Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  I recoil, cold washing through me. Bad dream? Scratch that. This had to be the frigging mother of all nightmares. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I didn’t think he could break my heart any more than his reluctant confessions to Kash this morning, but guess I was wrong.

  He’s shaking so hard the bed is creaking. He hasn’t recognized me. The dark probably isn’t helping things.

  “Nate…” I lean over and switch on the lamp on his nightstand. Golden light spills in the room, chasing away the shadows—except for the ones lurking in his gaze. “It’s just me.”

  He blinks, lifts a hand to shade his eyes. “What?”

  “It’s me.” All I can think of is that it’s Nate. My best friend. And he’s in pain.

  “Fuck. Syd.” His voice is still rough, and he lets out a shaky breath as he uncurls enough to stretch his legs out on the bed. He glances around with a frown, as if he isn’t sure where he is. “Thank fuck.” Another pause as he settles back against his pillows and avoids my gaze. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just checking in on you,” I whisper, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Who did you think I was?”

  “No one,” he says hoarsely, and I don’t believe him for a second.

  But I don’t ask again. I don’t touch him again, either, not after his reaction. I stay well away from him.

  “Let me get you a glass of water,” I mutter. “And then I’ll go, let you sleep.”

  “Don’t,” he breathes, and leans sideways, catching my hand in a hard grip. “Don’t go.”

  I still. I honestly can’t remember the last time Nate touched me. His amber eyes are on our clasped hands, not my face. He seems as shocked as I am by his action.

  His fingers release me and he slowly pulls his hand away from mine, but his gaze lingers to where my dress has ridden up to bare my thigh, almost to the lace of my panties. His hand comes to rest on my thigh, his palm warm and rough.

  Oh God.

  His fingers trail down my leg to my knee, then back up, under my dress, tugging on my panties. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, dark lashes casting shades on his cheekbones.

  “Girl…” he whispers, and I moan when his fingers drift between my legs. “I wanna see you. Take off your dress.”

  West said that to me, too. He wanted to see me. But Nate… Nate never said anything like this. Never kissed me. Never touched me.

  I’m getting whiplash from his mood changes, but I want him to want me. I want him to see me, and touch me.

  I’ve always wanted Nate.

  So I get up from the bed and lower the straps of my dress and lower the zipper on the side, then push it down until it pools around my ankles.

  I don’t know who this shameless, self-confident girl is, the girl who’s standing in the middle of the room only dressed in her undies, as Nate watches.

  He leans back, eyes half-closing, and spreads his legs. The bulge in the soft denim is impressive, and it’s more than a bulge. I can actually see the outline of his hard cock, trapped sideways in the fabric. His chest rises and falls, and he lifts his T-shirt a little, revealing the dark trail leading into his pants. His teeth catch in his bottom lip, and he seems caught up in his arousal.

  I’m aroused, too, my breasts achy and heavy, my pulse thrumming between my thighs. I lick my lips and take a steadying breath, but still hesitate before I ask, “What do you want, Nate?”

  Because right now I’d do anything for him. And I’d love it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nate

  “Turn around,” I whisper, leaning back, and her gaze falls to the bulge between my legs. “Slowly.”

  “What?”

  “Turn around. Let me see you.”

  I’m not sure she’ll obey, but she bites her bottom lip and shifts her weight, and then she turns, her eyes uncertain when she faces me again.

  Damn this girl. I’ve imagined how she looked underneath her clothes for so long, I can hardly fucking believe she’s right here, in my room, in her lacy, pale blue bra and panties, cotton but for a hint of lace, hugging those awesome curves so perfectly.

  I put a hand between my legs, cupping my hard-on. “Fuck.”

  Holy shit, I’m about to blow my load. I dunno if it’s the epically bad dream I’ve had, a mixture of things that happened to me and other sick stuff I sure hope are not memories, and the low-level need that’s been simmering under my skin for so long, but I’m about to burst.

