Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  “What is it?” Sydney wipes at her cheeks and sits up.

  I bend over the side and pull out a metal box. “What the fuck man, you’re keeping stuff under the bed?”

  “Best place to keep stuff.” Nate yawns widely, squints at the box. “But that’s not mine.”

  “How can you be sure with all the mountains of stuff you keep down there?”

  “Cool your jets, my man. Just because you like to live like a hermit in a cave doesn’t mean all of us have to do the same.”

  “What is this box, then?” Sydney reaches for it and I give it to her.

  I turn on the lamp and we all look on as she opens the lid and pulls a notebook from inside. A black, leather-bound notebook.

  She looks up, eyes wide. “Kash’s journal. He hid it in Nate’s room.”

  Well, shit.

  “Clever bastard,” Nate mutters. “Maybe he didn’t want us to read it.”

  “Tough cookies.” She opens it, her gaze bright. “You know what this means, right? He didn’t plan on leaving. He wouldn’t leave this here.”

  “How do you know? Maybe it’s not important to him.”

  “Of course it is.” She turns the pages, not looking up. “Look at this. It’s entries from years ago all the way to now. Names. Places. Guys… what if he has his real name, his address somewhere in here? This could be the most important clue of all.”

  “Or it could contain nothing to help us locate him—assuming he wants to be found.”

  She waves a dismissive hand at us. “Listen. Five years ago…”

  Chapter Forty

  From Kash’s Journal

  December 19 - Five years ago

  Dad is gone. Everyone is gone. If nobody is there when you scream in the night, what’s the use of living? What’s the use of screaming?

  Uncle A. says I’m sick. That boys need to learn to control their feelings. He doesn’t understand shit. He took me to a therapist who said I should start a journal. Piz’duk.

  So here it is. Just you and me, Journal. Do your best. Be what I lost, will you? Be my family, be my parents and sister, turn back time and make everything right.

  This is bullshit. How the hell can a notebook help me?

  Nothing can.

  February 27 - Five years ago

  You’re not fucking helping. Stupid journal. What’s the use of this? The therapist says I have to write, but write what? They’re dead. Nothing will bring them back.

  I hate you. I hate Uncle A. I hate this journal. This house.

  My dad for putting doubts in my mind. For giving me a riddle and then dying.

  I’m done.

  Sept 4 - Five years ago

  So… I’m back. Um. Not sure what to write. Never was. Here goes, though.

  It’s been a tough year. Losing Dad was shit. Almost as bad as losing Mom and sis. No, losing him was worse. He was the last. The last family I had.

  I get these panic attacks when I think about the past, about the incomprehensible horror of their death.

  The therapist says that’s what they are. Panic attacks. I feel as if I can’t breathe, that the walls are closing in, the ceiling crushing me. I feel like I’m dying. She showed me some breathing techniques, but it’s shit. Nothing helps.

  Sometimes I really wish I’d died with them.

  Sometimes I wish I could end it all now. The only thing that stops me is the need to find my family’s killers, bring them to justice. Or shoot them in the face. That’d be more satisfying.

  I don’t think I’m sane anymore.

  Dec 4 - Five years ago

  It’s been a year. It’s been lonely. Scary. Uncle A. has this housekeeper who is only here to keep an eye on me. My keeper.

  I’m home a lot. Homeschooled. Home trained. Uncle A. buys me the latest games.

  I hate his guts. I’m a prisoner in my family house. He’s my custodian and he’s taken over my dad’s businesses. I’ve overheard him talking on the phone about it.

  But I go out and train with Oleg, one of dad’s old friends, from his youth. I’ve trained all my life with him, and if I stopped, he’d start asking questions, and if dad was right, Uncle A. wouldn’t risk it.

  At least I have that.

  May 21 - Four years ago

  Dear Journal,

  I can’t stand being in the same house as him anymore. When Oleg suggested a trip to another club for training, I had him ask Uncle A. and he was forced to agree. So I got out of the house, this city where my family was killed.

