Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  How long has he been running?

  A wave of affection rolls through me, just like last night, this urge to protect him, too, to make him happy. To love him. I’d turn around and hug him, but I don’t want to move and wake him up, not yet. He looked so exhausted last night.

  So I lie there, trapped under his muscular arm, too warm, sticky, and my body already reacting to his, pressed so firmly behind me. I should feel gross, and uncomfortable.

  But I don’t.

  A smile pulls at my mouth.

  A black leather-bound book catches my eye, peeking from under a tablet on the nightstand. What is he reading? Curious, I pull it free and gently flip the first page open, only to realize it’s a notebook.

  No, a journal. At least, I think it is. On the first page is only the date—roughly five years ago, and a big capital K.

  For Kash, I guess.

  He mentioned it once, didn’t he? His journal. It’s filled with fine, cursive handwriting, pages and pages of it, with dates from years ago. Sometimes it’s a few sentences, sometimes paragraphs. In the dim light, it’s hard to read, but I make a random word here and there.

  Snow.

  Fight.

  Sister.

  Death.

  “Mmm…” Kash shifts behind me, his deep voice making me shiver. “Syd.”

  Hastily, I put the journal back down on the nightstand. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

  “I’m dreaming…” He drags me flush against him, his front to my back, and his hard-on presses against my ass, making me draw a sharp breath. “Dreaming you’re with me, in my bed.”

  “I’m here.”

  “So it seems.” He lifts his arm off me, draws back a bit, then slips his hand under my dress to stroke my hip. “You’re dangerous.”

  Look who’s talking. He’s a threat to my sanity. The feel of his hard body snuggled to mine is driving me crazy.

  He rocks his hips, and instinctively, I push back. His cock rubs between my ass cheeks, and I moan at the sensation. Why does it feel so good?

  Suddenly, he’s sitting up and rolling me under him, onto my back. I’m staring up into his gray eyes, breathless, my arms flung over my head and my head spinning.

  He reaches out, clicks on the bedside lamp and grins, slow, confident, and panty-melting. “Morning.”

  I can’t help but smile back. “Morning.”

  “You really are in my bed.”

  “I really am.”

  And now I’m the one thinking I’m dreaming, because he’s so beautiful bent over me it’s surreal, his tattooed, corded arms braced on either side of me, his muscular chest in full display, the silver in his nose, brows and ears glimmering like his gunmetal eyes.

  I lift a hand and play with the ends of his soft blond hair, then trail my fingers down his face, over the smoothness of his cheek to the roughness of pale stubble on his jaw.

  He grunts, ducking his head, color touching his cheekbones. His cock swells more where it’s lying on top of my belly, and I reach down to touch and pet it.

  But he pulls back and drags my panties down my legs, instead, abandoning them beside me. Then he lies down on the bed, spreading my legs more to settle between them.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, trying to close my legs, but I can’t, not with a big-ass guy between them. I’m spread wide, and he’s taking an eyeful. “Kash.”

  “Your pussy is so pretty,” he whispers reverently, and leaning in, he licks at me, turning my brain to mush. “And delicious.”

  “Oh God.” Pleasure zings straight to my core, but I prop myself up on my elbows intent on pushing him away anyway, unsure about this.

  He looks up at me, winks, mouth curling into a crooked grin, and then his tongue returns between my legs, licking a long line down my seam.

  Oh my God.

  I’m not sure what exactly he’s doing—licking, and sucking, and then there’s pressure inside me, and I can’t think, let alone speak as he works me into a moaning mess, the pressure inside me painful.

  I need to come, I think, but I can’t find the words, or my voice. I’m close already, teetering on the precipice, my hips lifting as he sucks on my clit, crying out.

  Then he groans against my throbbing flesh, and I come, thrashing on the bed, the pleasure too much, everything so sensitive that I want him both to keep licking and sucking, and let me go so I can curl into myself until the shudders stop.