  “You’ve never…” She shakes her head, her red curls escaping from the pink hair tie, framing her face. “I wasn’t sure you liked me that way.”

  How to explain that I both want her and dread having her near? That where I first flirted shamelessly with her now I avoid her so I won’t have to test myself, see how deep the corruption, the rot goes? What will send me fleeing?

  Easier to avoid that conversation.

  “See for yourself.” My hips roll up, pushing my cock into my palm through the rough fabric, all of tonight’s tension and fear making me so hard I ache. “How about now?”

  I don’t try to hide it. I want her to see the effect she has on me. I can’t stand how much I fucking want her.

  Her gaze lifts to my face, and she meets my eyes. Heat coils in the air between us like smoke. “Nate…”

  “Come here.” I grab her hand, pull her on top of me, crush our mouths together. It’s brutal, and she gasps, her lips parting, so I thrust my tongue between them.

  Sweet. Her weight is pressing on my hard-on, and I want. I fucking want more. Want her more than ever.

  I have no clue what’s come over me tonight. I’m just out of fucks. I’ll take my chances, push myself, see how far I get.

  Damn, if I freak out, it’ll still be worth kissing her, touching her.

  My hands are under her legs, under her round ass, grabbing greedily, hauling her closer until we’re pressed together tight, and all the while we’re kissing, and kissing, her taste intoxicating like sweet wine. Her hands are in my hair, tugging, her tits are crushed to my chest, her nipples hard. I feel them even through our clothes, and I need that bra off so I can see them, taste them.

  Only… I’m cold. Why am I cold? I wrench my mouth from hers as a shadow rolls around me, a misty dark cloud that latches on to my skin and slips into my flesh.

  The room darkens. I don’t know where I am. The ceiling lowers over me, threatening to crush me, and I scramble back. My heart starts to thrash about in my chest, banging against my ribs, and pain wraps like a vise around my head.

  Hell.

  This is where I am. Deep in fucking hell.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Sorry, Nate.” Her weight, her touch is gone, and I roll on my side, swallowing down bile. “I’ll get Kash.”

  Kash. “Don’t,” I manage, somehow sure I don’t want anyone seeing me like this, even as my head spins and my thoughts crawl inside my head like insects. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re not okay.” She gets up, a blurry form, and pulls on her dress.

  Syd. It’s Sydney. We’re in my room.

  I groan, throwing an arm over my face. “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Isn’t it? I’m weak. I let this… thing, whatever it is, control me, take over my mind. Prevent me from acting like a normal human being. Like a horny teenage boy making out with his girl.

  She’ll never be my girl. I’m such a freak.

  “Nate, listen to me.”

  “What?” I lift my arm cautiously. She’s on her knees now, by the bed, her face level with mine, her pretty eyes shiny.

  “It’s okay.”

  I choke on bitter laughter. “I want you, Syd. So fucking bad. But I can’t. I get these… these panic things.”

  “It’s okay,” she says again.

  “How the fuck can this be okay? I’m fucked up. I just…” I have to stop, my voice going out. If I break down and cry in front of her, I might as well walk out of here and never co
me back.

  She reaches for me, then lets her hand drop on her leg. “Talk to Kash. He also gets panic attacks.”

  I lift my head from the bed. “He does?”

  Kash, the Superman? He’s actually superhuman. Always in control. Always strong.

  Unlike me.

  “You’re not weak. Or broken,” she says. “Talk to him.”

  But she’s wrong. I am broken. Beyond repair, beyond redemption. I’m tainted and filthy and rotten to the core.

  Even supposing I say to hell with it and explain to Kash just how fucked-up I am—which isn’t happening—nothing he can tell me will change the truth.

  Since the Dirty Dawg closed—temporarily, according to the guy I talked to, but whatever—I manage to land an afternoon shift in a gym, manning the front desk. Guess all the years I spent sparring and running with West paid off.

