Broken Compass

A shiver skitters down my spine, but before I have a chance to ask him why he said what he said, Weston’s door opens, and there is the last of my boys, dark hair tousled, a smile on his face, and my heart gives an extra beat. Like it’s happy, and complete.

God, brain. Stop this.

It’s crazy, and boy do I have enough crazy in my life as it is.

Chapter Six

West

“So… you got the place to yourself today, right?” Nate asks me. “I mean, I thought so when you told me about the brunch but… you know.”

“Wondering where I buried Grandpa?”

He barks out a laugh. “Don’t joke about that stuff, man. Gives me the fucking creeps.”

“Yeah? Been watching horror movies again?” I pile strips of perfect, crispy bacon on a plate, and his stomach growls. “Scratch that: your stomach sounds like a horror movie.”

“You’re so funny, West,” he mutters, stealing a strip and moaning like he’s having a mini-orgasm on the spot from the taste. “Damn, you know how to cook. Marry me?”

“Have you looked at your ugly face in the mirror before proposing?”

“Wait, what’s wrong with my face? Chicks love it.”

“In your dreams.”

“Chicks love me, asshole. Right, Syd?”

“Hmm…” She comes around the kitchen island to steal a strip of bacon, too, our hands brushing as I reach for the maple syrup.

It’s an electric shock to my system.

“Syd,” Nate whines. “Tell that dickass how much your girlfriends dig me. He’s giving me a hard time.”

She laughs, all silver chimes and crystal, and I’m transfixed by her bright hair and eyes, the dark dip of her cleavage, so I almost miss it when she says, “Where did you get those bruises on your arm, Nate?”

Bruises?

A deafening silence descends over the kitchen. We’re all staring at Nate who’s sort of backed against the counter, eyes wide.

“What the hell are you,” he swallows, clears his throat, “talking about?”

I see them now, high on his left biceps, and fuck, is that another one on his hip where his T-shirt rides up as he turns away?

Cold washes right through me. I feel sick. What the hell?

A glance around the room shows me that Sydney’s cheeks are pale, though not as pale as Nate’s, and Kash is watching us from under his long fringe. I can’t read his expression. I can’t fucking read this guy. He’s like a locked-up tank, an industrial steel safe.

“Fuck the bruises,” Nate says, his voice breaking through the shivery trance I’m in. He turns his back to us and rubs the back of his neck where his dark hair curls a little, in sore need of a cut. “We sparred a few days ago, remember? Bruises come with the territory, right, West?” He grabs a plate of eggrolls and heads determinedly to the kitchen nook table. “Now are we gonna eat, or is this some new form of torture where you let us starve while staring at the food you prepared?”

Kash is the first to move, grabbing a plate of pancakes, gaze hidden behind that damn fringe, and taking it to the table where Nate has already sat himself on one of the stools. Next, Sydney picks up the napkins and goes to join them.

Leaving me alone by the fridge, and great, now they are all staring at me—especially Nate. His eyes are boring right through me, as if challenging me to comment on this whole fucking mess.

“Let’s eat,” I hear myself say after a few beats, and yeah, I know for a fact I didn’t put those bruises there. Hell, they weren’t there yesterday after PE, when we got in the showers at school.

Plus, this isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time at all. The other times, he had good excuses. He convinced me he’d slipped in the shower, or tripped down the stairs.

Not this time, though. Dammit, I knew something was wrong, but managed to miss the clues.