  Holy shit.

  He lifts his head, eyes dark with arousal, and reaches between his legs to fist his hard cock. Despite having just come, a thrill of excitement grips me. This is it, I think. This is where he’ll press into me and have real sex with me. He’ll open me up and push into me, and the thought is as exhilarating as it is scary.

  But he releases himself with a sigh. “Dammit, Syd. We should stop. But I can’t.”

  Why does he want to stop? I can’t think because I’m still shaking with pleasure, and because I thought I heard a sound inside the apartment.

  I glance at the door. Why is it still open? “Kash…”

  That gets his attention. He follows my gaze. “What is it?”

  I debate telling him about this, now, with him naked and hard, after having given me one of the most intense orgasms of my short life. When there’s the possibility of doing more.

  But I can’t keep it inside. “It’s Nate. I thought I saw him at the door earlier, watching us.”

  “He was.”

  He admits it so easily and quietly, the words take a moment to sink in. “You knew?”

  “I saw him, but I was too busy to say anything at that point.”

  Busy. Busy having his cock sucked, busy coming apart, and I try to imagine the image Nate saw. Me on my knees, in my dress, my hair pulled back in a ponytail as if to offer a better angle on the action, Kash sprawled on the bed, T-shirt pushed up, his hand in my hair, writhing with pleasure.

  My pussy throbs in appreciation, and I try again to press my thighs together. It was real, and the thought sends another aftershock of pleasure through me. Shit, this is weird. I’m weird.

  “You okay with that?” I ask.

  He shrugs, and a flush steals across his face. “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  He flops down on the bed beside me, wiping a hand over his mouth. That’s my wetness he’s wiping away, I realize, my face getting hot. I tug my skirt down, to cover myself up, even though he’s seen me and tasted me and known my body better than anyone ever before, including myself.

  “Nate is your guy,” he says, and I struggle to get my thoughts back on track. “Him and Weston. I’ve known that ever since I met you. Told you yesterday. I tried to hold back. But I’m selfish, Syd. I take what I can, and I wanted you. So last night I kissed you, and got so excited when you went down on me I forgot everything else.”

  “Kash—”

  “This is on me. It won’t happen again.” He rolls his head to the side, facing away from me. “I wish I had what you have with them. This connection, this affection, this desire. And I can’t stop wanting you, needing you, even though you don’t feel the same for me.”

  But I do.

  God help me, I do.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kash

  When I wake up again later, Syd is gone—from my arms, and from the apartment. I stumble to the bathroom to piss, and it hits me then.

  How badly I fucked up.

  I wasn’t supposed to fold and let go, to forget the reasons why this was a bad idea and kiss her.

  The image of her between my legs, her lips wrapped around my cock, slams into me like a sledgehammer, all the blood flowing down, making me hard so fast I sway.

  Whoa.

  That was so damn hot. And going down on her even hotter, but yeah. Shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have liked Nate watching us.

  Shouldn’t have secretly wished for him to join us.

  Shouldn’t have stroked West’s face the other day, either. I’m liking this little group way too mu
ch. I’m becoming too attached, too attracted. Too comfortable and too excited, all at once. But I don’t fit here, with them. They’d been in love, dancing around their feelings and their connection before I even arrived on the scene.

  And like it or not, I’m leaving. I’ve put it off for as much as I could, for much longer than I should. Someone, sooner or later, will recognize me, and it will all have been for nothing—all this running, and hiding, and living a borrowed life.

  Living Kash’s life, not my own.

  Kash is a damn lucky bastard, even though he’s on the run. Me, not so much. Though, right now, after last night…. Damn. Why the hell am I grinning?

  Is Syd pissed off at me? And Nate? Did I manage to destroy the one good thing I had going? Fuck. And this sickness has kicked my ass. I haven’t been sleeping well, and that’s not helping.