  West.

  Dammit.

  I’m so worried about him. Would my asshole of a dad hurt him? Would he drag him into what he dragged me?

  He wouldn’t fucking dare. He wouldn’t. Besides, West has a family. His granddad would report my dad if he so much as touched West.

  Right?

  As I go about welcoming customers to the gym and trying to learn the computer system, I try to convince myself that West’s granddad would care enough for his grandson to look out for him, but it’s a hard sell. The old bastard only appears to yell at West, put him down and make demands. Would he intervene if West was in danger?

  As for his sister, she’s never there, and when she is it’s because she needs help and not the other way round.

  Fuck… I should be there for him, but… I can’t. It’s not that I don’t care about West. I just can’t face him. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror, let alone talk to the guy who’s closer than a brother to me, a guy who knows me better than I know myself and who now knows how worthless I am.

  I can’t. Especially after what happened with Sydney. The black cloud hanging over me isn’t going away.

  I plaster a smile on my face for the elderly couple coming in to renew their gym membership and even manage to get the process right, despite the turmoil in my mind. I’m pretty used to working on autopilot by now, anxiety and fear always crowding my thoughts—but this is all new to me and I need to concentrate to get it right. At least my morning job is as easy as they come.

  The couple thank me and wander inside the gym, holding hands. They’re wearing matching hoodies, I notice, and sneakers, and he’s carrying both their bags. He says something and she turns and smiles at him, her eyes bright.

  A knot forms in my throat. I sit down and rub a hand over my mouth, wondering at the strange squeezing sensation in my chest.

  That’s love, I think. She loves him. He loves her, too. And they get to share a life, share smiles, with time to spend at the gym, time to hold hands, for years and years. They get to share a life, be happy together.

  How bad I want that. How fucking bad.

  Then the memory of shoving Sydney away, of the panic attack, hits me again right in the gut and it’s all I can do not to go rock in a goddamn corner.

  I’m done.

  Keeping away from my roommates, falling back into the same old cycle, isn’t hard. I’d rather hang out with strangers who know nothing about me. No expectations, no worry etched in their faces when they look at me. Strangers don’t know anything’s wrong with me. They don’t pity me and aren’t scared of me.

  It’s a relief, even if the image of that elderly couple comes back to haunt me in unexpected moments—reminding me of what I’ll never have.

  Better get used to the idea.

  “What’s up, pretty boy? Have you made up your mind to go out for a drink with me?”

  That’s Molly, a trainer working here at the gym. She’s friendly.

  Very friendly. And not bad looking, either, with her blond long ponytail and fit body, but… Yeah, not interested.

  “What happened, cat got your tongue?” She leans on the front desk, then reaches over and tugs on my hair. “Love the highlights. They natural?”

  Whoa. I jerk out of reach, my heart pounding. “Hands off.”

  Highlights? What the fuck? That’s what happens when you avoid looking at yourself in the mirror.

  She laughs as if I’ve said something funny, throwing her head back. “Relax, cowboy. Love your hair. And your eyes.” She licks her lips. “Those nice biceps are easy on the eyes, too.”

  “I’m not for sale, woman. Go talk to Chuck.” I nod at the other trainer, a guy built like a brick shithouse, all bulging muscles and veiny forearms. “He’s been dying to have you pet his hair.”

  She laughs again. “You’re an interesting guy, Nathaniel.”

  “I’m more than you can handle,” I mutter. Dammit, I don’t mean it to sound the way it comes out. It sounded different in my head.

  Her gaze heats. “Yeah? Wanna show me? I bet you’re more than a handful.”

  And damn if she doesn’t lean over the desk again to stare at my crotch.

  I kid you not. This woman is nuts. Might have been fun in another life, but yeah, not in this one. Not in mine.

  But I keep up the banter a bit longer before she heads off to help a customer with a machine. I shake my head as I watch her go.

