Broken Compass Read online

  He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “Wait, Syd.” When I say nothing, he reaches out, grabs my hand. “Come home with me. Nobody’s in today. We can talk there.”

  I shouldn’t. I’m still fighting tears, struggling not to let them fall. What’s with these boys that they can stab me to the heart with one look, one word, one silence?

  But like I said, I missed West, so much. And if this is a chance to really talk with him, if he’s decided to talk, well…

  “Let’s go.”

  Entering the building we left in the dead of night is always strange. I’ve been here once since then, visiting West, but his grandfather was in the other room and I felt nervous. I’ve mostly seen West at school, or at the diner nearby where all the students go to gossip and drink milkshakes.

  In my mind’s eye, I see us standing outside, by the big tree in the middle of the night, Nate pale and trembling, Kash determined and furious.

  And I see West walking away from us, staying as we moved on.

  Someone darkens the stairwell, glaring down at us as we start up. It takes me a moment to place him.

  “You. Weston.” He jabs a finger at us. “Where’s Nate?”

  Oh shit. Nate’s dad.

  I shrink back, and West steps in front of me. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit. You and my son were attached at the hip. Where did he run off to?”

  “I told you already, I don’t know,” West says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “If you’re worried, you should go to the police.”

  Nate’s dad huffs. “No reason for that. He’ll slink back, tail between his legs, sooner or later. You and me, though… We’ll talk later.”

  He climbs up the stairs, and a moment later a door slams in the building.

  “What the…? Has he threatened you before?” As West starts up the stairs, I grab his hand. “Has Nate’s dad done anything to you?”

  He shakes his head, but fear lights up the blues in his eyes. “No.” He gently extracts his hand from mine. “He hasn’t.”

  “Will you tell me if he does? He has no right to harass you.”

  “I’m fine, Syd. I can handle him.” He starts climbing, and I hurry after him.

  “He hurt Nate.”

  “Not according to Nate, he didn’t. You think I didn’t ask him a thousand times?”

  “And you believed him?” I demand.

  “I don’t know what the fuck to believe.” Uttered softly but vehemently. Bitterly.

  “West…”

  He unlocks his apartment door, and I walk inside after him. “Nate stopped talking to me about anything months before you guys ran away. I don’t think he likes me much anymore.”

  “That’s simply not true.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I don’t know what to say to him. The living room distracts me, so clean and ordered, like always. The tiles are gleaming, the carpet is a perfect green, the cushions are placed in a perfect row on the sofa.

  My heart aches when I picture him scrubbing it all over and over, and I wonder how he’s doing with his OCD these days.

  Another topic he’s refused to talk about. He won’t talk to me, and he certainly doesn’t talk to Nate. I can’t stand the thought of him going through difficult times alone.

  I wish I could grab both him and Nate and shake them, shake some sense into them. They’re such good friends. How could they drift apart like that?

  “Coffee? Tea?” He hovers at the kitchen door, dark hair falling adorably into his eyes.

  I focus on that, because if I let myself look my fill, he’ll notice. West has turned into a sort of sex god over the past year. If the other boys filled out, he turned into a sculpted statue of a man, his chest so strong I can see his muscles through his T-shirt. His jaw is so square you can cut glass on it, and that mouth…

  Good God. Not that I haven’t been noticing him at school every day, but being here, in his home I somehow can’t get over how hot he is.

  Maybe because he kissed me here once, and I can never forget how that felt.

  “Coffee it is, I guess,” he mutters, and vanishes in the kitchen, leaving me to stare after him.

  Oops. Turns out I was staring, after all.

  I chew on a fingernail. Try to relax. When that fails, I get up to check out the collection of memorabilia displayed in the heavy china cabinet. I’ve glanced at them before, but always in quick passing as we headed to West’s bedroom.

  There are china dishes and cups, and random stuff from different countries—fridge magnets and snow globes and statuettes of unknown people—and trophies. Sports trophies?

  Squinting closer, I read the names at their bases. Adela Black. Platte County Perpetual Trophy. Dressage and Show Jumping. Youth Amateur Champion.

  There’s a whole row of these.

  West returns with the coffee, and places the mugs on the low table. “Whatcha doing?” He shoots me a wary look.

  “Who’s Adela Jackson?”

  He sinks down on the sofa, legs spread, hands hanging between them. “Della. My sister.”

  “Huh. So why do you two and your grandfather have a different surname?” I go to sit beside him but make no move to take my mug. “Why Black?”

  “I dunno. They never told me.”

  How can he not know? Why wouldn’t they tell him? This is all so weird, but I force myself not to ask, not to push and have him clam up. I try for small talk. “Horse riding, huh? Why did she stop competing? It looks like she was really into it.”

  “I happened. Ruined her life.”

  God. “What do you mean? She’s your sister, not your mom. Not that you’d ruin your mom’s life. West…”

  “She and Grandpa had to take care of me. Gave up everything for me.”

  “What’s everything exactly? I bet you were a cute kid.” I wink.

  He doesn’t smile. “I was a difficult kid. A nuisance. They hated me. Still do.”

  My heart clenches. “West. What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not nothing. Where is your dad?”