  I throw some instant coffee into a mug and heat up some water to add to it. Breakfast is ready. Slurping down the disgusting liquid, hoping it will wake me up all the way, I stagger to the kitchen table and sink down in one of the rickety chairs.

  Chyort voz’mi. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Maybe this is the sign, the kick in the ass I need to leave.

  Yeah, me and fucking signs, omens and bad feelings. You’d think I’m my babushka. I barely remember her anyway.

  But the thought of leaving is enough to make my pulse boom, my heart bang inside my chest. Panic curls at the edges of my consciousness like black smoke, starting to wrap around me.

  My chest goes tight. My hands start to shake. I put the mug down on the table and push my hands into my hair.

  Stop. I’m not leaving yet. I haven’t left. I’ve never had a panic attack because I thought of leaving—leaving Sydney, Nate and West behind.

  This is new.

  Leaving is the best solution, I tell myself. It will keep me safe. Keep them safe. Keep them happy by getting me out of the way.

  But panic understands no logic, so I end up in my room, searching blindly for my tobacco pouch. I roll a joint with the last of my weed and realize I need to get some fresh supply.

  I’m standing in the middle of my room, joint in hand, wondering if it’s worth buying more now, if I’m leaving—even if I don’t wanna leave, even if the thought of leaving makes me lightheaded—when I see it.

  A note. Looks like a note, anyway, on the nightstand, weighed down with the lamp. Tucking the joint behind my ear, I pad over and free it, grimacing at the way my hands are trembling. I sit down on the bed and read it.

  It’s just one line.

  ‘See you tonight,’ it says. ‘I’ll wait up for you. We need to talk.’

  Signed, Syd.

  A long breath escapes me. The note drops from my hand to the floor, and my heart does a weird double beat. Is this a good or a bad thing? Talk about what? About what a mistake last night was? That she’s made up her mind who she wants to be with?

  Was there ever any doubt?

  I untuck the joint from behind my ear and light it up, drawing a long drag and opening the window to let out the smoke.

  Why did I tell her my real age? Dunno what the hell came over me. Just another bad sign.

  I let out the sweet smoke, already feeling its effects, feel how it soothes the ragged edges of me, and my gaze falls on my journal. Shit, I’d better put it away where she won’t see it by mistake next time she’s in here.

  Her, or Nate, or West.

  I suck in more smoke, hold it, and exhale, looking out at the sunlight playing over the city, and at the blue sky, a sense of peace stealing over me.

  Looks like I might be staying a while longer, so that I can talk with her, and that’s as much as a problem as it is a relief.

  With no students to tutor in the mornings, I really should be looking for another part-time job, but I don’t have the energy for that yet. I drag my feet through the morning, attempt to clean the apartment and make some lunch, and give up when black spots start eating at my vision.

  Getting better is slow business. I know I’ve been pushing myself too hard since I ran away, and the stress of fending for myself, of the nightmares and panic attacks, has taken its toll. I don’t sleep well. I don’t rest enough.

  But fuck this sickness, and fuck me for not getting better as fast as I’d like. I have work to do, and the talk with Syd looming at the horizon stresses me even more.

  George is worried about me, and that translates into food being shoved at me with orders to eat up and get better. “Eat up, boy, you’re wasting away! How’re we gonna find a good girl for you like that, huh? All that metal in your face must scare them away. Eat!”

  His wife, who is also the cook, nods in agreement, and piles more food on my plate.

  Sounds like Greeks treat every ailment with food. You have the flu? Eat. You’re dying after being shot? Eat. You’re depressed? Eat.

  So I eat, to make George happy, and then focus on getting through my shift, cleaning and washing and listening with half an ear to him talking when he’s in the kitchen, or chatting up his guests at their tables.

  On the plus side, since he’s worried about me, he sends me home early, and I’m out on the street at least an hour before closing time, rolling a cigarette and thinking I should check on West.