  One of Oleg’s friends knows a tattoo artist, by the name of Zane Madden, and he took me to his shop. Zane made two pieces for me. He only finished the second one yesterday. Yeah, we went back a few times.

  But Uncle A. is getting suspicious of these trips and says he won’t let me out again.

  Fuck that. Fuck him. Fuck all this shit.

  I’m getting out.

  Sept 2 - Four years ago

  I left. I did it.

  Dear Journal, I don’t even know why I’m writing. I guess I got used to penning things down, and I don’t have anyone to talk to, so… you’ll have to do. My only friend. My mirror.

  You’ve been that since my dad’s death.

  It’s a miserable life on the run. One night someone pushed me into a ditch, kicked the shit out of me and stole my money. Thank fuck I’d hidden most of it in the room I’d rented before going out. Then my room was broken into so many times I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow.

  I never feel safe. I’m never safe. Safety is a thing of the past. A naïve child’s fantasy.

  Life, real life, is hard and bitter, but at least I don’t have to see my uncle’s ugly-ass face anymore. Pretend I can breathe around him. Let him order me around and accept his authority.

  I’d take a knife under my pillow any day.

  March 15 - Four years ago

  New city, new room, new job. Fake ID, fake name, fake life. But I’m still free. Still going.

  There’s one big thing, though. I think I’ve figured out what my dad was trying to tell me. The police won’t hear it, though. They say I’m sick, that I need a therapist. They say I’m not who I say I am, and when they said they’ll call my uncle, I ran.

  Always running. Without a plan, or goal.

  So what do I do now?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sydney

  No clues yet in the journal. I leafed through it carefully, looking for names, places, dates, numbers and addresses. Anything that could help us locate him, or at least locate someone who might know him, someone from his past.

  Zilch.

  Plus, it’s pretty hard to read. Kash’s handwriting is atrocious, and the Russian words and abbreviated names he drops in make it hard to understand.

  Besides it all, he wrote it for himself, someone with the perfect backstory knowledge, the perfect insider. He knows exactly what he means, what he experienced, what he felt.

  But it’s a bit hard to follow.

  And I love it. I love reading the words he painstakingly wrote, in this old leather-bound journal, penned by his beloved hand. I love reading about his life, about his thoughts, his discoveries and his feelings. Maybe it’s because he never meant for anyone to read them, and that makes me feel guilty like a voyeur, but every one of his emotions comes through, pure and crystal clear, sharp like a glass shard, cutting me to the bone.

  I stash the journal under my mattress and sit on the bed.

  Chris, I’m struggling. No need for a psychologist to tell me that. Not that I’ve ever been to one, but yes, losing Kash is hard. Harder than I thought possible. Here’s the thing: I thought losing my mom was the worst that could happen to me—but Mom and me, we weren’t all that close when she vanished from my life. I cared for her. I thought she cared for me. I was wrong.

  But Kash… I love him. And his loss is heavier than I can bear. Whatever happened to him, whether he decided to leave or was taken, translates into this vast, dark absence that’s tearing me apart.r />
  When I think he might be dead, I want to scream and crawl into a deep hole, and never come out. If it wasn’t for Nate and West… I’m sure I would’ve done it many times over. I want to think I’m strong. But I wasn’t ready to let Kash go.

  Nate has walked me back from work, and he’s puttering around in the kitchen—probably nuking something frozen for us to eat, since West isn’t around to make sure we eat properly. I listen to him curse and stomp around, and my heart lightens a little.

  “Syd?” he calls out. “Didn’t we have pop in the fridge?”

  “You finished it the other day!” I call out, and get up to go join him. I itch to decipher more of Kash’s words, but I need to eat and get ready for work. My head throbs. I haven’t been able to focus on anything today—actually for weeks. Not since Kash left.