  “I dunno, it doesn’t matter.”

  “How can it not matter?”

  “Just leave it, Syd. Please. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He sighs. “Why are you really here?”

  “Because I care about you.”

  And that is a truth I can’t deny, even when he snorts and shakes his head and says, “Yeah right. Whatever.”

  How do I make him see?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  West

  I care about you…

  I don’t know why I invited her over. Can’t really remember. I sleep worse than ever these days, and insomnia is fucking with my head. Maybe I wanted to pretend everything was the way it’d been, that everything’s okay.

  But it’s not.

  “You don’t believe me,” she whispers, sadness clouding her bright eyes.

  Fuck, I wish I could. I put my mug down on the coaster, carefully, centering it just right. “You’re with Nate and Kash now. You don’t need me.”

  “What are you talking about?” She reaches for me, and I straighten, pulling away. “Of course I need you. We’re friends. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Everything’s changed,” I snap, and then I hear myself whisper, “You’re not here anymore.”

  Holy shit. What’s wrong with me? Sometimes I think I’m as bitter as Grandpa. I should be happy for her. For all of them.

  We’re just friends. And I don’t know if I can do this anymore.

  “You’re the one who stayed,” she whispers. “I wanted you to come with us, remember? You stayed for your grandfather, and your sister.”

  “You’re the one who left.”

  She claps a hand over her mouth and goddammit, her eyes are all shiny and wet. I can’t stand it when girls cry.

  When she cries. Last thing I want is to cause her sorrow. She drives the knife into my chest so easily, reminding me it’s all my fault, yet again.
r />   My heart starts to race. Heat gathers in my chest, and a tightening feeling compresses my lungs, turning my breathing shallow, so shallow I hardly get any air in.

  “Fuck, you’re right, okay? I’m sorry. I stayed, but I had to.”

  She wipes at her eyes. “I get it.”

  “Okay.” My hand starts tapping restlessly on my knee. I count the taps in my head, one two three, one two three. “I had to stay. I had to stay.”

  “West. It’s okay. Stop that.”

  My hand is tapping faster. “I had to stay. I’m sorry. I’m—”

  “West.” She throws herself into my arms, stopping me. Not prepared for her hug, the feel of her slim body on mine, I hiss. My hands come up behind her back to hold her. My voice is gone, the words caught between my teeth. “Stop,” she whispers.

  A strange sound leaves my throat. I’m not sure I’ll ever breathe again. My chest hurts.

  “Hold me,” she says, and my hold on her tightens, even as my breathing finally eases and I draw in sweet air. “Just hold me.”

  I tried so hard to ignore my need for her this past year. She’s with the guys she wants. I wonder if she’s made her choice yet between the two, but truth is, I don’t fucking wanna know who she chose over me.

  And now she’s in my arms as if this past year hasn’t passed, as if all that fucking loneliness and pain and the thought of her in another guy’s embrace never haunted me. All my nightmares, and all the dreams where she’s moaning underneath me, all of it… erased in the warmth of her touch.

  I’m so fucking lost without her. One brush of her skin on mine is enough to shatter my self-control. I struggle to hold onto its shreds.

  One kiss. One more damn kiss, that’s all I ask. Even if it’s the last kiss I’ll ever have of her.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she mumbles against my shoulder, and pulls back a little. “They’re your family. Of course you stayed. I’m such a bad friend I don’t even know what’s wrong with your grandfather.”

  Too many things. But, no, nothing’s wrong with him. It’s me. I’m the one who’s fucking everything up.

  “Was it a heart condition?”

  Oh. That. “Yeah. It’s a genetic thing. Can’t be fixed without major surgery, and they aren’t sure he’d survive it, so…” I shrug.

  “I’m so sorry, West.”

  “Not your fault. I…”

  Her face turns up and her mouth brushes over mine, taking away my fucking breath. My body’s reaction is a jolt, a current streaking through me, lighting me up.

  “West…” she breathes, and I haul her closer, in my lap, crushing our mouths together.

  Fuck, oh God… it feels good. So good it hurts. So distracting. She tastes so sweet, and the press of her tits against my chest is driving me insane.

  Her hands slip behind my neck and she straddles me, still kissing me, swallowing my heartfelt groan. I’m so damn hard I can’t stand it, and in real danger of coming in my pants.

  I should stop this before it goes off the rails.

  But when I flip her over on the sofa and press myself between her thighs, I find I can’t. Can’t stop kissing her, molding my body to hers. Her touch both ignites me and soothes me, the combination blowing my mind.

  My mind is in a haze, drugged and sluggish, my body clenched tight with desire.

  Her fingers slide into my hair, and she arches her back, her legs encasing me, my hard dick rubbing on her soft pussy through those goddamned layers of clothes.

  “Syd,” I grunt against her lips. “I wanna see you. Touch you.”

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t hide from her. Never could. I can hold on to my control all I want, polish my armor and pull my shields in tight, yet she always finds the chink. The weakness.

  She’s my weakness.

  I sit back, grab the hem of her blouse, and she says nothing, her mouth red and her eyes heavy-lidded. Watching me.