  Despite my decision not to leave town yet, and the brief relief it brought, I’ve had this bad feeling again today all day, like the one I got that night when I barely caught Nate before he jumped to his death.

  I don’t know what it means, if it means anything or if it’s just depression from being sick and tired and unsure about the future, but it lingers in the back of my mind like a malignant presence, a foreboding.

  My body wants me to head home and lie down. Plus, Syd will be waiting for me. Maybe I’m just trying to avoid that talk, put off whatever it is she wants to say.

  Whatever the reason, I find myself making my way toward the building where we once lived.

  The first place I stayed in this city, where I met these three people who changed my path, held me back and did something to my thoughts. To how I feel. They made me care, and I still dunno how they did it. With their pain, I guess. Their sadness and fear. Their need of protection. And those small flashes of affection sent my way that I can’t ignore.

  Is it because I’m starved for it? That I’m so weak I’d take any affection I can find?

  Nah. I don’t feel that way with George, and he’s been like a father figure to me—even if he believes eggplant and feta cheese can save my life. No, it’s different with Syd and the guys.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts and the joint I keep rolling between my fingers that I don’t notice the guy shadowing me until I’m closing in to the building.

  Am I seeing things? I thought I noticed someone tailing me the other day. Or is it all in my mind? I’ve relaxed my defenses in this past year, though my nightmares have more than made up for it.

  I speed up.

  The shadow behind me speeds up, too.

  I don’t ask myself twice if I’m imagining this. My first instinct is always to run and hide, so that’s what I do. I run and run, going around the block, checking over my shoulder.

  Is he following me still? I don’t see him. Did I lose him?

  Was he after me at all?

  A lady is going into the building, and I grab the door before she closes it. “I’m here to see Weston,” I say, breathlessly. “Please.”

  She hesitates, then lets me in. “You’d better not be a robber,” she tells me sternly.

  “I’m not, ma’am. I swear.” My knees feel like rubber. I close the door and lean on it for a moment, steadying myself.

  “Weston is such a nice boy,” she says. “I’ve only just moved in across from them. He’s always so polite and helps me bring the groceries up.”

  “He’s very nice,” I agree. I think of him cooking us brunch, taking care of Nate, looking after me when I was sick the other day.

  I go up the stairs with her, then frown at the half-open
door to Weston’s apartment. I’ve noticed this when I used to live here, that someone—his grandfather?—sometimes leaves the door open when he comes in. I should tell West to do something about it. Any motherfucker could slip in like I’m about to do.

  The crack is wide enough for me to enter the apartment without even pushing on the door—or I’m really wasting away, like George said, and I’m thin like a ghost.

  I hear voices inside, and at first I think it’s West. Something about the cadence, the richness of the male voice.

  Then a female voice rises stridently, and I falter. Is that his sister? Am I walking into an argument?

  I’m well inside the living room by then. The voices are coming from one of the bedrooms, and even as I spin on my heel to make my escape, the words stop me in my tracks.

  “Stop threatening me with suicide,” the man is saying, and it’s not West. Now that I hear him better, this voice is deeper, older and quite different. “It doesn’t work on me, you hear? Didn’t work any other time you tried.”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “I saved your goddamn reputation, telling everyone you’re my daughter, taking you and the boy in, feeding you both, keeping you clothed, keeping a roof over your heads. Don’t expect anything more from me.”

  What the hell?

  “You have a responsibility, too,” she snarls, and there’s a small thump. Then another.

  “Stop that. I’m done with you.”

  A wail.

  Bile rises in my throat. Oh fuck. What’s going on here? Where’s West? What’s wrong with this family?

  I slip out of the apartment and start down the stairs, stopping every couple of steps to lean on the rail and try and catch my breath, familiar panic shaking me. I can’t get out of here fast enough, and then I’m hurrying to the bus stop and catching a bus home.

  On the way there, I take out my phone, scroll to West’s number and stare at it. What do I say? What do I ask?