  Nothing feels important anymore—apart from my boys. Nothing registers—except for my boys’ touch. I need them to hold me, fill me, push me to feel, to forget. Guilt eats at me for wanting sex so much, for turning into a sex-obsessed nympho, but I need it. I need them as close as possible, to keep from sinking into sadness. Or madness.

  I open my bag, pull out my pack of contraceptive pills and swallow one. I decided to get on the pill the first time we had real sex, when Kash was inside me, but only made my move after Nate’s tests came back clean. I’m so happy Nate is better, and devastated Kash is gone.

  Even if every moment without him is tinged with sadness, for all of us. The guys are doing their best to hide it, like they always do, but I see it in every word they speak, every move they make. They miss him, and they’re worried, too. They feel helpless, and it hardens their eyes.

  We’re still looking. Always looking, asking, searching.

  “Syd!”

  “On my way!” With a sigh, I cross the apartment and enter the small kitchen. “What delicious food have you prepared?” I study the plates on the table. “Are those supposed to be tacos?”

  “Sure are. Dig in, girl.”

  I sit and take a dubious bite. “You made this all by yourself?”

  “Me and the oven. A relation old as time.”

  “Ah-huh.” He inhales his taco-flavored mess, while I poke around in mine. “Thanks for…” Cooking is not the right word. “For taking care of me.”

  He winks at me. “Chef Nate will always be at your service.”

  My eyes grow hot even as I laugh. “Thanks. I mean it. I just…” I bite my lip. God, when will I stop falling apart all the time?

  “Come here.” He doesn’t wait for me to move. He grabs me and hauls me onto his lap, though I don’t miss his wince. He may be strong, but his ribs are still bruised. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

  “Don’t make fun.”

  “I’m not. You’re pretty all over. That’s how you are.”

  I can’t help a smile. This boy… “Thanks.”

  “And clever. It’s why you’re so into me.”

  I slap his arm lightly. “Smartass.”

  “Aren’t you, though? Into me?”

  “God, of course I am, silly boy.” I turn to kiss his cheek and he turns, too, so our mouths brush. “So much.”

  “Good,” he growls and hauls me closer.

  He’s getting better with contact, I think. I’m so frigging proud of him, and I hope his first sessions with the psychologist have helped. I hope they help a lot more, and I hope West agrees to go, too.

  Then Nate’s hand delves under my blouse, and into my panties, and oh God… he’s getting so much better at many things that involve contact, and touching, and…

  “Nate…” He’s circling my clit, getting me all worked up, pressure building in my belly. I’m getting wet from the combination of his clever touch and his proximity—his male spice scent, his muscular chest behind me, the rasp of his stubble when he kisses my neck.

  His deep voice as he whispers my name in return.

  What he’s getting too good at is distracting me from my thoughts and sadness.

  And making me fall a little bit more for him every day.

  “You’re so sexy, girl…” He pushes a finger inside me, and I groan. “So sweet.”

  His hard-on presses against the small of my back, an iron rod, and it makes me burn with need. “I want you…” I whisper.

  We haven’t reached that point yet. Haven’t had sex with each other, he hasn’t been inside me. And I want him to. So badly.

  But he adds another finger, stretching me, filling me up. His fingers slide in and out of me, fucking me, and I lose the thread.

  He does that to me. All the time. Wipes my mind clean as he plays my body like a melody, stroking and ramping up the pressure until I’m writhing in his lap, head thrown back, shamelessly riding his fingers and moaning so loud I bet our next-door neighbors can hear me.

  And not giving a damn.

  I can’t stop this—this thing between us, between me and these boys, this pleasure they give me, this joy, this absolute, all-consuming need for them.

  He’s breathing hard now, his body tense at my back, the thick muscles in his thighs straining under my legs as he pumps his fingers in and out of me, his teeth nipping at my neck.

  He’s undoing me, knot by knot, link by link.

  One more thrust and I lose the battle. I cry out as I come, tightening and pulsing around his fingers, my hips restlessly rising and falling, the pleasure cresting and then lapping at me in softer, gentler waves that still make me shudder.