  I yank it over her head, and she lifts her arms, letting me take it off and holy fuck… Her bra is black with a bit of lace and it cups her tits perfectly.

  Damn sexy.

  Sexier than I thought. Her curves are so full and soft, and I drag down the cups of her bra, needing to see. I trace the freckles on her breasts with my thumbs, circle her hard, pink nipples, and she moans, the sound shooting straight to my dick.

  Her head falls back, and her hips lift. “West, God…”

  “Shit, you’re pretty.” I trail a hand down her stomach and shove it into her shorts, under her panties. “I need to touch you, Syd.”

  She opens her mouth, maybe to say something, but as I slip my fingers into her pussy, she moans out loud.

  Shit, yeah. My pulse is roaring in my ears, thumping in my groin, but I feel good, grounded. Excited. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Not because it will fix anything, set my world to rights, but because I want her.

  And I want to pleasure her, see her lose control.

  Like I lose control every time I’m near her. I want her to want me, I want…

  Her fingers tangle in my hair. She tugs me to her until I’m half-lying on top of her, and kisses me again.

  Fuck, this feels good. With my fingers inside her heat, stroking, her moans vibrating in my mouth, her body pressed to mine. I’ve never touched a girl like that before, never had my fingers or any other part of me inside her, but being a horny teenager I’ve watched my fair share of porn, and I have an idea of what should feel good.

  Hell, I’ve watched plenty of that porn together with Nate. And it’d been hot.

  The thought should hit me like a bucket of cold water—because, fuck Nate—but instead makes me harder. Shit, I wish Nate were here, watching. Touching, too.

  She arches again and cries out as I stroke her deeper and angle my fingers. I feel her cry on my lips, on my tongue, feel her release as her pussy squeezes my fingers so hard I think they’re about to break.

  Burying my face in her neck, I bite back a groan. My dick aches, trapped in my pants, diamond-hard and wet.

  Her face is flushed. She threads her fingers through my hair, tugging. She likes to do that.

  I like her doing that.

  “Let me see you, too,” she says, and at first I don’t get what she means. But her other hand wanders down to the tent in my pants, and I hiss when she cups my hard-on through my jeans. “I want to see you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She bites her lip. “I want to see you jack off.” Her cheeks redden more, and she’s a picture, with her pretty tits spilling out of her bra, a full flush on her chest. “Please, West.”

  How the hell can I say no to that? It’s one of my fantasies, to jack off with her watching—that would lead to more. To sink inside her, make her come again, and again.

  She pulls down my zipper, undoes the button, and I reach down and pull my hard dick out, gritting my teeth at the momentary relief as I wrap my hand around it and tug.

  She sits back, and fuck, this is too much. “Your cock. Wow.”

  “What?” I grind out.

  “It’s so… hard. And big.”

  “Oh fuck. Keep talking dirty to me,” I mutter, out of breath.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re killing me.”

  Her hand drifts over my dick, and I still, groaning deep in my throat, trying to keep still, my hips jerking. Her touch is featherlike, barely there, and yet it burns. I feel it all the way to the root of my dick, in my balls. “Syd,” I choke out.

  Her hand closes over mine. We tug together, once, twice, and I come with a grunt, spilling all over my stomach and my T-shirt, my jaw clenched so hard it aches.

  Fuck.

  “Wow,” she says, and I’m still coming. “So much of it.”

  A startled laugh escapes me. I’m covered in cum, and her hand is dripping with it. “You did this to me,” I manage.

  “I did?” She looks pleased.

  I lean back, bracing one hand on the sofa—my clean h
and—examining the mess I’ve made on myself. “You sure did. I don’t usually come this hard when I jack off.”

  She glances away, a shy gesture, and it makes me smile. “Good.”

  Yeah, it was so good. Better than I thought, and it was just the excitement of having her beside me, of touching her and kissing her.

  “I like it when you’re happy,” she says. “When you have pleasure.”

  “Me too, girl.” I sigh and strip off my soiled T-shirt, then ball it up so my cum won’t smear on the floor as I place it by the sofa to wash later. “Me too.”

  “I have to go.”

  Of course she does. “Will you come by again some other day?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  We don’t talk about what we just did. What it means, if it means anything.

  About the fact she wants Nate, and Kash. I refuse to think too hard about it, because does it mean she wants me, too? I don’t want to jinx it by asking. If there is another time—a big fucking if—then we’ll see.

  For now I can’t help the grin on my face as I walk her out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nate

  “Hey.” Lani—or Laurie?—leans against the bar at work, fluttering strangely long lashes at me. They look fake. “What are you doing later? Want to catch a movie?”

  “Nah, later I’m hitting the sack.”

  She pouts. “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  She huffs and sips at her drink. She hits on me regularly every night. I bet she’d never imagine she’s hitting on a minor in a bar.

  Not that I’d go out with her anyway. She’s not my type. None of the women hanging out at this dark dive are.

  And who’s your type? a little voice sneers in the back of my mind. A girl you won’t even kiss? A girl you’re dying to have but can’t.

  “Women bothering you again?” Jonah says, the other bartender. Well, the real bartender. I’m more of a bar-back. “Poor guy, with all the girls falling all over you. Fucker.”