmly off his elegant face, so at odds with his piercings and wild hair and tattooed arms and shabby
black clothes. “I dunno. Maybe? This isn’t really a plan, you know?”

  And I’m not sure why he came looking for me to tell me his idea. Why he kept his promise to look for a solution. It isn’t as if he owes me anything—me, or Nate, or West.

  “Sorry,” he says now, rubbing at his forehead, a crease between his pale brows. “It was all I could come up with. It’s been a rough week.”

  “Why? You all right?” Why can’t I help the concern tightening my chest about this boy I barely know but whose mouth tastes like everything I want?

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth, transforming his face from beautiful to breathtaking. “Not worse than usual, anyway.”

  “What do you mean? Why does everyone around me have to talk in riddles?”

  “Who does?” His forehead wrinkles, then smooths out. “West?”

  “Yeah, and Nate. And now you.”

  “I don’t… what the hell are you talking about? I said we’re going to a party. Not clear enough for you? Your job is to convince Weston to come to the party. That’s it.”

  “If you’re hoping for another kiss, forget it.”

  His eyes widen, then narrow in anger, and a flush spreads across his high cheekbones. “Are you fucking serious? You think I couldn’t kiss any girl I want?”

  “So you wanted to kiss me?”

  “That’s not… I didn’t… Fuck.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why do I always get so tongue-tied around you?

  My heart skips a beat. “You didn’t seem tongue-tied the other night.”

  He laughs. The sound is low, like his voice, and velvet dark, and it sends heat zinging down my middle. “I had my tongue in your mouth the other night, or did you forget? Tied to yours.”

  How could I ever forget that kiss? The heat inside me flares, scorching me.

  “Why are you doing this?” I wave a hand between us, then between myself and Nate’s apartment. “Helping us.”

  And I don’t think he’ll reply, but then he shrugs and says, “Nate needs you.”

  “Why do you say that? Kash…” God, I knew it. Weston’s strange silence when it comes to Nate’s bruises, Nate’s haunted look the other night.