  God…

  “That was hot,” he whispers against my neck. His hard-on is massive against my back, and his breath catches when I shift against him. “You’re hot.”

  “And you’re hard.” Still struggling for breath, I turn around, slide to my knees between his legs. “Let me take care of you.”

  “Wait…” He hisses when I unzip his jeans carefully over the bulge in his briefs. “You haven’t finished your lunch,” he pants, gazing down at me, eyes narrow and dark with lust.

  I pull his hard cock free and take him into my mouth before he makes any bad jokes about eating. He tastes salty with a hint of sweetness, and when I suck on the head, he groans and twists his long fingers in my hair, pushing me down.

  Obliging, I take him in deeper, sliding my lips up and down his long length, pleased when his voice breaks on a moan and his hips jerk up. Giving my guys pleasure is one of the things I love the most. Seeing the worries and fear slough off them like dead skin, seeing them happy and relaxed.

  It’s everything.

  And it’s exciting. My body tingles and tightens, even though I’ve just come at his hands. He’s rocking up, now, fucking my mouth, and I gasp, my mouth sore and my pussy clenching. He’s so beautiful when he’s about to come, muscles taut, pale skin glistening with sweat, that full mouth slack.

  More beautiful than ever.

  He’s so close he’s trembling with it. I close my hand around the thick girth of his cock and suck harder, salt and bitterness flooding my mouth.

  He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and then he’s coming. I swallow and swallow until I can’t anymore and pull back to draw breath.

  Wheezing, I watch as his dick twitches and spills some more all over his clenched abs.

  His hand is still wrapped in my long hair. He tugs lightly, until I brace my arms on his thighs and smile up at him. “Goddamn,” he grinds out, “you killed me.”

  “A good death, I hope?”

  He chuckles. He sounds drunk. “Oh yeah. I got an idea… what if we move this to the bedroom?”

  I shake my head, bite down on the urge to say yes. “You’ll make me late for work, like you did yesterday.”

  He makes a face. “But you love me anyway, admit it.”

  This boy’s nuts. As if he doesn’t know. “I admit it.”

  He grins boyishly, turning my heart inside out.

  Has he forgotten I told him that already? My guess is he doesn’t believe it yet. Both he and West are becoming experts i
n this how-to-own-Sydney’s-heart game. What they don’t seem to get is that I’m already theirs.

  “Haven’t seen you in frigging ages,” Gigi accuses when I meet her for a coffee one early afternoon. “Have you been sick?”

  Heartsick. And she’s right, it’s been ages—whole damn ages since Kash vanished.

  “I just got a lot on my plate right now,” I mutter.

  “I missed you, Syd… Tell me what is going on?”

  Not sure what to say. The world is twisted up and darkening in places, as if bruised. Nothing’s simple anymore. Everything’s changed. Gigi doesn’t know how my relationship with the boys has progressed, or about Kash missing, and I find I don’t want to tell her. It’s as if by not telling her I don’t allow Kash’s disappearance to be real.

  And as for our relationship… I’m not sure others can understand it. I mean, I read the blog story Gigi sent me, and it’s cute, but it’s only two boys, not three, and in any case… It’s not real.

  Not real life.

  Real life is sleeping with two guys on a mattress that doesn’t fit you and having sex with them any free minute you got, then being afraid they’ll leave, too.

  It’s making sure both of them get time with you, and sex with you, and satisfaction.

  It’s missing the third one like hell and being worried sick about him.

  Real life is going to the restaurant where Kash used to work and asking his employer what he knows about him, if Kash told him anything before he vanished.

  I push Gigi’s concern out of my mind as the need to find Kash takes front place.

  The restaurant is small and cozy, with the obligatory plaster statues and miniature pillars at the entrance. The smell of food is mouthwatering. “Kash was your roommate?” George, the Greek restaurant owner, studies us. “You’re friends?”