  Flirting with chicks is something I do a lot. It makes me feel almost normal. She’s not the only one who’s come on to me over the past year, and as long as we’re around people, I can pretend to be a normal guy, carefree and able to function just like any other man in proximity to another person.

  As long as the girls don’t touch me. As long as we just talk I can keep the pretense up.

  But Molly likes to get into my personal space. And I don’t let anyone into that space, and getting close to me without warning is a trigger.

  That’s how I have to think of myself now. Like a gun, the safety off, the chamber full of bullets, ready to go off at the slightest touch.

  I don’t sleep well. For some reason, kissing Sydney has stirred up the pot of memories, dredging up more bad stuff, stuff I’m not even sure are memories or just products of my sick imagination.

  So I’m rather short with people I know, and I make mistakes. That stresses me even more. It’s a vicious loop.

  It’s a few days later, and I’m trying to fix an error in the customer information spreadsheet, cursing a blue streak under my breath, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

  Big guy Chuck lumbers over to the front desk and jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “A girl here to see you. Says she knows you.” He winks.

  He fucking winks at me. Asshole.

  “What girl?” I mutter. “Sydney?”

  She’s the only girl I can think of. There aren’t any other real girls in the world, I swear. They’re pretty aliens, impostors, and she’s the only real thing.

  And isn’t that fucking nuts?

  But it’s not her. When I glance toward the entrance, I do a double take.

  “Hey, Nate.” The girl walks over to me, a bit self-consciously, eyes darting right and left. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Soph. Whatcha doing here?”

  “You told me about your new job, remember?”

  “Yeah, but…” But I didn’t think she’d come find me here. Or anywhere else. Guess I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing my life. My buddies. My feelings.

  Except when someone startles me, smashes through my walls and headbutts right to the very terrified center of me.

  Like Sydney did.

  “Nate…”

  “What?” I blink at Sophie. Did she say something?

  “I said, would you like to go for a coffee when you have your break?”

  Right.

  “Thing is, Soph… I already had my break. I won’t be having another one today.” I try to avoid her gaze. “Sorry.”

  Lame. And dishonest. I haven’t had a break yet today. But compartmentalizing and all that. Maybe the hopeful expression on her face ju
st means she’s lonely and hoping to be friends.

  Or maybe it’s more than that. It’s not the first time she asked me to go for a coffee with her. Sophie is great, and within the controlled space of work, she’s safe. But if it’s a misunderstanding, if she tries to touch me, and I freak out… Yeah. Better not test this.

  Plus, she’s not Syd. Nuff said. End of story.

  “Okay. I’ll be going, then, leave you to it.” She looks disappointed.

  Hell, she’s probably disappointed. She came here to see me, and I refused to spend a single free moment with her.

  Again.

  I’m such an asshole.

  “Your girlfriend?” Chuck asks me, wandering close again and giving me a knowing, thoughtful look. “Good choice. Girl’s got a great rack.”

  Right…

  Doesn’t the guy have any work to do?

  I’m about to say no, Sophie’s not my girlfriend, and it’s none of Chuck’s business anyway, then think better of it. Like, if the rumor spreads enough to keep women like Molly and Lani what’s-her-name at bay, then why not?

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s her.”

  I’m not talking to Kash about panic attacks. And that’s final.

  Sydney’s words keep ringing inside my head, though, as I work at the movie theater. Sophie hasn’t come over to talk to me in days, leaving me lots of time to think. Think and remember and drive myself insane.

  What if he can help me? Help fix me?

  In fact, before Sydney said it, I never considered that the way I got sometimes had a name. A specific name you can Google and find information on. I’ve done it, even though what I found is fucking scary.

  But Kash lives with it, right? That’s what Syd implied. So he found a solution. He must’ve. A ticket out of it.

  If there’s a way to escape from this new prison, this new hell… I’d take it.

  Doing that, though, means I’ll have to talk to Kash, and we’ve already established I’m not doing that.